color blind by charles a. stearns _for that elusive green-white glamour, go to venus, the ads urged vain women. but that was only half the story--just ask olive-skinned sukey jones._ [transcriber's note: this etext was produced from planet stories summer 1954. extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the u.s. copyright on this publication was renewed.] her name was sukey kireina jones, and the blood of south asia was in her veins. mix that with the celtic, brother, and you've got something special. her eyes were dark, and mostly a little sad; her hair was black as the rim, and she stood barely five feet in heels, unless you count the curves, which, if nature had been fool enough to straighten them out, would have added quite a lot--and taken away a lot too. we called her sukey, and kidded her some, and what made her so beautiful was, she didn't know it. i had found her hanging around the surface transit offices, broke and alone, and got her the job as counter girl in the company hash house on the edge of the space-port. that was where she met my friend, harry thurbley. harry, was a licensed senior space pilot, but he would never let any of us call him captain thurbley. he said the title sounded pompous, and who the hell was he, anyway. the squarest guy i ever met, but you would have thought that he was ashamed of that blue uniform. me, chuck morris, i am only an engineer--a space going mechanic--and i would have given my share in the cosmic hereafter to wear it. i would have strutted some. but uniform or no uniform, i wouldn't have stood a chance with sukey jones. from the moment those two set eyes on one another, she had been harry's girl. i used to wonder how it would have been with her and me if i had never introduced them. just wondering. in those days there had got to be a heavy venus passenger traffic. it had become fashionable for earth women to bleach their skin to match their hair, and the coveted greenish-white paleness they wanted could only be accomplished, it seemed, by spending several months under the sunless venusian overcast, with its odd radiations. caterers to this fad left in scores for venus. tourist lodgings and recreational facilities sprang up on the frontier planet. beauty got to be big business overnight. this was only available to women with considerable money, of course. a round trip ticket cost just under twelve thousand dollars, and high living, on venus, came high indeed. their poor sisters had recourse only to special lamps and lotions to simulate the pallor of the movie stars and the debutantes. it was not the same. not in their own minds. it was the dream of every woman to make the pilgrimage, and not a few spent their life savings, embezzled, stowed away, or even sold themselves to venusian white slavers for the chance of that elusive glamour. sukey's skin was of a wonderful, delicate olive shade, and she hated it. whenever one of the female travelers would come in to eat, looking ghostly pale and opulent in their martian lizard-skin coats, sukey jones would sigh. i could tell that in her small body there was a man-sized inferiority complex building up, but i didn't mention it to harry. he would only have worried about her. he was thoughtful of sukey, and many a time when we got in, and he had business with customs or the port authority, he would say to me, "chuck, go and see sukey for me, and tell her i'll be along." and as for sukey jones, she may not have been overly bright, but that kind of treatment had been a rare thing in her twenty-three years of hard knocks. she worshipped harry thurbley. that night in march we had set the _altair_ down on the field just after dusk. harry had business at the office, and i was to drop in and see sukey first and let her know that he'd be in later. i didn't mind. i was always glad to do it. i went into the restaurant, and the place was crowded with passengers for the 2200 marsflight. i couldn't find sukey. there was a strange girl behind the cash register. i asked her about it, and she said she didn't know anything; she had just been hired. so i finally got linda, one of the waitresses, aside, and got the story from her. seemed there had been a couple of women--society dames in from venus on the saturday run--and sukey had heard one of them make a remark about her complexion. it was nothing much, just a whispered knife of criticism, but sukey had flared up. then the woman got really insulting, and sukey had reached over the cash register and pulled out a big handful of her platinum locks. that grab had cost her her job. * * * * * i went to her apartment, in a ramshackle tenement a couple of blocks away, and knocked on the door. a girl who claimed to be her roommate answered, and said that sukey had moved out. she wasn't supposed to tell me where sukey had gone if my name was harry. i said, who was harry. i was an insurance claim adjuster, and had some money for her. sukey had gone to live with a mrs. althea campbell. the address was 1711 oak drive. that was all the roommate knew. harry was waiting down at the office when i got back there. i told him what i had learned, and we caught a coptercab out to 1711 oak drive. i remember it was on a thursday. that turned out to be kind of important. it was almost ten o'clock when we arrived, but the lights were still on, and 1711 turned out to be quite a palace. "i didn't know sukey had any friends like that!" i said. harry didn't answer. his mouth was a firm, tight line. he was still thinking of sukey running out on him. i pressed the button, and an egg-headed man in a monkey suit answered. he was the butler; you could tell that. "a miss sukey jones live here?" i said. his eyebrows elevated half an inch. "there is a young woman _employed_ here," he said. "i regret to say that this is her night off, and she is not here." "employed," i said to harry. "she must have hired as a private secretary or something." i doubt if the stiff in livery had smiled in years. he shouldn't have tried it. it almost cost him his teeth. "hardly anything so grand as that," he said. "the girl is mrs. campbell's personal maid." harry was silent for a moment. i waited for him to speak. we looked at each other. "maybe we ought to talk to this althea campbell," i suggested. the woman was nearer to forty than thirty, and she could have been handsome once. even now her shape wouldn't have been bad if she'd taken off forty pounds. the poundage was unnatural and flabby, and her skin was blotched and unpleasant. she was a faded, natural blonde, i would say, but her hair was red now. harry was always polite. he went forward and introduced us. she was wearing a silk wrapper a couple of sizes too small, and she didn't get up to greet us. still, she didn't seem to be displeased by an unexpected visit by two males at 10:00 p.m. the look she gave harry was as if she might eat him. harry never seemed to notice how it was with women when he came into a room, but i could see it, raw and naked, on her face. she was a widow, and sukey had been working for her a week. harry said he knew of a job in the company office that he could get for sukey, and he asked mrs. campbell to let her go, without telling her we'd been there. mrs. campbell's face took on a little color, making it appear more mottled than ever. and her voice was too shrill to be comfortable. she said that maids were very difficult to find this day and time, and that if sukey didn't mind it, we shouldn't mind either. she wouldn't give her up. "let's wait and see what sukey has to say about it," i suggested. harry shook his head. "we can't do that. she mustn't know we've been here, chuck." "why? servants may be out of date, but there's nothing disgraceful about honest labor." "of course not," harry said. "but to sukey it must be embarrassing. that's why she didn't let me know what she was doing, don't you see? it must have been that." well, it was logical enough. and that was harry for you. always thinking first of sukey's feelings, whereas i would probably have turned her across my knee. but we had to do something. we were going to be in port for three weeks, and harry made an appointment to come back the following thursday, when sukey was away from the house, and try to reason once more with althea campbell. harry went back the next week, and the week after that, and he wasn't having any luck, but he said that at least he could make sure that sukey was still all right. meanwhile i did some snooping, and i found out several things about mrs. campbell. she was worth eighteen and a half million bucks, and she had spent half that much trying to regain a face, and figure, and complexion of twenty years ago, that she probably remembered better than they were. i talked to one of her former servants and learned that sukey could expect a hard time working for her. the woman was a kind of sadist with servants, but sukey would put up with anything to get what she wanted, and i knew what it was she was after now. i knew why she had taken the job. after i had learned this, i put in a visicall to the oak drive mansion. the butler's face appeared on the screen. i was too late. i got hold of harry as quick as i could, but i could see right away that he had already found out. mrs. campbell had taken sukey jones and left last night for venus. * * * * * i had known harry thurbley for ten years, and he was a phlegmatic sort. he had the kind of unshakable calm and nerve you only find in a man that's made peace with death a couple of times or so out beyond the planets. once i had seen him walk into a mining power plant on callisto and disarm a runaway pile that was due to explode in three minutes and blast away half the moon. when he came out he hadn't even been sweating. but he was upset now. i tried to calm him, but i guess he had a hunch. i had spent several years on venus and knew the place as well as any terran. i tried to persuade him that sukey jones wouldn't be in any danger so long as they stuck to the civilized northern part, but he didn't seem to half hear what i was saying. a month passed, and we made another trip beyond the belt. when we got back there was still no sukey, and not even a letter. harry and i went into the super's office and talked him into a transfer to the venus run for one trip. it was less than five days later that we set the _altair_ down on the surface of the white planet at medea, the biggest port city on venus. the low, spidery towers of the native architects of old were crowded and overshadowed by earthstyle skyscrapers which had grown up, mostly, since the last time i had seen venus, fifteen years ago. it was harry's first trip to the sister planet of earth, and he seemed surprised at the mushrooming civilization. but he still couldn't rest until we'd given the ship into the hands of the ground crew and gone to hunt sukey and her mistress. mrs. campbell, we discovered, had checked in at the majestic hotel for one week, and left, giving no forwarding address. after that she had been heard from in two or three of the border cities. she had made the rounds of all the beauty parlors and quack establishments in town. this was her fourth trip to venus, and all of the merchants knew her by sight. but she was not, currently, visiting any of these places. it seemed that althea campbell, a couple of days ago, had disappeared, which was nothing to me, except that she had taken a tiny girl named sukey jones with her. mrs. campbell may have had acquaintances about venus, but not many friends. especially among the natives, whom she loathed and treated like scum. the natives of the temperate belts were humanoid, and though primitive in culture, fairly intelligent. they were thin, and not too bad-looking if you could get used to the fish-belly whiteness of their scaly skins, and a partial lack of symmetry in their bodies, such as having one eye a couple of sizes bigger than the other one. it was from one of the venusians that we found our first clue. he was argol beg, the head of the native security police, an individual with silvery, heavy-lidded eyes, and long, nervous, quadruple-jointed fingers. he mentioned a name that i had heard a long time ago, and forgotten. marjud. marjud had been one of the rebel chieftains who had fought against the alliance in the late venerian sectional war, and now was outlawed from the northern settlements. i call him a man, but i had seen pictures of marjud once, and there were features about that gross body of his that no one except a venusian would believe. he was a native of the steaming jungles of the torrid zone, a forbidden area where the native form mysteriously shifted and changed from generation to generation for reasons at which the anthropologists could only guess. his race was still barbaric, for the most part, which was why it was off limits. it seemed that marjud was now in the beauty racket. that could have handed me a laugh, except that we were too worried about sukey. we got a newspaper, the _medean times_, and sure enough, there was his ad, in scrambled english that hadn't even been changed by the proofreader. see marjud, high priest of love and beauty it is for a smooth, white appearance and i will give you the limbs long and pale, and also supple and graceful. the address of the contact man was given. i asked argol beg why he had not arrested marjud. but marjud's man had set up in the colonial quarter, where argol beg had no authority, and he was not wanted by the earth colonial police. "come on," i said to harry. "let's see if we can locate the old gargoyle." harry was pretty worried by this time, and he didn't half understand what was going on, not knowing venus. "i'm with you, whatever you say," he said. we visited the address given in the ad, and got to talk to a normal-appearing native with slit eyes and a fishy stare. he said that marjud saw only terran females, and he couldn't help us. i persuaded him to change his mind in a few minutes, and then he told us that marjud was staying in a dhol cave outside the city. the dhol caves were made by a long-dead, semi-intelligent race of quadrupeds, and it wasn't uncommon for the none-too-particular venusians to set up housekeeping in them. there was a guard hanging around the entrance to this one. the contact man pointed out the guard and fled. the guard argued and i had to slug him with the butt of my gun. harry went over and looked at him. he turned to me and his face was clammy white. it was one of the equatorial species. "what's the matter?" i said. "what is it?" i told him. "marjud is worse," i said. "stay here, chuck," he said, drawing his own weapon. "if i don't come out within five minutes, come in blasting." * * * * * i started to argue, but i knew that he really wanted it that way. i had more experience at the rough and tumble arts, but he had taken a back seat so far, and it was his right. it was for sukey. i waited, while the minutes dragged. just as i was ready to go in, harry came out. there was a sick look on his face that i had never seen before. he was one of those people who can't stand the sight of freaks or anomalies. he took a deep breath of that damp, heavy, tasteless air, as though it were wine. "you found him?" "it was like--like hitting a--a--" he gagged. "i know," i said. "i saw a picture of him once. what did you learn?" "probably it doesn't make any sense. she--mrs. campbell--gave him ten thousand dollars, colonial money. i got that much out of him. in return he arranged for them to visit what he calls a 'sacred rainbow garden', whatever that means, near the equator. i got the approximate location of the place." for the first time i got plenty scared. i knew about the rainbow gardens, all right. on most of the surface of venus the direct rays of sol never penetrated the numerous layers of poisonous clouds that shielded and sheltered the livable atmosphere and the mild, though dreary climate underneath. but in certain areas curious updrafts allowed small shafts of sunlight to reach the surface. the areas were never large, but wherever the light struck, the effect upon a drab, colorless world was like magic. for a reason that science had never been able to learn, objects on venus, whenever exposed to direct sunlight, instead of giving off white light, diffracted it into its spectral components, and showed up in gorgeous, blinding hues. also, the vegetation within these charmed areas was subtly changed. the constant, radiant mist caused the trees and plants to take on warped, nightmarish shapes. the natives worshipped the rainbow gardens, and bathed in the colored mists that eternally swept up into the blackness of space from the surface. i didn't want to upset harry, but i had spent enough years on venus to hear a lot of curious stories that had circulated through the north about those strange regions. "come on," i said, "we'd better not waste any time." we had been able to charter an old-fashioned flutter-plane, which could land more or less vertically, and harry had the approximate longitude of the place from marjud. we could see it a long way off, fortunately, and it was like a big waterspout, except for its preternatural straightness, reaching up in a silvery, swirling column through the gray cloud layer twelve miles overhead. he didn't swing the flutter-plane too near to it. the updrafts around it, at this altitude, were supposed to move at terrific speed, and could shatter even a rocketship. there was some kind of gray stone building rising out of the gray-green forest at the foot of the column, and we landed a quarter of a mile away, so as not to attract attention. we walked in, and in a few minutes were able to make out the domes of the temple rising over the tops of the trees. the masonry was of a rough, dark basalt, crude and unbeautiful. the work of the primitive tribes that lived in the area. i had heard of giant towers and spired old cities which were supposed to have been the work of an ancient, long-dead, and highly evolved race, but there had never been any evidence of such places. probably these native temples had started the stories. there was plenty of reason to believe that the planet venus was new and in the first evolution when men from earth arrived. behind the temple itself rose a fifty foot wall of the same undistinguished stone, and inside this wall the mysterious column of mist rose. within that mist lay the rainbow garden. the only entrance appeared to be through the temple itself. * * * * * we were in an enormous rotunda, a sort of congregational throne room where thousand of natives might gather during the orgies that were irregularly held. there was not a living thing in sight in all that domed vastness. hundreds of idols of obscure primitive gods lined the walls. harry cupped his hands to his mouth. "anybody here?" the words bellowed and bounced against the lofty ceiling, echoing and reechoing. and they got results right away. from somewhere among those shadows at the other end of the room there was a blue flash. the air crackled and fried near my ear. we flopped on the floor and returned the fire. there was a scream. one of us had made a lucky hit. we waited ten minutes and advanced. we found the body of a venusian in colonial garb, one of the slim, regular-featured northern tribesmen. i knew that he must be marjud's agent, for northerners were rarely found in these latitudes if they could help it. beyond the dead venusian lay a narrow passageway that must lead to the inner chambers. harry wanted to rush the place. "take it easy," i said. "these boys are tricky, and they have little poison spears that kill on contact. there's bound to be a few of them hanging around the garden--the priests. that was marjud's underling back there. we haven't met the natives yet." we met them right away. three of them had been waiting for us in a sort of transept. something--a blunt hatchet probably--bounced off my shoulder and sent a sharp pain through it. i swung my fist and caught the assailant in his skeleton midriff, doubling him up. i could only see the outline of his shape in that gloom, and i didn't like it. it was out of a nightmare. harry was having better luck. he shoved the muzzle of his gun into the venusian's belly and burned a hole through him. the other one tried to run, but he didn't get far. harry was breathing hard. he grinned at me. "you okay?" he said. "i'll have a shoulder that's sore as hell for a while," i said, "but let's go." a dozen passageways led from the main one. "where do we look first?" harry wanted to know. "we'd better split up. that way we can cover more territory." "i don't like to leave you alone with that bum shoulder." "forget it. if there were any more around, they've cleared out by now. get going." i had a pocket light that i used in the darkest passages. most of the cloisters and compartments were empty, and didn't look as though they'd been used in years. at the end of one passageway i found the rooms of the priests, very sparsely furnished, and from there i got a glimpse from a narrow ventilation slit at the garden itself. the colored mists and the weird trees. but no animate being was moving out there. in the last room, the door was barred with a crude, vertical bolt. i blasted off the bar, and opened the door. behind it i found sukey jones. * * * * * she stood there looking scared, and not believing that it was really me. her eyes were big as dollars. and when she was sure, the way she threw herself at me and hugged me, it was embarrassing. "chuck, chuck! i never thought i'd see you again. i never--i'm so--!" and that was all i got out of her for the next couple of minutes. i gave her my handkerchief to dab at her eyes, and i got the story at last. she had been there two days without food and water, locked in. they had arrived a week ago, and during that time she had seen nothing except the interior of this room. althea campbell had heard rumors of the rainbow gardens, and that the natives, by bathing in the radiation given off by the colored mists, were able to restore youth and vigor for long periods of time. she had seen the chance of restoring her own body to its youthful bloom and of working the miracle that she had sought for so many years on half a dozen planets. she had sought out marjud, who alone had contacts that could get them into the forbidden area. "i still don't get it," i said. "where is she now, and why has she got you locked in here?" "i was afraid after we arrived, and i didn't want to do it. she said we had to take off our clothes and go with the priests into the rainbow garden. i refused, and she slapped me and said that i was impertinent and ungrateful. i threatened to run away and tell the authorities, so they locked me in here. "the she-devil!" i said. "oh, she's really not so bad," said sukey, forgivingly. "it's just that she's a little mad when it comes to being young and beautiful. she was forever talking about the way her arms and legs looked, and all, and crying, and bawling me out." "come on," i said. "let's find harry and get out of here." her lip quivered. "h-harry? is he here too?" "somewhere," i said, trying to frown at her, and not succeeding, "and worried to death. if i was him i would skin you alive." "i just wanted a chance to come to venus. that's why i took the job as maid to mrs. campbell. i knew that she was tremendously wealthy and came to venus every year to the beauty culturists." i didn't press the subject. the sky over venus hadn't faded her complexion much, luckily. it was still fine, even if she did look a little beat. we went out into the hallway and i yelled for harry. he answered. he seemed to be outside. i looked out one of the ventilation slits. he was standing out there with his back to me, looking into the rainbow garden. the mists were rising in wispy colors here and there, and i could tell without looking at my chrono that the long venusian night was approaching, for the distorted shapes of the trees were vague, and could no longer be seen more than a few yards away. "up here!" i said. and he looked up. he pointed to the garden. "thought i heard somebody calling out there," he said, pointing. "don't go away," i said. "and don't go in there, whatever you do. i'll be right out." i grabbed sukey's arm. "we'll surprise him," i told her. * * * * * sukey jones came up from behind harry and put her hand on his arm. he turned and they just looked at each other for the space of half a minute. harry's voice was kind of choked. he said, "sukey, i--" and then we all heard it. it was a woman crying. the sound came from the garden. harry took a step toward the mists. "wait," i said. and i shouted, "mrs. campbell, is that you?" "here!" her voice was faint and plaintive. just as i had remembered it. "come on out. we've come to take you home." "i--i can't." "how long has she been in there?" i asked sukey. "do you know?" "all of the time, i suppose." i shook my head. "it's risky business, but we can't leave her, i suppose. i'll go in." "i can't let you do that," harry said. "i'm the logical one to go. listen!" we could hear her crying. a vexed, lost-little-girl sound. i shoved harry aside. "you don't know what you're getting into," i said. "take sukey, and--" that was the first and only time that harry ever swung at me. the first thing i knew, i was sitting on the ground with my head spinning. harry was looking down at me and grinning sardonically. "i hated to do that, chuck," he said, "but you see, it has to be me that goes after her." he turned and took both of sukey's thin shoulders in his hands. he couldn't speak for a while. his eyes were talking, though; saying they were awfully sorry. and then he took a couple of steps into that colored mist before he stopped and looked back. he was still smiling, but it was a secret smile. he said, "it's too bad, sukey, but you know, eighteen million bucks are eighteen million bucks." "what the--?" i said. "harry, darling, is that you?" the voice of mrs. campbell was closer now. "coming, althea dear!" he said, and laughed at me. "do you suppose i _wasted_ all those thursdays, chuck?" he said. "'bye. take care of sukey for me. althea and i'll be along later." he turned his back on us and went deeper into the mists, calling her name, spreading the bushes with his hands and trying to see her. he was hazy now, hardly visible. but i saw althea campbell just an instant before he did. she came out of the rainbow mist from behind him, and her now-blonde hair glimmered with reds and greens, and blues and gold and purple. her naked body was snow white. she had got her money's worth, i suppose. marjud had promised her that pale complexion. and the curious radiations had given her smooth legs and arms that were pearl-white and long, and supple, and graceful. she came from behind harry and put her arms around him. all of them. bedside manner by william morrison illustrated by vidmer [transcriber note: this etext was produced from galaxy science fiction may 1954. extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the u.s. copyright on this publication was renewed.] [sidenote: broken, helpless, she had to trust an alien doctor to give her back her body and mind--a doctor who had never seen a human before!] she awoke, and didn't even wonder where she was. first there were feelings--a feeling of existence, a sense of still being alive when she should be dead, an awareness of pain that made her body its playground. after that, there came a thought. it was a simple thought, and her mind blurted it out before she could stop it: _oh, god, now i won't even be plain any more. i'll be ugly._ the thought sent a wave of panic coursing through her, but she was too tired to experience any emotion for long, and she soon drowsed off. later, the second time she awoke, she wondered where she was. there was no way of telling. around her all was black and quiet. the blackness was solid, the quiet absolute. she was aware of pain again--not sharp pain this time, but dull, spread throughout her body. her legs ached; so did her arms. she tried to lift them, and found to her surprise that they did not respond. she tried to flex her fingers, and failed. she was paralyzed. she could not move a muscle of her body. the silence was so complete that it was frightening. not a whisper of sound reached her. she had been on a spaceship, but none of a ship's noises came to her now. not the creak of an expanding joint, nor the occasional slap of metal on metal. not the sound of fred's voice, nor even the slow rhythm of her own breathing. it took her a full minute to figure out why, and when she had done so she did not believe it. but the thought persisted, and soon she knew that it was true. the silence was complete because she was deaf. another thought: the blackness was so deep because she was blind. and still another, this time a questioning one: why, if she could feel pain in her arms and legs, could she not move them? what strange form of paralysis was this? she fought against the answer, but slowly, inescapably, it formed in her mind. she was not paralyzed at all. she could not move her arms and legs because she had none. the pains she felt were phantom pains, conveyed by the nerve endings without an external stimulus. when this thought penetrated, she fainted. her mind sought in unconsciousness to get as close to death as it could. * * * * * when she awoke, it was against her will. she sought desperately to close her mind against thought and feeling, just as her eyes and ears were already closed. [illustration] but thoughts crept in despite her. why was she alive? why hadn't she died in the crash? fred must certainly have been killed. the asteroid had come into view suddenly; there had been no chance of avoiding it. it had been a miracle that she herself had escaped, if escape it could be called--a mere sightless, armless and legless torso, with no means of communication with the outside world, she was more dead than alive. and she could not believe that the miracle had been repeated with fred. it was better that way. fred wouldn't have to look at her and shudder--and he wouldn't have to worry about himself, either. he had always been a handsome man, and it would have killed him a second time to find himself maimed and horrible. she must find a way to join him, to kill herself. it would be difficult, no doubt, without arms or legs, without any way of knowing her surroundings; but sooner or later she would think of a way. she had heard somewhere of people strangling themselves by swallowing their own tongues, and the thought cheered her. she could at least try that right now. she could-no, she couldn't. she hadn't realized it before, but she had no tongue. she didn't black out at this sudden awareness of a new horror, although she desperately wanted to. she thought: _i can make an effort of will, i can force myself to die. die, you fool, you helpless lump of flesh. die and end your torture, die, die, die...._ but she didn't. and after a while, a new thought came to her: she and fred had been the only ones on their ship; there had been no other ship near them. who had kept her from dying? who had taken her crushed body and stopped the flow of blood and tended her wounds and kept her alive? and for what purpose? the silence gave no answer. nor did her own mind. after an age, she slept again. when she awoke, a voice said, "do you feel better?" * * * * * i _can hear_! she shouted to herself. _it's a strange voice, a most unusual accent. i couldn't possibly have imagined it. i'm not deaf! maybe i'm not blind either! maybe i just had a nightmare_-"i know that you cannot answer. but do not fear. you will soon be able to speak again." who was it? not a man's voice, nor a woman's. it was curiously hoarse, and yet clear enough. uninflected, and yet pleasant. a doctor? where could a doctor have come from? "your husband is also alive. fortunately, we reached both of you at about the time death had just begun." fortunately? she felt a flash of rage. _you should have let us die. it would be bad enough to be alive by myself, a helpless cripple dependent upon others. but to know that fred is alive too is worse. to know that he has a picture of me like this, ugly and horrifying, is more than i can stand. with any other man it would be bad enough, but with fred it's unendurable. give me back the ability to talk, and the first thing i'll ask of you is to kill me. i don't want to live._ "it may reassure you to know that there will be no difficulty about recovering the use of the limbs proper to you, and the organs of sensation. it will take time, but there is no doubt about the final outcome." what nonsense, she asked herself, was this? doctors had done wonders in the creation and fitting of artificial arms and legs, but he seemed to be promising her the use of _real_ limbs. and he had said, "organs of sensation." that didn't sound as if he meant that she'd see and hear electronically. it meant-nonsense. he was making a promise he couldn't keep. he was just saying that to make her feel better, the way doctors did. he was saying it to give her courage, keep her morale up, make her feel that it was worth fighting. but it _wasn't_ worth fighting. she had no courage to keep up. she wanted only to die. "perhaps you have already realized that i am not what you would call human. however, i suggest that you do not worry too much about that. i shall have no difficulty in reconstructing you properly according to your own standards." * * * * * then the voice ceased, and she was left alone. it was just as well, she thought. he had said too much. and she couldn't answer, nor ask questions of her own ... and she had so many. he wasn't human? then what was he? and how did he come to speak a human language? and what did he mean to do with her after he had reconstructed her? and what would she look like after she was reconstructed? there were races, she knew, that had no sense of beauty. or if they had one, it wasn't like a human sense of beauty. would he consider her properly reconstructed if he gave her the right number of arms and legs, and artificial organs of sight that acted like eyes--and made her look like some creature out of hell? would he be proud of his handiwork, as human doctors had been known to be, when their patients ended up alive and helpless, their bodies scarred, their organs functioning feebly and imperfectly? would he turn her into something that fred would look at with abhorrence and disgust? fred had always been a little too sensitive to beauty in women. he had been able to pick and choose at his will, and until he had met her he had always chosen on the basis of looks alone. she had never understood why he had married her. perhaps the fact that she was the one woman he knew who _wasn't_ beautiful had made her stand out. perhaps, too, she told herself, there was a touch of cruelty in his choice. he might have wanted someone who wasn't too sure of herself, someone he could count on under all circumstances. she remembered how people had used to stare at them--the handsome man and the plain woman--and then whisper among themselves, wondering openly how he had ever come to marry her. fred had liked that; she was sure he had liked that. he had obviously _wanted_ a plain wife. now he would have an ugly one. would he want _that_? she slept on her questions, and waked and slept repeatedly. and then, one day, she heard the voice again. and to her surprise, she found that she could answer back--slowly, uncertainly, at times painfully. but she could speak once more. "we have been working on you," said the voice. "you are coming along nicely." "am i--am i--" she found difficulty asking: "how do i look?" "incomplete." "i must be horrible." a slight pause. "no. not horrible at all. not to me. merely incomplete." "my husband wouldn't think so." "i do not know what your husband would think. perhaps he is not used to seeing incomplete persons. he might even be horrified at the sight of himself." "i--i hadn't thought of that. but he--we'll both be all right?" "as a medical problem, you offer no insuperable difficulty. none at all." "why--why don't you give me eyes, if you can? are you afraid--afraid that i might see you and find you--terrifying?" * * * * * again a pause. there was amusement in the reply. "i do not think so. no, that is not the reason." "then it's because--as you said about fred--i might find myself horrifying?" "that is part of the reason. not the major part, however. you see, i am, in a way, experimenting. do not be alarmed, please--i shall not turn you into a monster. i have too much knowledge of biology for that. but i am not too familiar with human beings. what i know i have learned mostly from your books, and i have found that in certain respects there are inaccuracies contained in them--i must go slowly until i can check what they say. i might mend certain organs, and then discover that they do not have the proper size or shape, or that they produce slightly altered hormones. i do not want to make such mistakes, and if i do make them, i wish to correct them before they can do harm." "there's no danger--?" "none, i assure you. internally and externally, you will be as before." "internally and externally. will i--will i be able to have children?" "yes. we ourselves do not have your distinctions of sex, but we are familiar with them in many other races. we know how important you consider them. i am taking care to see that the proper glandular balance is maintained in both yourself and your husband." "thank you--doctor. but i still don't understand--why don't you give me eyes right away?" "i do not wish to give you eyes that see imperfectly, and then be forced to take them away. nor do i want you to watch imperfect arms and legs developing. it would be an unnecessary ordeal. when i am sure that everything is as it should be, then i shall start your eyes." "and my husband--" "he will be reconstructed in the same way. he will be brought in to talk to you soon." "and you don't want either of us to see the other in--in imperfect condition?" "it would be inadvisable. i can assure you now that when i have completed your treatment you will almost exactly be as you were in the beginning. when that time comes, you will be able to use your eyes." she was silent a moment. he said, "your husband had other questions. i am waiting to hear you ask them too." "i'm sorry, doctor ... i wasn't listening. what did you say?" * * * * * he repeated his remarks, and she said, "i do have other questions. but--no, i won't ask them yet. what did my husband want to know?" "about me and my race. how we happened to find you in time to save you. _why_ we saved you. what we intend to do with you after you are reconstructed." "yes, i've wondered about those things too." "i can give you only a partial answer. i hope you do not find it too unsatisfactory. my race, as you may have gathered, is somewhat more advanced than yours. we have had a head start," he added politely. "if you can grow new arms and legs and eyes," she said, "you must be thousands of years ahead of us." "we can do many other things, of which there is no need to talk. all i need say now is that i am a physician attached to a scouting expedition. we have had previous contact with human beings, and have taken pains to avoid coming to their attention. we do not want to alarm or confuse them." "but all the same, you rescued us." "it was an emergency. we are not human, but we have, you might say, humanitarian feelings. we do not like to see creatures die, even inferior creatures--not that you are, of course," he added delicately. "our ship happened to be only a few thousand miles away when it happened. we saw, and acted with great speed. once you are whole again, we shall place you where you will be found by your own kind, and proceed on our way. by that time, our expedition will have been completed." "when we are whole again--doctor, will i be exactly the same as before?" "in some ways, perhaps even better. i can assure you that all your organs will function perfectly." "i don't mean that. i mean--will i look the same?" she felt that there was astonishment in the pause. "look the same? does that matter?" "yes ... oh, yes, it matters! it matters more than anything else." he must have been regarding her as if she were crazy. suddenly she was glad that she had no eyes to see his bewilderment. and his contempt, which, she was sure, must be there too. he said slowly, "i didn't realize. but, of course, we don't know how you did look. how can we make you look the same?" "i don't know. but you must! you must!" her voice rose, and she felt the pain in her throat as the new muscles constricted. "you are getting hysterical," he said. "stop thinking about this." "but i can't stop thinking about it. it's the only thing i _can_ think of! i don't want to look any different from the way i did before!" he said nothing, and suddenly she felt tired. a moment before she had been so excited, so upset; and now--merely tired and sleepy. she wanted to go to sleep and forget it all. _he must have given me a sedative_, she thought. _an injection? i didn't feel the prick of the needle, but maybe they don't use needles. anyway, i'm glad he did. because now i won't have to think, i won't be able to think--_ * * * * * she slept. when she awoke again, she heard a new voice. a voice she couldn't place. it said, "hello, margaret. where are you?" "who ... fred!" "margaret?" "y-yes." "your voice is different." "so is yours. at first i couldn't think who was speaking to me!" "it's strange it took us so long to realize that our voices would be different." she said shakily, "we're more accustomed to thinking of how we look." he was silent. his mind had been on the same thing. "your new voice isn't bad, fred," she said after a moment. "i like it. it's a little deeper, a little more resonant. it will go well with your personality. the doctor has done a good job." "i'm trying to think whether i like yours. i don't know. i suppose i'm the kind of guy who likes best what he's used to." "i know. that's why i didn't want him to change my looks." again silence. she said, "fred?" "i'm still here." "have you talked to him about it?" "he's talked to me. he's told me about your being worried." "don't you think it matters?" "yes, i suppose it does. he told me he could do a good technical job--leave us with regular features and unblemished skins." "that isn't what i want," she said fiercely. "i don't want the kind of regular features that come out of physiology books. i want my own features. i don't care so much about the voice, but i want my own face back!" "that's a lot to ask for. hasn't he done enough for us?" "no. nothing counts unless i have that. do--do you think that i'm being silly?" "well--" "i don't want to be beautiful, because i know you don't want me to be." he sounded amazed. "whoever told you that?" "do you think that after living with you for two years, i don't know? if you had wanted a beautiful wife, you'd have married one. instead, you chose me. you wanted to be the good-looking one of the family. you're vain, fred. don't try to deny it, because it would be no use. you're vain. not that i mind it, but you are." "are you feeling all right, margaret? you sound--overwrought." "i'm not. i'm being very logical. if i were either ugly or beautiful, you'd hate me. if i were ugly, people would pity you, and you wouldn't be able to stand that. and if i were beautiful, they might forget about you. i'm just plain enough for them to wonder why you ever married anyone so ordinary. i'm just the kind of person to supply background for you." * * * * * after a moment he said slowly, "i never knew you had ideas like that about me. they're silly ideas. i married you because i loved you." "maybe you did. but _why_ did you love me?" he said patiently, "let's not go into that. the fact is, margaret, that you're talking nonsense. i don't give a damn whether you're ugly or beautiful--well, no, that isn't strictly true. i do care--but looks aren't the most important thing. they have very little to do with the way i feel about you. i love you for the kind of person you are. everything else is secondary." "please, fred, don't lie to me. i want to be the same as before, because i know that's the way you want me. isn't there some way to let the doctor know what sort of appearance we made? you have--had--a good eye. maybe you could describe us--" "be reasonable, margaret. you ought to know that you can't tell anything from a description." his voice was almost pleading. "let's leave well enough alone. i don't care if your features do come out of the pictures in a physiology textbook--" "fred!" she said excitedly. "that's it! pictures! remember that stereo shot we had taken just before we left mars? it must be somewhere on the ship--" "but the ship was crushed, darling. it's a total wreck." "not completely. if they could take _us_ out alive, there must have been some unhurt portions left. maybe the stereo is still there!" "margaret, you're asking the impossible. we don't know where the ship is. this group the doctor is with is on a scouting expedition. the wreck of our ship may have been left far behind. they're not going to retrace their tracks just to find it." "but it's the only way ... the only way! there's nothing else--" she broke down. if she had possessed eyes, she would have wept--but as it was, she could weep only internally. they must have taken him away, for there was no answer to her tearless sobbing. and after a time, she felt suddenly that there was nothing to cry about. she felt, in fact, gay and cheerful--and the thought struck her: _the doctor's given me another drug. he doesn't want me to cry. very well, i won't. i'll think of things to make me happy, i'll bubble over with good spirits--_ instead, she fell into a dreamless sleep. * * * * * when she awoke again, she thought of the conversation with fred, and the feeling of desperation returned. _i'll have to tell the doctor all about it_, she thought. _i'll have to see what he can do. i know it's asking an awful lot, but without it, all the rest he has done for me won't count. better to be dead than be different from what i was._ but it wasn't necessary to tell the doctor. fred had spoken to him first. _so fred admits it's important too. he won't be able to deny any longer that i judged him correctly._ the doctor said, "what you are asking is impossible." "impossible? you won't even try?" "my dear patient, the wrecked ship is hundreds of millions of miles behind us. the expedition has its appointed task. it cannot retrace its steps. it cannot waste time searching the emptiness of space for a stereo which may not even exist any longer." "yes, you're right ... i'm sorry i asked, doctor." he read either her mind or the hopelessness in her voice. he said, "do not make any rash plans. you cannot carry them out, you know." "i'll find a way. sooner or later i'll find a way to do something to myself." "you are being very foolish. i cannot cease to marvel at how foolish you are. are many human beings like you, psychologically?" "i don't know, doctor. i don't care. i know only what's important to me!" "but to make such a fuss about the merest trifle! the difference in appearance between one human being and another of the same sex, so far as we can see, is insignificant. you must learn to regard it in its true light." "you think it's insignificant because you don't know anything about men and women. to fred and me, it's the difference between life and death." he said in exasperation, "you are a race of children. but sometimes even a child must be humored. i shall see what i can do." but what could he do? she asked herself. the ship was a derelict in space, and in it, floating between the stars, was the stereo he wouldn't make an attempt to find. would he try to get a description from fred? even the best human artist couldn't produce much of a likeness from a mere verbal description. what could someone like the doctor do--someone to whom all men looked alike, and all women? * * * * * as she lay there, thinking and wondering, she had only the vaguest idea of the passage of time. but slowly, as what must have been day followed day, she became aware of strange tingling sensations all over her body. the pains she had felt at first had slowly diminished and then vanished altogether. what she felt now was not pain at all. it was even mildly pleasant, as if some one were gently massaging her body, stretching her muscles, tugging at her-suddenly she realized what it was: new limbs were growing. her internal organs must have developed properly, and now the doctor had gone ahead with the rest of his treatment. with the realization, tears began to roll down her cheeks. _tears_, she thought, _real tears--i can feel them. i'm getting arms and legs, and i can shed tears. but i still have no eyes._ _but maybe they're growing in.... from time to time i seem to see flashes of light. maybe he's making them develop slowly, and he put the tear ducts in order first. i'll have to tell him that my eyes must be blue. maybe i never was beautiful, but i always had pretty eyes. i don't want any different color. they wouldn't go with my face._ the next time the doctor spoke to her, she told him. "you may have your way," he said good-naturedly, as if humoring a child. "and, doctor, about finding the ship again--" "out of the question, as i told you. however, it will not be necessary." he paused, as if savoring what he had to tell her. "i checked with our records department. as might have been expected, they searched your shattered ship thoroughly, in the hope of finding information that might contribute to our understanding of your race. they have the stereos, about a dozen of them." "a _dozen_ stereos? but i thought--" "in your excitement, you may have forgotten that there were more than one. all of them seem to be of yourself and your husband. however, they were obviously taken under a wide variety of conditions, and with a wide variety of equipment, for there are certain minor differences between them which even i, with my non-human vision, can detect. perhaps you can tell us which one you prefer us to use as a model." she said slowly, "i had better talk about that with my husband. can you have him brought in here, doctor?" "of course." * * * * * she lay there, thinking. a dozen stereos. and there was still only one that she remembered. only a single one. they had posed for others, during the honeymoon and shortly after, but those had been left at home on mars before they started on their trip. fred's new voice said, "how are you feeling, dear?" "strange. i seem to have new limbs growing in." "so do i. guess we'll be our old selves pretty soon." "will we?" she could imagine his forehead wrinkling at the intonation of her voice. "what do you mean, margaret?" "hasn't the doctor told you? they have the stereos they found on our ship. now they can model our new faces after our old." "that's what you wanted, isn't it?" "but what do _you_ want, fred? i remember only a single one, and the doctor says they found a dozen. and he says that my face differs from shot to shot." fred was silent. "are they as beautiful as all that, fred?" "you don't understand, margaret." "i understand only too well. i just want to know--were they taken before we were married or after?" "before, of course. i haven't gone out with another girl since our wedding." "thank you, dear." her own new voice had venom in it, and she caught herself. _i mustn't talk like that_, she thought. _i know fred, i know his weakness. i knew them before i married him. i have to accept them and help him, not rant at him for them._ he said, "they were just girls i knew casually. good-looking, but nothing much otherwise. not in a class with you." "don't apologize." this time her voice was calm, even amused. "you couldn't help attracting them. why didn't you tell me that you kept their pictures?" "i thought you'd be jealous." "perhaps i would have been, but i'd have got over it. anyway, fred, is there any one of them you liked particularly?" * * * * * he became wary, she thought. his voice was expressionless as he said, "no. why?" "oh, i thought that perhaps you'd want the doctor to make me look like her." "don't be silly, margaret! i don't want you to look like anybody but yourself. i don't want to see their empty faces ever again!" "but i thought--" "tell the doctor to keep the other stereos. let him put them in one of his museums, with other dead things. they don't mean anything to me any more. they haven't meant anything for a long time. the only reason i didn't throw them away is because i forgot they were there and didn't think of it." "all right, fred. i'll tell him to use our picture as a model." "the ac studio shot. the close-up. make sure he uses the right one." "i'll see that there's no mistake." "when i think i might have to look at one of _their_ mugs for the rest of my life, i get a cold sweat. don't take any chances, margaret. it's your face i want to see, and no one else's." "yes, dear." _i'll be plain_, she thought, _but i'll wear well. a background always wears well. time can't hurt it much, because there's nothing there to hurt._ _there's one thing i overlooked, though. how old will we look? the doctor is rather insensitive about human faces, and he might age us a bit. he mustn't do that. it'll be all right if he wants to make us a little younger, but not older. i'll have to warn him._ she warned him, and again he seemed rather amused at her. "all right," he said, "you will appear slightly younger. not too much so, however, for from my reading i judge it best for a human face to show not too great a discrepancy from the physiological age." she breathed a sigh of relief. it was settled now, all settled. everything would be as before--perhaps just a little better. she and fred could go back to their married life with the knowledge that they would be as happy as ever. nothing exuberant, of course, but as happy as their own peculiar natures permitted. as happy as a plain and worried wife and a handsome husband could ever be. * * * * * now that this had been decided, the days passed slowly. her arms and legs grew, and her eyes too. she could feel the beginnings of fingers and toes, and on the sensitive optic nerve the flashes of light came with greater and greater frequency. there were slight pains from time to time, but they were pains she welcomed. they were the pains of growth, of return to normalcy. and then came the day when the doctor said, "you have recovered. in another day, as you measure time, i shall remove your bandages." tears welled up in her new eyes. "doctor, i don't know how to thank you." "no thanks are needed. i have only done my work." "what will you do with us now?" "there is an old freighter of your people which we have found abandoned and adrift. we have repaired it and stocked it with food taken from your own ship. you will awaken inside the freighter and be able to reach your own people." "but won't i--can't i even get the chance to see you?" "that would be inadvisable. we have some perhaps peculiar ideas about keeping our nature secret. that is why we shall take care that you carry away nothing that we ourselves have made." "if i could only--well, even shake hands--do _something_--" "i have no hands." "no hands? but how could you--how can you--do such complicated things?" "i may not answer. i am sorry to leave you in a state of bewilderment, but i have no choice. now, please, no more questions about me. do you wish to talk to your husband for a time before you sleep again?" "must i sleep? i feel so excited.... i want to get out of bed, tear off my bandages, and see what i look like!" "i take it that you are not anxious to speak to your husband yet." "i want to see myself first!" "you will have to wait. during your last sleep, your new muscles will be exercised, their tones and strength built up. you will receive a final medical examination. it is most important." she started to protest once more, but he stopped her. "try to be calm. i can control your feelings with drugs, but it is better that you control yourself. you will be able to give vent to your excitement later. and now i must leave you. you will not hear from me after this." "never again?" "never again. goodbye." for a moment she felt something cool and dry and rough laid very lightly against her forehead. she tried to reach for him, but could only twitch her new hands on her new wrists. she said, with a sob, "goodbye, doctor." when she spoke again, there was no answer. she slept. * * * * * this time, the awakening was different. before she opened her eyes, she heard the creaking of the freighter, and a slight hum that might have come from the firing of the jets. as she tried to sit up, her eyes flashed open, and she saw that she was lying in a bunk, strapped down to keep from being thrown out. unsteadily, she began to loosen the straps. when they were half off, she stopped to stare at her hands. they were strong hands, well-shaped and supple, with a healthily tanned skin. she flexed them and unflexed them several times. beautiful hands. the doctor had done well by her. she finished undoing the straps, and got to her feet. there was none of the dizziness she had expected, none of the weakness that would have been normal after so long a stay in bed. she felt fine. she examined herself, staring at her legs, body--staring as she might have done at a stranger's legs and body. she took a few steps forward and then back. yes, he had done well by her. it was a graceful body, and it felt fine. better than new. but her face! she whirled around to locate a mirror, and heard a voice: "margaret!" fred was getting out of another bunk. their eyes sought each other's faces, and for a long moment they stared in silence. fred said in a choked voice, "there must be a mirror in the captain's cabin. i've got to see myself." [illustration] at the mirror, their eyes shifted from one face to the other and back again. and the silence this time was longer, more painful. a wonderful artist, the doctor. for a creature--a person--who was insensitive to the differences in human faces, he could follow a pattern perfectly. feature by feature, they were as before. size and shape of forehead, dip of hairline, width of cheeks and height of cheekbones, shape and color of eyes, contour of nose and lips and chin--nothing in the two faces had been changed. nothing at all. nothing, that is, but the overall effect. nothing but the fact that where before she had been plain, now she was beautiful. _i should have realized the possibility_, she thought. _sometimes you see two sisters, or mother and daughter, with the same features, the faces as alike as if they had been cast from the same mold--and yet one is ugly and the other beautiful. many artists can copy features, but few can copy with perfect exactness either beauty or ugliness. the doctor slipped up a little. despite my warning, he's done too well by me._ _and not well enough by fred. fred isn't handsome any more. not ugly really--his face is stronger and more interesting than it was. but now i'm the good-looking one of the family. and he won't be able to take it. this is the end for us._ * * * * * fred was grinning at her. he said, "wow, what a wife i've got! just look at you! do you mind if i drool a bit?" she said uncertainly, "fred, dear, i'm sorry." "for what? for his giving you more than you bargained for--and me less? it's all in the family!" "you don't have to pretend, fred. i know how you feel." "you don't know a thing. i _asked_ him to make you beautiful. i wasn't sure he could, but i asked him anyway. and he said he'd try." "you _asked_ him--oh, no!" "oh, yes," he said. "are you sorry? i hoped he'd do better for me, but--well, did you marry me for my looks?" "you know better, fred!" "i didn't marry you for yours either. i told you that before, but you wouldn't believe me. maybe now you will." her voice choked. "perhaps--perhaps looks aren't so important after all. perhaps i've been all wrong about everything i used to think was essential." "you have," agreed fred. "but you've always had a sense of inferiority about your appearance. from now on, you'll have no reason for that. and maybe now we'll both be able to grow up a little." she nodded. it gave her a strange feeling to have him put around her a pair of arms she had never before known, to have him kiss her with lips she had never before touched. _but that doesn't matter_, she thought. _the important thing is that whatever shape we take, we're_ us. _the important thing is that now we don't have to worry about ourselves--and for that we have to thank_ him. "fred," she said suddenly, her face against his chest. "do you think a girl can be in love with two--two people--at the same time? and one of them--one of them not a man? not even human?" he nodded, but didn't say anything. and after a moment, she thought she knew why. _a man can love that way too_, she thought--_and one of them not a woman, either_. _i wonder if he ... she ... it knew. i wonder if it knew._ transcriber's note: minor typographical errors have been corrected without note. dialect spellings, contractions and discrepancies have been retained. [illustration: lady curzon] the woman beautiful by mme. qui vive (helen follett stevans) chicago jamieson-higgins co. 1901 copyright, 1899, by stevans and handy preface the woman beautiful is not a radiant creature of gorgeous plumage and artificial beauty, but a woman of wholesome health, good hard sense, sparkling vivacity and sweet lovableness. her beauty-creed hangs not from rouge pots and bleaches, but suspends like a banner of truth from the laws of wise, hygienic living. her cheeks are tinted with the glow that comes from good, well-circulated blood, her eyes are bright and lovely because her mind is so, and her complexion is transparent and soft and velvety for the reason that the true art is known to her. the woman beautiful is all sincerity. she doesn't like to sail under false colors and so insult old dame nature, whose kindnesses and benefits are so well meant and freely offered. table of contents page the complexion 9 expression 14 useless beauty 16 washing the face 20 facial eruptions and blackheads 23 tan, sunburn and freckles 27 complexion powders 32 wrinkles 35 recipes for the complexion 39 care of the hair 46 dressing the hair 56 superfluous hair 63 recipes for the hair 65 the hands 68 bathing the hands 71 care of the finger nails 73 recipes for the hands 75 the eyes 79 the girl who cries 83 the eyelashes 86 the eyebrows 86 the teeth 88 bathing 93 diet 100 sleep 109 exercise 114 stooped shoulders 125 breathing 130 massage 136 dress 144 the thin girl 149 the plump girl 154 the working girl 161 the nervous one 167 perfumes 174 the woman beautiful the complexion the bloom of opening flowers, unsullied beauty, softness and sweetest innocence she wears, and looks like nature in the world's first spring. --_rowe._ bad complexions cause more heartaches than crushed ambitions and cases of sudden poverty. the reason is plain. ordinary troubles roll away from the mind of a cheery, energetic woman like water from a duck's back, but beauty worries--well! they have the most amazingly insistent way of sticking to one. you may say you won't think of them, but you do just the same. it was always thus, and thus it always will be. diogenes searched untiringly for an honest man--so they say. woman, bless her dear, ambitious heart, seeks with unabating energy the ways and means of becoming beautiful. after all, they're not so hard to find when once the secret of it is known. like the keys and things rattling about in her undiscoverable pocket, they're right with her. if she will but stop her fretting for a moment, sit down and think, then gird on her armor and begin the task--why, that's all that's needed. there are three great rules for beauty. the first is diet, the second bathing, and the third exercise. all can be combined in the one word health. but, alas! how few of us have come into the understanding of correct living! it is woman's impulse--so i have found--to buy a jar of cream and expect a miracle to be worked on a bad complexion in one brief night. how absurd, when the cause of the worry may be a bad digestion, impure blood or general lack of vitality! one might just as well expect a corn plaster to cure a bad case of pneumonia, or an eye lotion to remedy locomotor ataxia. the cream may struggle bravely and heal the little eruptions for a day or so, but how can it possibly effect a permanent cure when the cause flourishes like a blizzard at medicine hat or a steam radiator in the first warm days of april? cold cream, pure powders and certain harmless face washes are godsends to womankind, but they can't do everything! they have their limitations, just like any other good thing. you may have a perfect paragon of a kitchen lady, whose angel food is more heavenly than frapped snowflakes, but you can't really expect her to build you a four-story house with little dofunnies on the cupolas. of course not. angel cake is her limit! and that's the way with those lovely liquids and things on your pretty spindle-legged dressing table. they can do a good deal in the beautifying line, but they can't do everything. give them the help of perfect health and scrupulous cleanliness of the skin, and lo! what wonders they will work! there is but one way--and it's so simple--of making oneself good to look upon. resolve to live hygienically. there is nothing in the world which works swifter toward a clear, glowing, fine-textured and beautiful complexion than a simple, natural diet of grains and nuts and fruits. but you women--oh! it positively pains me to think of the broiled lobsters, the deviled crabs with tartar sauce, the pickles, and the conglomerate nightmare-lunches that you consume. and yet you're forever fussing over leathery skins, dark-circled eyes and a lack of rosy pink cheeks. oh, woman! woman! why aren't you wise? here are some rules. they're golden, too: eat with wisdom and good sense. that means to pension off the pie and its companion workers of physical woe. take a tepid sponge bath every day, either upon arising in the morning or just before going to bed. limit the hot scrubbings to one a week. exercise with regularity, and dress as a rational human being should. drink three pints of pure, distilled water every day. see that the bedroom is well ventilated, and don't heap up the pillows until you have a mountain range upon which to rest your poor, tired head. a flat bed and a low pillow help toward a fine, straight figure and a good carriage. keep your feet warm. give those pretty round yellow silk garters to the girl you hate, and invest in sensible hose supporters. if your circulation is defective, wear wool stockings. don't fret. bear in mind what sheridan said: "a night of fretful passion may consume all that thou hast of beauty's gentle bloom; and one distempered hour of sordid fear prints on thy brow the wrinkles of a year." then rest. don't, i beg of you, live on the ragged edge of your nerve force. you need quiet, and all you can get of it. we victims of civilization go through life at a breakneck gallop, and it's an immense mistake. anyhow, those who know say so. and it sounds reasonable. but, after all, the complexion is only a small part toward the making of a beautiful woman. the hair must be kept sweet and clean and healthy, and the teeth should be white and lovely. it was rousseau, you know, who said that no woman with good teeth could be ugly. then the hands and nails must have proper attention. deep breathing should be practiced daily and the body properly exercised. the carriage must be graceful, the walk easy and without effort, the eyes bright, the expression of the face cheerful and animated, the shoulders and head well poised--but all these are different stories. there's a chapter in each one of them. above all, remember this one rule: don't fret. don't wear a look of trouble and worry. above everything else, remember those delicious lines of the immortal bard: "you have such a february face, so full of frost, of storm, of cloudiness." and after remembering, refrain. expression. one of the first things to remember in the cultivation of beauty is expression. who doesn't enjoy looking upon the young girl, with a bright, cheerful face, laughing eyes and all that? everybody! and when the grumpy lady or the whiney lady or the lady of woes trots in and sullies your near landscape, how do you feel? just about as cheery as if she'd come to ask you to attend a funeral! my dear girls, it doesn't matter if you have got a freckle or two, or if your nose does tilt up just a little too much, if you have a jolly, bright face people will call you pretty. you can count on that every time. good nature is a splendid beautifier. it brightens the eyes, discourages approaching wrinkles, and brings the apple blossom tints into your cheeks. another thing to remember is this: keep the mind active. there's nothing that will make a stolid, bovine face like a brain that isn't made to get up and hustle. don't sit around and read lovey-dovey novels or spend your time chatting with that stupid woman next door. don't forget that life is short and there's not a moment to waste. when hubby discusses the question of expansion just pipe up and show him what you know about it. don't get into an argument with him, but let him see that you read the papers and that you know a thing or two about passing events. then don't stay cooped up in the house. go out every day, if it's only to the corner market, and if you have to wade through snowdrifts. in short, be up and doing. don't dwell on past griefs or griefs that have not yet arrived. study is mental development, and mental development usually means a bright, pleasing expression. useless beauty. as a general rule, the man of brains and good sense--and he's the only man worth considering seriously--heartily despises the useless beauty. by this i mean the woman who is always togged up and crimped and curled and looks as if she were not worth a row of pins except as a means of livelihood to the modistes and the milliners and the hairdressers! the kind of beauty that i like is the sort that is active, doing, achieving, and working for some good. i believe, and fully too, that we can all appear at our best and yet not look as if we were made of cut glass and dresden that would crack or break or peel off if the lake winds happened to take a fancy to blow our way. it may sound at a frightful variance from the general preaching of the beauty teacher, but--between you and me and the ice cream soda that we do not drink because it upsets our stomachs and ruins our complexions--i have simply no use whatever for the little girl who puts in the entire day (and half the night) fussing over her complexion, kinking her hair into seventeen little twists and curlycues, and dabbling lotions and things on her nose till you can't rest. a certain amount of all this is necessary, but don't give your life over to it. the waste of time is enough to make one want to be a patagonian lady whose sole adornments in the beautifying line consist of a necklace of elephant's teeth and a few patagonian babies. when beautifying gets to the stage where one has no time for mental refurbishing it ceases to be beauty culture, and is simply nonsense and loss of time. i can spot this class of women a block away. in my mind's eye i can see them fussing and primping for hours before they are ready to don their street clothes and get down into the shopping district for the day's work of pricing real lace and buying hairpins. and i always look around me and think of what a vast deal of work there is in this great, big, sorrowful old world, and what direful need there is of every one pitching in and helping. to me, the useless woman is not a pretty woman. she is an ornament, like the shepherdess on the mantelpiece or the spanish lady in the picture frame that hangs in the hallway. but the other woman--the pretty and the useful woman--oh, but she is a sight to make old eyes grow young. her gown is spotless, her hair all fluffy and lovely, her hat just at the correct angle. she steps along quickly, and you know by the very air about her that she is a worker, be she of the smart set or of the humdrum life that toils and spins from morn till eve. her eyebrows are not penciled, there is not a trace of rouge on her cheeks, but she is a healthy, well-built, active woman, whose very appearance of neatness, sweetness and buoyancy tells all who see her that she is a devotee of the daily bath, the dumb-bells, the correct and hygienic life. in half an hour any woman should be able to take her plunge, coddle her complexion, dress her hair, manicure her nails, and attend to her teeth. if more time be needed, then the work is hardly worth the while, for life is mighty short, my dears, and things that must be done pile up as the years go by. at night in fifteen minutes the face and hands can be well washed, the hair brushed and combed and plaited, the teeth well cleaned, and the complexion massaged with a little pure home-made cream. of course, when the hair is shampooed or the nails manicured with particular care, or the complexion subjected to a thorough cleansing by steam or massage, then more time is necessary. but the gist of it all is this: let us not spend so much time on the exterior effect that we will forget that which is most necessary to a beautiful woman--the bright, interesting mind, the love of learning things, the desire to be keeping apace with just a little bit of the world's progress, and, best of all, teaching oneself how to live wisely and well. there never was--to my way of thinking--a brainless, silly woman who was beautiful. it takes the light of intellect, the splendor of sweet womanliness, the glory of kindness, unselfishness and goodness to complete a perfect picture of "the woman beautiful." washing the face. a good old stand-by query is about the simple matter of keeping one's face clean. there is no manner of doubt but that the hard water which we have in the cities is responsible for many complexion ills, and that we must not use it too generously upon our complexions if we long for the colors of the rose and the lily in our cheeks. there is nothing in the world so excellent as rain-water for the skin, but it's a great bulging problem as to how those of us who live in yardless flats and apartments can manage to catch the elusive rain-drops. we might as well hope to lasso an electric car and hitch it onto our back porches for the babies to play in, i think. when city people persist in telling others to wash their faces in rain-water and thus secure beauty everlasting and glorious, i always have a mental picture of a frantic lady with golden locks a-streaming and her eyes brimful of wildness, rushing madly down the street with basins and things in her outstretched hands. it's all right if one has rain-barrels or cisterns, but, after years of perspiring and nerve-sizzling flat hunting, i have failed to find apartments provided with either of these luxuries. with folding beds built in the sleeping apartments and steam radiators with real steam in them, the landlords feel that their duties are done. but to return to our muttons. those who cannot have real rain-water should use the harder brand sparingly on their faces. a thorough scrubbing at night before going to bed is an absolute necessity, lest the pores of the skin become clogged with the smoke and dust of our murky atmosphere. a little castile soap and a camel's-hair face brush will assist the cleansing operation. to soften the water, i would advise the following delightful lotion: four ounces of alcohol. one ounce ammonia. one dram oil of lavender. one teaspoonful to a large basin of water is sufficient. to keep the skin free from harshness and on unpleasant terms with wrinkles and turkey tracks, a little pure cold cream should be used. if, in the morning, the skin has not absorbed all the oils of the cream, then wipe away with a cloth just slightly moistened. when at other times the face needs washing, let me suggest that this toilet milk be used. it is also excellent to apply before fluffing powder over the cheeks: milk of violets: cucumber juice, boiled and cooled, one ounce. spirit of soap, one ounce. rose-water or orange flower water, four ounces. by remembering that there are two tablespoonfuls to the ounce, the measuring will not be at all difficult. if one wishes a stronger perfume add a few drops of violet extract. whether rose-water or orange flower be used is left to one's own choice. they are equally excellent for the skin. facial eruptions and blackheads. with most women, pimples are caused by indigestion or constipation. unless the body throws off its waste material as it should, the poisonous matter will endeavor to find a way out through the pores of the skin. the face, being the most sensitive, is usually the first part of the body to be afflicted. the remedy for facial blemishes is found in exercise, baths and a careful diet. and that reminds me that i would like to remark right here that the combinations that girls and women get when they order lunches are appalling enough to raise the hair right off one's head, most particularly if one has any idea at all of the general rules of hygiene and health. it is just as easy to put beautifying foods into your stomach if you will but once make up your mind to it. and what a host of trouble it will save you! not only in cosmetics, but doctor bills. what you eat is the fuel that keeps the engine of life going. good food makes good strong muscles, pure blood and a fair, healthy, firm skin. if there are troublesome little blotches on your face then mend your eating ways, even though it breaks your heart to give up those awful and indigestible dainties that you dote on so religiously. in place of the pastries and the sweets and the pickles and the highly spiced dishes, substitute fruit and vegetables. save all those nickels and dimes that you invest in ice cream soda, and instead exchange them for lemons and oranges that will help drive away the unsightly pimples and red blemishes. if possible, make your entire breakfast of fruit, either cooked or raw. if the apples and oranges and peaches and pears do not make active the digestive organs, then go to a reliable druggist and have this harmless and excellent prescription filled: extract of dandelion, one dram. powdered rhubarb, q. s. divide into three and one-half grain pills and take one every night, or oftener if necessary. a state of nervousness will ofttimes bring a heart-wringing crop of eruptions to the surface of the skin, and this condition is best remedied by plenty of baths, lots of fresh air, exercise, and a stiff but cheerful determination to brace up and not have any nerves--which, by the way, is much easier said than done, as most of us know to our sorrow. no matter of what order the facial eruptions may be, they must be treated with the greatest gentleness possible. there is nothing in the world worse than rubbing them with a coarse towel, a proceeding strongly advised by the old-fashioned ones who--bless their hearts--are so likely to stick to old-timey notions till the cows come home, no matter what arguments may be brought up to convince them of their mistaken views. pimples must never be irritated. breaking or bruising the skin only adds to its diseased condition and general irritation. if the complexion is unsightly with red blotches, a solution of boric acid in boiling water, used warm, will be an effective lotion. its application should, of course, be combined with proper living as laid out above, care being taken as to diet, exercise and the tepid daily bath. a good cold cream should also be used. i have been told by many that continuous applications of creme marquise had done away with pimples and blackheads, and it is frequently found that nothing more than a sensible diet and some simple pure face cosmetic is needed. when the skin is merely inflamed--that is, red of color and very tender, there is nothing better than a soothing cream like this. listerine, witch hazel and eau de cologne are all good as external lotions for pimples. a paste of sulphur and spirits of camphor, which should be put on at night and washed off the following morning, will do good work, provided the beauty patient knows the laws of health. [illustration: mrs. ogden armour] when there are both blackheads and pimples the latter must first be gotten rid of. when the skin is perfectly free of these, then begin with a camel's hair face-scrubbing brush to do away with the blackheads. wash the face thoroughly with the brush every night just before going to bed, using warm water and pure castile soap. if the blackheads are very bad add alcohol to the water. that is very cleansing, but as it is also drying, a face cream must be smeared on immediately after the face is rinsed and wiped. for some days it may seem that the pores are large and coarse and open, but they are simply undergoing a cleansing process that in the end will bring a lovely white, perfect skin. whenever i hear women say that they never wash their faces, but use a cream instead, i always wonder if they really feel clean. i am sure i would not. fancy the state of our hands were we never to wash them! and the face, having more oil glands, is in still greater need of soap and water. however, let me say right here that no soap at all is better than a cheap scented soap, and unless the very best and purest soaps can be had it is much more desirable to substitute almond meal or something of the sort. treatment for blackheads calls for the same care of the health as does treatment for pimples. tan, sunburn and freckles. tan, like borrowing friends, and various other afflictions, is awfully easy to get, but really more than passing difficult to remove. it is delightful to sit on a big bowlder that dots a great, lovely, sandy waste and watch your hands gradually turn from their customary whiteness to a deep burnt orange. one has to have something to show for a trip out of town, one thinks, else the doubting thomases will arise and give vent to suspicions that one has been merely concealing oneself in an attic or back bedroom. it is pleasant, too, to go fishing, with a dainty, absurd little hat that, although it looks pretty, is about as useful as would be a beaten biscuit pinned to one's tresses. you feel your nose becoming unusually warm, and it begins to tingle and smart as if the pores were filling up with hot sand. all of which is quite in keeping with summer-resort existence, and you are as proud as lucifer when you trail back to town to show this cerise-tinted evidence of your outing. but the friends who you thought would envy you giggle and smirk and nudge each other and make suggestions that are supposed to be mirth-compelling. and then and there you decide to do differently next summer. a sunburned nose may be a treasurable possession away from town, but back among the hosts of the city it is a different matter. more than that, it is an affliction. if the weeks at the seashore or the lakes would only brown the summer girl it would not matter so much. but instead of making the skin a beautiful, poetical olive tint, it usually turns it to a hue which is best compared to the flaunting colors of the auctioneer's emblem. if the girl is reckless, if she runs here and there without a hat, and gives never a moment to the care of her skin, her own mother is not likely to recognize her unless the summer girl soon repents and mends her ways. what mischief old sol cannot do, the brisk winds will contribute. the result is usually a red-eyed, red-nosed, flakey-skinned little woman, whom one would never suspect of having been rollicking through a few weeks of midsummer joys. if her ears are not blistered, her nose is, and if her complexion is not harsh and rough from lack of care, it is bespeckled with freckles and covered with a deep layer of golden brown tan that has distributed itself like patches on a crazy quilt. there is not one woman in forty who can afford to ignore the ordinary precautions for preserving her complexion during the summer months. a parasol is the first necessity. a white gauze veil is another, although this can be dispensed with if the skin is not particularly sensitive to sun and wind. never, under any circumstances, must you bathe your face in soap and water before going out of door or just after coming in. this habit will make the freckles pop out in fine order. after coming in from a tramp or a fishing party bathe the face at once in half a cupful of sweet milk in which a pinch of soda has been dissolved. if this is inconvenient, as it often is when one is a hotel guest and not a cottager, then use a good face cream. strong soaps containing an excess of alkali are bad enough at any time, but during the hot weather they are particularly trying to almost any skin. too much care cannot be taken to get proper soaps. the following sedative lotion applied to the face will prevent its tanning or freckling to any extent, that is, if one takes proper care of one's skin: distilled witch hazel, 3 ounces. prepared cucumber juice, 3 ounces. rose-water, 1-1/2 ounces. essence white rose, 1-1/2 ounces. simple tincture of benzoin, one-half ounce. after rubbing this into the skin with the finger tips and letting the cuticle absorb it well, apply a pure vegetable powder. when the face becomes sunburned apply plenty of cold cream. but be sure that it is your own home-made cream, else you may be putting lard or something else on your face, which, in a most amazing short time, will produce a thrifty growth of tiny, fine hairs. and then you will wish you had never lived to see the coming of the "happy summertime." lastly, to remove freckles, quickly apply lemon juice with a camel's hair complexion brush. let the juice dry in and massage with creme marquise. complexion powders. whenever women fail for congenial topics of dispute they can always fall back on the old topic of the best face-powder. "i have used that delightful velvety 'blush rose' for years and years," says mrs. lovely, "and i think it is simply fine." "blush rose?" shrieks mrs. pretty. "why, i wouldn't use that for a-an-any-thing! my husband's brother-in-law, who worked in a drug store, once told me that 'blush rose' had lead and bismuth and ever so many other dreadful, awful things in it. now, i dote on 'velvety carnation.' i know that that is perfectly pure. and it sticks just like your husband's relatives--simply never lets go!" "'velvety carnation!'" repeats mrs. lovely. "you poor child. i don't wonder that you have such a time with your skin--" and so on until both charming disputants march airily away, each deciding that the other will soon be in her grave if such foolishness in the choice of a face powder is continued. women need not discuss finances or peace policies. they have their own little face-powder question that is good for all time to come, no matter whether we all go and settle in the philippines or hand these interesting islands back to spain with a "much-obliged, thank you." i have often thought how thankful we should all be that we are not dahomey ladies, who have no opportunities for these pleasant little arguments. we may have to put up with a good many discomforts in our life of civilization, but we don't miss quite everything in the way of joys. the formula for face powder which i am about to give is not only perfectly harmless, but of exceptional medicinal qualities. nothing is better for an irritated skin than boracic acid, so the girl with facial eruptions can feel perfectly safe in using this powder. oxide of zinc, in the quantity given, can do no possible injury; many of the manufactured preparations being made almost entirely of this ingredient. poudre des fees (fairy powder): 1 ounce lubin's rice powder. 3 ounces best, purest oxide of zinc. 1/2 ounce carbonate of magnesia, finely powdered. 20 grains boracic acid. 2 drops attar of rose. when purchasing your ingredients ask the druggist to powder each separately in a mortar. first put your rice powder through a fine sieve, and then through bolting cloth. do the same thing with the oxide of zinc, the magnesia and the boracic acid before adding them to the rice powder. when all are combined put twice through bolting cloth. after each sifting throw away any tiny particles that remain. it is very necessary that all the ingredients be made fine and soft and fluffy. add the oil of rose last. by putting in the tiniest suggestion of finely powdered carmine you can get the cream powder, and by putting in still more you will have the rose or pink tint. while blonds, with clear, perfect skins, can use either the white or the pink very nicely, cream is the more acceptable color for brunettes. consuelo powder: 5 ounces of talcum. 5 ounces of rice flour. 2-1/2 ounces of the best zinc oxide. 2 drops each of oils of bergamot, ylang-ylang and neroli. the three main ingredients should be sifted over and over again, and if flesh color is desired, a little carmine must be added, the sifting continuing. then add the perfumes and sift again, so as to avoid any lumps. a formula for violet powder is given in the chapter on perfumes. wrinkles. it doesn't matter whether or not you are afflicted with wrinkles, it's an excellent thing to give them some attention. freckles are bothersome and provoking, and red noses make us as cross as black cats, but wrinkles!--they are the worst of all, for with them comes the sickening realization that the freshness of one's complexion is beginning to fade, and that youth itself is slipping away. it is before the lines really appear that they should be considered, for then they're much more easily managed than when they--with their sisters and their cousins and their aunts, to say nothing of grandmas and babies--settle down for a nice long stay. wrinkles are worse than bogie men, and "they'll git you if yo' don't watch out!" wrinkles are unnecessary evils--anyway, until one gets to be a hundred or so. that is, if you are so lucky as not to have troubles enough to keep you awake six nights out of seven, which seems to be the case with most people these days. even then perhaps you can deceive yourself into believing that life is one big, lovely, roseate dream after all. worry is a paragon of a wrinkle-maker. and, by the way, did you ever know why? it is not so much for the reason that screwing up the face traces lines and seams in the skin as it is because the fretting upsets the stomach. it has a most depressing effect on that hyper-sensitive organ. haven't you often noticed what a finicky, doleful sort of an appetite you have whenever you are indulging in a fit of the blues? the physiological explanation is the very close alliance of the great sympathetic nerves, which make up a little telegraph line more perfect and complete than any yet constructed by man. the poor, worn brain is fagged and tired. this fact is immediately communicated to the stomach, which, in true sisterly fashion, mopes and sulks out of sheer sympathy. then, of course, with an unruly digestion, all sorts of complications begin. the eyes get dull, the face thin and sallow, the complexion bad, and the flesh flabby. at that stage the wrinkles, with their aforesaid relatives, sail in upon the scene. and there you are! and--ten chances to one--it's a cheerful time you'll have getting rid of them. that's why i say you must take them in hand before they arrive, and dole out discouragement to them by correct living and the necessary facial massage. the skin of the face wrinkles exactly for the same reason and by the same mechanism that the skin of an apple wrinkles. the pulp of the fruit under the skin begins to shrink and contract as the juices dry up, and, quite naturally, the skin which was once taut and smooth, now being much too large for the contents, puckers up and lays itself in tiny folds. it's the same way with the skin of the face. when the subcutaneous fat of the cheeks and brow--which, when we are young and plump and rosy, is abundant--begins to be absorbed and to gradually disappear, then the cuticle straightway starts in to shrivel and fall into minute lines. so it is wisdom to anticipate the coming of wrinkles and lay plans to ward them off. live after strict rules of hygiene, as told in the chapters on exercise, baths, sleep, diet, and dress. have a tonic method of living. invigorate your muscles and the skin of your body by sponge baths and brisk drying with a coarse bath towel. friction is a great beautifier. eat only that food which is going to do you some good, and take your exercise with regularity. add to this a happy, hopeful disposition of mind and a big fat jar of pure, properly-made skin food, then read the chapter on massage and follow the instructions given therein. if any wrinkles or crow's feet come and lodge with you after that, then i'll take off my hat to their perseverance. recipes for the complexion. in compounding face creams one cannot be too careful and painstaking. it is much like preparing a salad or a charlotte russe, either of which can be utterly ruined by lack of care--or too much fussing. the creme marquise is especially difficult for the woman who tumbles things together in a haphazard fashion. unless compounded just so carefully, it will be likely to crumble, but when done according to directions it makes a cosmetic that is absolutely unrivaled. the other creams which follow this formula are more easily made for the reason that they contain less fats and are therefore less apt to separate from the rose-water. the creme marquise is a whiter, harder preparation than any of the others. creme marquise: 1/4 ounce of white wax. 2-1/2 ounces of spermaceti. 2-1/2 ounces of oil of sweet almonds. 1-1/2 ounces of rose-water. 1 drop attar of rose. shave the wax and spermaceti, and melt in a porcelain kettle. add the almond oil and heat slightly, but do not let boil. remove from the stove and add the rose-water, to which the perfume has been added. beat until creamy, and put in jars. cease beating before the mass becomes really hard. be sure that your druggist weighs the wax carefully, for too much of this ingredient will spoil the creme by making it too firm. this delightful preparation should be applied immediately after washing the face, but can be used at any time. it is absolutely harmless. get the best materials--and see that your almond oil is the real thing instead of a cheap imitation, which acts almost as poison to the skin. strawberry cream: white wax, 1/2 ounce. spermaceti, 1/2 ounce. sweet almond oil, 2-1/2 ounces. strawberry juice, 3/4 of an ounce. benzoin, 3 drops. take large fresh berries. wash and drain thoroughly. macerate and strain the juice through a piece of muslin. heat the white wax, the spermaceti and the oil of almonds. remove from the fire and add the strawberry juice very quickly. beat briskly till fluffy, adding the three drops of benzoin just as the mixture begins to cool. put in jars and keep in a very cool place. this quantity will fill a three-ounce jar. apply every night as a cold cream. this is particularly excellent for sunburn. orange flower skin food: spermaceti, 1/2 ounce. white wax, 1/2 ounce. sweet almond oil, 2 ounces. lanoline, 1 ounce. cocoanut oil, 1 ounce. tincture benzoin, 3 drops. orange flower water, 1 ounce. melt the first five ingredients in a porcelain kettle. take from the fire, and add the benzoin and the orange flower water, fluffing it with an egg-beater till cold. this recipe will make five ounces, quite enough to prepare at one time. for those who dislike oily creams it will be found delightful, as the skin absorbs it. the mission of the skin food is to do away with wrinkles. massage must, of course, accompany its application. for hollow cheeks or dry, rough skin it is unexcelled. its fattening qualities plumpen the tissues and so raise the lines of the face and gradually obliterate them. clover cream: spermaceti, 1 ounce. white wax, 1 ounce. oil sweet almonds, 5 ounces. rose-water, 1-3/5 ounces. powdered borax, 20 grains. essence of clover, 5 drops. dissolve the borax in the rose-water and add the essence of clover. melt the white wax, the spermaceti and the oil of almonds, using a porcelain kettle, as tin or iron is injurious to the oils. when melted remove from the heat and add the rose-water (all at once). then beat quickly with an egg-beater until the mixture is cold and firm. it is impossible for the rose-water to separate from the oils if directions are carefully followed. the recipe given above will fill an eight-ounce jar, so perhaps one-half the quantity should be tried at first. camphor cold cream: take one-half ounce each of spermaceti and white wax, melt and add three and one-fourth ounces of oil of sweet almonds, then add one-fourth ounce of camphor, broken into small pieces, and stir until dissolved. then pour in one and one-half ounces of distilled water in which fifteen grains of borax have been dissolved. stir until well mixed and beginning to thicken, then add four drops oil of rose, one drop oil of rose geranium, one drop oil of ylang-ylang, two drops tincture of musk, and two drops tincture of civet. continue to beat until cold. cold cream: white wax, 1/2 ounce. spermaceti, 1/2 ounce. orange flower water, 2 ounces. almond oil, 4 ounces. melt all together gently and pour into cups to cool. when cold pour off the water, remelt, and pour into jars to keep. oatmeal lotion: two tablespoonfuls fine oatmeal. boil and strain. when cold add one dessertspoonful of wine (white rhine preferred), and the juice of one lemon. fluff over the face before going to bed, not wiping it all away. this is excellent for sallow complexion. rose toilet vinegar: this toilet vinegar is made by taking one ounce of dried rose leaves, pouring over them half a pint of white wine vinegar, and letting stand for two weeks. then strain, throwing rose leaves away, and add half a pint of rose-water. it can be used either pure or diluted, and is especially good for an oily skin. lavender lotion (to soften water): 4 ounces of alcohol. 1 ounce of ammonia. 1 dram oil of lavender. add one teaspoonful to two quarts of water. a stringent wash: place in a half-pint bottle one ounce of cucumber juice, half fill bottle with elderflower water, and add two tablespoonfuls of eau de cologne. shake well and add very slowly one-half ounce simple tincture of benzoin, shaking the mixture now and then. fill bottle with elderflower water. this is very whitening, but its best mission is that of making large, open pores less noticeable and disfiguring. cucumber milk: oil of sweet almonds, 2 ounces. fresh cucumber juice, 10 ounces. white castile soap, 1/4 ounce. essence of cucumbers, 3 ounces. tincture of benzoin, 38 drops. get the juice by slicing the cucumbers, unpeeled, boiling in a little water and straining carefully. the essence is made by mixing the juice with equal parts of alcohol. first dissolve the soap in the essence, add the juice, then the sweet almond oil very slowly, and finally the benzoin. shake well for half an hour if possible. this is a most effective remedy for tan and sunburn. care of the hair her luxuriant hair--it was like the sweep of a swift wing in visions.--_willis._ pretty hair can redeem a whole host of irregular features. with little waves and kinks, and clinging, cunning tendrils that lie close to the temples, a "crown of glory" will transform an ordinarily plain woman into one passably good to look upon. if you doubt this, just create a mental picture of yourself in the last stages of a shampoo! isn't it awful? the damp, straight locks hanging in one's eyes, and the long, fluffy strands, that aren't fluffy at all but as unwavy as a shower bouquet of macaroni, and the tag ends and whisps sprouting out here and there like a box full of paint brushes six ways for sundays--well, one is always mentally thankful at such times that one's "dearest and best" isn't anywhere around to behold the horrible sight. but after awhile the long, damp tresses are patted and fussed over until they are dry, and then they're combed out and curled up and kinked and twisted, and, oh, my countrymen, what a change is there! the harsh lines of the mouth are softened, the eyes look bright and pretty, the complexion comes out in all its sweetness like the glorious rainbow of a week ago. it makes all the difference in the world! but of course you will straightway exclaim: "that's all right to say about those lucky girls who have nice long tresses, but how about us poor mortals whose 'crown' consists of eighteen hairs of eighteen different lengths, and all of them falling out as fast as they can?" to be sure, conditions do--once in a while--alter cases. but i claim, and always will claim--till the day comes when beauty matters won't matter at all--that every woman can have pretty hair if she will take the time and use the good, uncommon sense which seems necessary to acquire it. you know, and i know, and every other woman knows, that women treat their hair as they treat their watches--to unpardonable abuse. of course, one's hair isn't dropped on the sidewalk or prodded with stickpins until the mainspring breaks, but it is subjected to even deeper and more trying insults. one night, when the little woman is in a real good, amiable mood, the tresses are carefully taken down, brushed, doctored with a nice "smelly" tonic, patted caressingly and gently plaited in nice little braids. the next night it is crimped until each individual hair has acute curvature of the spine; then it is burned off in chunks and triangles and squares; it is yanked out by the handfuls, it is wadded and twisted and tugged at and built up into an eiffel tower, and--after a few hours of such torture--the little woman takes out the sixty odd hairpins, shakes it loose, gets every hair into a three-ply tangle of its own, and then hops into bed! when she gets up in the morning she pulls out and combs out more hair than she can make grow in after seven months' careful treatment. i tell you that is the one great trouble with women. they will not stick to one particular method. if they feel like fussing and coddling they will, but if they're tired or cross or in a hurry to get to sleep, well, they just let their hair take care of itself. one's tresses need regular care just as do plants or babies or people. make up your mind that you have hit upon the best way to treat your hair and then stick to it, no matter whether school keeps or not. to disentangle the hair use only a coarse comb, being sure that every tooth is smooth and firm, so that it will not tear or split the silky fibers. the fine comb is a thing of horror, and has no place upon the dressing-table. it irritates the scalp, bringing forth a prosperity year crop of dandruff and attendant unhappiness. added to this, it splits the hair shafts and injures the roots. brushing the hair is sadly overestimated. a dozen or two strong strokes each night will remove the day's dust and dirt, will promote circulation and sweep out flaky matter. the brushing must be done firmly but gently, and not with the violent methods of a carpet sweeping machine. really, it is simply appalling the way some women dress their hair. a few tugs and yanks with a comb of uneven, unsmooth teeth, a scattering brushing back of scolding locks, some singes here and there with a red-hot curling iron, a twist, a roll, a pat and the application of a dozen hairpins, and the hairdressing for the day is done. instead, the comb should be used with gentleness, not dug into the scalp, as is the practice of some mistaken beskirted mortals. there is an old saying to this effect: "wash the scalp, but not the hair; comb the hair, but not the scalp," which saying, i leave to you, is good enough to paste in one's hat--or rather on the back of one's hair brush. after the brushing each night it is an excellent plan to part the hair into small strands and wipe off with a cloth slightly moistened. this is a sort of sponge bath which tones and invigorates the growth. combs should never be washed, but cleaned with a stout thread. brushes, however, must have frequent washings in warm ammonia water, taking care to keep the backs dry. they should never be put in the sunlight when wet, but left to dry in an open window. curling irons certainly do heaps of damage. any woman who has ever found herself suddenly bereft of a nice fluffy bang, and in its place a stubby little burned-off fringe, will say that this is true, while those numerous hair-crimping girls who have known the humiliating and painful experience of having a hot curling iron do frolics down their backs can add startling testimony, and, what is more, show disfiguring scars as proof. if the iron is used carefully and at proper heat, the hair is not injured. but certain it is that when the iron is smoking-hot it kills the life and lovely texture of the hair. besides, how very ugly and unkempt those burned little ends look! it was surely not of such that pope wrote: fair tresses man's imperial race ensnare, and beauty draws us with a single hair. soft papers in which the short locks are wound is a good method for the girl who singes her top-knot every time she tries to curl a few little tendrils. kid curlers are all right, providing the hair does not become entangled in the small ends, and so have to be torn when the hair is taken down. there is a certain secret in the hair-curling process which is too intangible for written description. the hair must not be wound tightly and the effect must be loose, fluffy and natural. the great necessity for keeping the hair perfectly trimmed is to rid it of the split ends, for hair cannot be nice under such conditions. when the nourishment within each hair shaft does not extend the full length, then the hair cracks into several finer hairs, and one of these perhaps resumes the growth. that leaves a rough, bad shaft. the best way to keep the hair clipped properly is to twist it in rolls and to singe off all the little ends that stick out. it is almost impossible to state positively how often the hair should be shampooed. oily hair needs a thorough washing every two weeks, while drier tresses should not be given a bath oftener than once a month. half the reason for falling hair, or hair that seems never to grow, is caused by improper shampooing. the scalp must be kept scrupulously clean. and i doubt very much whether the soap and soiled water can be thoroughly rinsed out without the use of running water, the bath spray being the most convenient means of getting this. how often, after washing one's hair, one finds a white, sticky substance clinging to the teeth of the comb! this should never be, and the hair must be continually washed until it is fluffy and soft and absolutely without any suggestion of the shampoo. when the hair is very oily a dessertspoonful of ammonia and a pinch of borax should be added to two quarts of warm water. this will soften the water and make the soap more easily rinsed out of the hair. the liquid verbena soap makes a delightful shampoo. recipe can be found at the end of this chapter. when shampooing, rub the lather through the strands gently, and with the finger tips remove all the little particles of dust and dandruff which may be clinging to the scalp. and may i gently suggest that you do not go at the task as if you were scrubbing a grease spot out of a rug? you must neither dig the scalp with your nails nor wring out your hair as you would a wash-rag. try not to get your hair into a more mussed-up and tangled condition than is absolutely necessary. after using the bath spray liberally dry with warm towels, then--if possible--get some one to vigorously massage the scalp. this will almost invariably prevent one from taking cold. never begin combing out your locks until they are nearly dry. a sun bath of twenty minutes is a good tonic. occasionally an egg shampoo is more beneficial than the usual one of soap. this is especially true when one has just recovered from a fever or when one's scalp is in an unhealthy condition or afflicted with dandruff. the rosemary formula is very effective. dandruff is nearly always the result of neglect. if the scalp is washed as frequently as it should be, dandruff is not so likely to accumulate, although it is a perfectly natural formation. when the hair is excessively oily or the scalp unusually crowded with dandruff, the weekly shampoo should not be neglected. blond hair should always be washed with the yolk of an egg, as that will make it keep its golden tints. mixing the egg with a pinch of borax and a pint of warm water is a good plan. hair dyeing is one of the mistakes of unwise femininity. all dyes containing either mercury or lead are very dangerous. but why should women dye their hair? goodness only knows. one might as well ask why women fib about their age, or why women shop three hours just to buy a pair of dress shields. there are some questions of life which we are destined never to solve. there is nothing lovelier than white hair. combine with it a fine complexion and a pair of animated brown eyes and you have as picturesque a beauty as ever awakened emotions in the heart of man. but, nevertheless, women moan and wail over every stray gray hair. they go off downtown and proceed to lug home a cartload of mysterious bottles which they keep religiously away from hubby's investigating eye. i won't tell the result of the experience, for it is too well known. it is a certain episode through which half the women of forty years have passed--sooner or later. when comes the desire to transform those little threads of silver into deeper shades remember the charming lines of bancroft: "by common consent gray hairs are a crown of glory, the only object of respect that can never excite envy." unknown washes, as well as dyes, do great mischief. good health, wholesome food and proper care of the scalp are the three most important essentials toward beautiful and luxuriant hair. there are some simple lotions, harmless and easily prepared, which will assist the growth and nourish the roots. dressing the hair. it has always been a double-turreted wonder to me why romancers are forever harping about heroines with "tresses in artistic disarray." all the tresses in such condition that i have ever gazed upon have looked most slovenly and ofttimes positively waggish. how any one can think that a girl with a tangled braid hanging down her back, a little wad over one ear, a ragged, jagged fringe edging its way into her eyes and half a dozen little wisps standing out here and there in haystack fashion--how one can even fancy that such a head as that is pretty is more than i can explain. clothes may make the man, but rational hairdressing goes a pretty long way toward making the woman. observe my lady in curl-papers and my lady togged up for a dinner party. comment is unnecessary, for you have all seen her--or yourselves, which is quite the same thing. those fortunate women to whom straight hair is becoming should never indulge in curls. there is nothing prettier than hair drawn loosely away from the face. it leaves displayed those lovely lines on the temples about which artists and poets go mad. as to the style of dressing one's hair, that must be left solely to one's taste. if the lines of the head, the shape of the face and the hair itself are studied a bit the solution of the most becoming coiffure is very easily solved. a head that looks like a wax image in a hairdresser's window is certainly anything but pretty. neither is it artistic, for the correctly crimped and waved side-locks are too mechanically planned to look at all natural. to nearly all women the plainer the mode of hairdressing the more becoming it is. that does not mean that you should comb your hair straight back and wad it into a funny little bump. quite the contrary. comb it back if you will, but have the coil loose and graceful. it is very bad for the hair either to be pulled back tightly or to be closely arranged. ventilation is necessary, and, by the way, caressing and smoothing the hair with the fingers is a good tonic for its growth and beauty. a few loose short curls about the face seem necessary to the good looks of the majority of women, but the heavy bang was shelved years ago. wasn't it hideous? but perhaps you are too young to remember. get out the family album, then, and see for yourself. [illustration: mrs. john jacob astor] there are certain rules for hairdressing that were just as good in eve's hairpinless age as they will be a hundred years hence. by keeping these rules in mind you can make a picture or a cartoon of yourself, just as you wish. the one thing to remember is that the lines and proportions of the face must be carefully considered and a mode of hairdressing adopted which will lessen and not exaggerate those lines and proportions. be alert to your defects, and do not forget that what may be essentially appropriate for one woman will be dismally inappropriate for another. suppose a woman has a square, heavy jaw. she is just the one who flings defiance at prevailing fashions and clings to the dear old straight bangs deep over her eyes. the heavy chin makes a straight line, the heavy fringe makes another, and the result is that her face is as perfectly square as rules and measurements could make it. let this deluded lady shake herself together and mend her ways. by making the top of her head appear wider the broad jaws will--according to all laws of reasoning--seem to be narrower. a few dainty puffs towering up prettily and a soft, fluffy fringe left flying out over the ears will not only add grace to the forehead but lighten the heaviness of the lower part of the face. a bow of ribbon or any other perky little headdress will detract from the straight cross lines. then there is the woman with the sharp chin, the woman of the wedge-shaped face. she invariably wears her hair over her ears and so elongates the v lines of her chin. by arranging the hair close to the sides of her head and putting it in a soft low coil on the top a much more pleasing effect can be got. the same rule for the heavy-chinned woman applies to the chubby, fat-faced feminine mortal. the "roly-poly" visage looks less "roly-poly" when the front hair is drawn back and up in pompadour style and the long tresses piled into a nice little tower. the pompadour mode of hairdressing also holds good with the girl whose eyes are set too high. this helps along the old-time idea that the eyes of a woman should be in the middle of her head--that is, that they must be set midway between the bottom of the chin and the top of the hair. for the women with eyes set too low an exactly opposite arrangement should be adopted. instead of drawing the hair away from the face, bring it down to it. part the hair and let it come low on the temples and brow. i have never seen anything or anybody look much funnier than does a woman with a sharp-pointed nose and a pysche knot. the nose bumps out in the front and the wad of hair sticks out in the back with a similarity that is positively convulsing to any one with half an eye for the humorous. it gives one an idiotic longing to take a measuring rule and find out the exact distance from "tip to tip." another waggish picture is made by the snub-nosed girl with her hair arranged ã  la madonna. these long hirsute lamberquins on either side of her face make the poor little nose appear even smaller, like unto a wee dab of putty or a diminutive biscuit. don't caricature your facial defects. don't get the lines of your head and face "out of drawing." don't twist your hair up after every new fashion that chances to come along. study the contour of your head from every side and then adopt that style of hairdressing which at once brings out the good points and conceals the bad ones. the most becoming coiffure is the one that gives the most artistic balance to the face. what will do for the fat, dumpy miss plump will make a human joke out of the lank, willowy miss slender. superfluous hair. if there is one blemish more than another that gnaws out our very heart supports and gives a good hard case of nervous chills, it is this. what woman can look at another so afflicted without a feeling of deep pity? there is something so masculine and altogether impossible in a bearded lady, even if she be merely a poor imitation of the real exhibited thing. unless proper means are taken to abolish it, superfluous hair should be left religiously alone. the more it is pulled out or irritated the lustier and heartier will be the growth that follows. as for cutting it--well! who does not know what the result is sure to be? a challenging kaiser william mustache, maybe, or perchance a herr most style of hirsute trimmings. in applying creams of any sort to the face, it is wisdom to leave the upper lip untouched with the cosmetic, although one may feel perfectly safe in using home-made emollients which do not contain animal fats. heat, rubbing and friction are all conducive to the pests, and such oils and fats as vaseline, glycerin, olive oil and mutton tallow or suet should never be used. depilatories likewise should be shunned. the powdered preparations are usually composed either of sulphite of arsenic or caustic lime, and merely burn the hair off to the surface of the skin. it seems quite impossible for any such powder to kill or dissolve the hair roots without injury. the sticky plasters, made of galbanum or pitch, and which are known as "heroic" measures, are equally undesirable, since they are not permanent cures any more than the depilatory powders. the worst feature of these cures is that for every hair pulled out or burnt off a coarser one takes its place, and for every tiny, downy growth a fully developed hair appears. of course, the plaster removes this soft lanuginous growth with the hardier one, and for that reason should be left severely alone. the tweezers are therefore less objectionable than the plaster, but this is such a painful way of getting happiness that i cannot advise it. there is no doubt but that electrolysis is the best cure. the only objection to this is that an incompetent operator will cause her patron considerable pain, and will also be likely to scar the skin. a dainty little woman who has been an expert in this work for years tells me that it is not at all necessary for the beauty patient to hold the little handles--i know not the technical term--of the battery, although this causes a little more careful work on the part of the operator. at the same time, it makes the operation less painful, and really not at all hard to endure. the general desire to have the work done quickly causes the scars. if the hairs are picked out here and there and not close together the skin can heal and the rest of the horrors be destroyed at the next sitting. to remove a very prolific growth several "seances" will be necessary. but the result will be clear, unscarred skin, and no future chance of the wee worries coming back to bring heart-hurts and mental agony. to those who have any timidity at all about the electric needle, there is peroxide of hydrogen and diluted ammonia. use one as a lotion one night and the other the next. this will often prove a permanent cure, while a better, less noticeable state is certain. the remedy is one, however, that will take time and patience. the superfluous hair will gradually become light-colored and almost white, and the ammonia will, if used persistently, deaden the growth. do not expect the bleach to take effect right away, for it won't. if the skin is at all irritated rub on pure, thick cream. recipes for the hair. liquid verbena soap: cut in small pieces one-half pound of pure imported castile soap. put in porcelain kettle with two quarts of warm water and dissolve by boiling. when cold it should be of the consistency of rather thin cream; if thicker, add more water. stir in one-fourth pint of alcohol and let stand several days in a warm room. all the alkali and impurities will settle to the bottom of the bottle, leaving the liquid as clear as crystal. pour off carefully, leaving the residue for kitchen purposes. perfume with a few drops of oil of verbena, or any scent one may prefer. a small quantity of this used in the shampoo is delightfully cleansing. shampoo for dandruff: yolk of one egg. one pint of warm water. one ounce spirits of rosemary. follow with thorough washing with liquid verbena soap. egg shampoo: shake the yolk of an egg in a pint of alcohol, strain and bottle. to a bowl of warm water add two tablespoonfuls of the liquid. dandruff cure and hair tonic: forty-eight grains resorcin. one-fourth ounce glycerine. alcohol sufficient to fill a two-ounce bottle. apply every night to the scalp, rubbing it in well. this is good for falling hair. lemon hair wash (for blond tresses): one ounce salts of tartar. juice of three lemons. one quart of water. apply a cupful to the hair and scalp just before the shampoo. quinine tonic for oily hair: one-half pint alcohol. one-half pint water. thirty grains of quinine. apply every other night, rubbing into the scalp. hair-curling fluid: mix one and one-half drams of gum tragacanth with three ounces of proof spirits and seven ounces of water. perfume with a drop or two of attar of rose. if too thick add a little rose-water. the hands "i take thy hand, this hand, as soft as dove's down, and as white as it; or ethiopia's tooth, or the fann'd snow, that's bolted by the northern blast twice o'er." --_shakespeare._ pretty hands--like sweet tempers and paragons of husbands--are largely a matter of care and cultivation. much more so, in fact, than most of us are aware. while tapering fingers and perfect palms count for considerable, the general beauty of the hand lies not in its correct outline so much as in the whiteness and velvety softness of the skin and the perfectly trimmed, well-kept nails. i have seen hands as plump as rotund little butter rolls, with fingers like wee sausages, and i have also gazed upon long, slender hands as perfect of form and proportion as any hand ever put into a gainsborough masterpiece. and both have been called beautiful. of course, we all know that the gainsborough model is perfection, but nevertheless we can content ourselves with the knowledge that really ideal hands are as rare as a few other nice things in this world, and that we can struggle along very well with our good imitations providing we are able to keep them clean and well groomed. the poets have raved their wildest over the beauty of women's hands from the time when adam had his first desire to write jingles--if he ever was so silly--to the present day of kipling's entrancing verse. shakespeare in his many tributes to the unfortunate young juliet spoke of the "white wonder" of her hands, and there has probably never lived a versifier who has not, at one time or another, gone into paroxysms of poetry over "lovely fingers," and "dainty palms," and all that. and i don't wonder, do you? for a woman's hand--when it is beautiful--is certainly a most adorable thing. it should be soft and yielding and caressing--with small, dainty joints, a satiny surface and carefully manicured nails of shell-pink tint. first of all, tight sleeves and very tight gloves must be condemned. next, relaxation and repose are to be cultivated. a beautiful hand that fidgets continually is not to be admired for anything beyond its ceaseless efforts to be doing. ben jonson once said: "a busy woman is a fearful nuisance," and it's more than likely that he had in mind some fussy dame whose nervous fingers were everlastingly picking at things and continually on the wiggle. the hand can easily be taught to move gracefully. the ordinary delsarte movements of swinging the wrist backward and forward, of raising the hands high above the head, and the general exercises for the cultivation of gesture and expression are all good and can bring about the habit of spontaneous relaxation and activity. no gestures at all, though, are better than awkward ones. large joints are very unsightly. it is said of the countess of soissons that she never closed her hands for fear of hardening the joints. funny, isn't it, to what extremes those old-time ladies went? and yet the nordauites say we are degenerates! of mme. crequy it is recorded that "she was a woman most resolute," and in proof of that assertion the chronicler says that if no lackey were within call she opened the doors herself--without fear of blistering her hands! it was the desire for dainty, delicate white hands that first gave nice little boys the task of trotting after stately dames and carrying my lady's prayerbook or fan. fancy one of those porcelain-like creatures of helplessness hanging onto the strap in a state street cable car! perish the thought! and what a jolly time mme. crequy would have had could she have indulged in a christmas shopping scrimmage. after a few tussels with the swing doors that bar our entrance to the big stores, mme. crequy would have blistered her hands to the queen's taste and the poultice stage. there's no chance of a doubt about that. bathing the hands. with the hands, as with almost everything else in the strife toward beauty culture, cleanliness is the first great essential. you cannot keep your hands smooth and pretty without an occasional hard scrubbing. unless the hands are unusually moist naturally, hot water should not be used. have the bath tepid--just warm enough to be cleansing. say a fond farewell to all highly-scented soaps and bring yourself down to a steady and constant faith in the pure white imported castile. i doubt very much if there is a soap manufactured which can equal this for its harmlessness and purity. the best way is to buy a large bar, letting it dry thoroughly, and cutting off small slices as they are needed. never fail to let the soapy water out of the basin and fill again with a clear rinsing bath. when drying be sure that the towel is not coarse or rough, and that it absorbs every particle of moisture. very gently press back the cuticle around the nail. a little orange-wood stick or a piece of ivory will assist you when the skin is inclined to stick close to the nail. let the hands have their most cleansing bath just before you go to bed, and then is the time to apply your cold cream or cosmetic jelly, which--in nearly all cases--is all that is needed to keep the hands soft and nice. wearing gloves at night is very uncomfortable and quite unnecessary. lotions can be put on an hour or so before one goes to bed, and by that time they are usually pretty well absorbed into the cuticle. if the hands are red use lemon juice, applying cold cream as soon as the juice is dry. for callous spots rub with pumice stone. care of the finger nails. there has been a great change in manicuring methods of late. the old steel implements of torture are banished, and the ivory instruments have long since taken their place. steel should never be put to the fingers, except to use the scissors when the nails are too long, or to trim the skin in order to free it from hangnails. the best operators no longer cut away the cuticle about the base of the nail, and the manicure who does that nowadays is not a student of the french method of manicuring, which supplanted every other some time ago. the same effect--and better, in fact--is got by simply pressing back the flesh with the end of an ivory or orange-wood instrument. the gouging and snipping, so irritating to a person of nerves, is thus avoided. however, if you only know how, you can manicure your nails at home and they will look every bit as well as if you trotted downtown and spent half a day and a nice big dollar. fill a china wash basin with a suds of warm water and castile soap. soak the hands for five minutes. with an old soft linen towel push back the skin around the nails. if there are hangnails snip them away carefully. cutting the cuticle at the base of the nail was a barbaric feature of a new science which disappeared when it became more rational and refined. never, under any circumstances, must the inside of the nail be scraped with a sharp instrument. another thing to be avoided is the vulgar application of pink nail cosmetics. who has not seen a pretty hand made hideous by nails all gummed up with red paste? oh, yes, and claw-like nails! they, too, have been "called in," now that progress, good sense and civilization go marching on at a two-step pace. the nails should be trimmed the same shape as the finger tips, and left neither too long nor too short. there's a happy medium that is easily discovered, because of its usefulness, its convenience, and its artistic beauty. a too-highly polished surface is also a vulgarity invented by the old-time manicure. a little powder rubbed briskly on the nail with a heavily padded polisher is a great improvement, but when the nails shine with door-knob brilliancy it's high time to call a halt. as for jagged, uneven nails--there's no excuse for them. recipes for the hands. cosmetic jelly: take thirty grains of gum tragacanth, soak in seven ounces of rose-water for two days, strain through muslin and add one-half ounce each of glycerin and alcohol, previously mixed. this dries in a moment after application. glycerin balsam: white wax, one-half ounce. spermaceti, one ounce. oil of sweet almonds, four and one-half ounces. glycerin, one and one-half ounces. oil of rose geranium, eight drops. melt the oils. remove from fire and beat in the glycerin and perfume. stir briskly until cold and white. creme duchesse: benzoinated mutton tallow, three ounces. oil of sweet almonds, one ounce. glycerin, two drams. rose-water, two drams. oil rose geranium, twenty drops. heat the tallow and oil of almonds in one vessel and the other three ingredients in another. mix the two and stir until cold. on account of the mutton tallow, which might possibly cause a growth of superfluous hair, this cream is not desirable as a face cosmetic. the benzoinated mutton tallow can be made by taking one-half pound of the tallow and one-half ounce of the benzoin, and keeping at a high temperature until the alcohol has completely evaporated. strain through muslin. almond meal: orris root in fine powder, four ounces. wheat flour, four ounces. white castile soap, powdered, one ounce. powdered borax, one ounce. oil of bitter almonds, ten drops. oil of bergamot, one fluid dram. tincture of musk, one-half fluid dram. mix well and pass through a sieve. to make the hands soft: take one quart of warm water, and in it soak one-half pound of oatmeal over night, then strain and add one tablespoonful of lemon juice and one teaspoonful each of olive oil, rose-water, cologne, glycerin and diluted ammonia. rub into the skin three times a day. to plumpen the hands: one-fourth ounce tincture of benzoin, eight ounces of rose-water, and four ounces of refined linseed oil. rub in morning and night. this is equally nice for the neck and arms. wash: rose-water, three ounces. bay rum, 2 ounces. glycerin, one-half ounce. borax, one-half ounce. amandine: blanched bitter almonds, three and one-half ounces. powdered orris root, three-fourths ounce. powdered white castile soap, three-fourths ounce. glycerite of starch, one and three-fourths ounces. clarified honey, one ounce. oil of lavender flowers, one-half dram. oil of bergamot, one-half dram. oil of bitter almonds, four drops. beat the blanched almonds with a small quantity of water to a smooth paste, add the other ingredients, and mix intimately. a solution of cochineal will color it. the eyes "tell me, sweet eyes, from what divinest star did ye drink in your liquid melancholy?"--_bulwer lytton._ you would think, wouldn't you, that women would be good to themselves? but they aren't. not a bit of it! they abuse their complexions with cosmetics as deadly as mrs. youngwife's first plum pudding. they "touch up" their tresses with acids terrific enough to remove the spots of a leopard. they paddle around in the rain like ducks in petticoats and overshoes, and then sit down and chat with the woman next door for a whole hour, so that the damp skirts can more properly inaugurate a horrible cold that will settle down and stay for six weeks or more. and their eyes--but that's a story in itself. an oculist once said that every dot in a woman's veil was worth $5 to the gentlemen of his profession. the eye is being constantly strained to avoid these obstacles in its way, and, of course, it is weakened and tortured. think of a woman paying $1.50 for something that will, in time, destroy her eyesight just as sure as fate! i leave it to you if she's not a ninny? but women do these things in spite of everything--except when the overworked eyes begin to pain, and then they're glad enough to do almost anything for quick relief. to keep one's eyes in good, healthy condition, rigid laws must be laid down and carried out, though the heavens fall and the floods descend and everything gets up and floats out into lake michigan. you must not read in bed, and you must kiss good-by to that becoming black veil of many dots and spots. when you crawl out of bed in the morning do not dig your fists into your eyes and rub and rub until, when at last you do open those sleepy "windows of the soul," there is two of everything in the room, and big black spots are whizzing through the air. pressure on the eyeball flattens the lens of the eye, and is sure to produce myopia, or shortsightedness. if the eyes are not inflamed at all they should be washed every morning in moderately cold water. in case of inflammation an application of hot water and milk in equal parts will be found most beneficial. dry with a piece of old, soft linen, being sure to wipe inward toward the nose so as not to issue invitations to those horrors of womankind--crow's feet! great care should be taken to keep all foreign substances, especially soap and other irritants, from the delicate skin of the lids, and particularly from the still more sensitive eyeballs. gaslight brings direful havoc to good eyes, especially when the flame is in a mood to flicker and splutter, as gas sometimes does. take a faint, wavering light and a piece of embroidery and you have as fine a recipe for premature blindness as can be unearthed in a month of sundays. sewing in the twilight is equally disastrous, as is the habit of facing the light when writing or reading. few women realize the great need of resting the eyes occasionally, and the unhappy result of trying them to the utmost limit. the very moment that the eyeballs ache work should be suspended, no matter how necessary or urgent. rose-water and plantain in equal parts makes a refreshing wash, and elderberry water is said to be good when there is a disagreeable itching. if the eyes are hot and watery use hot water which has been poured over rose leaves. witch hazel, that good old stand-by, is always refreshing and is especially good when combined with camphor water. it is best when applied at night and allowed to dry on the lids. weak tea, which is the eye tonic of our grandmothers, is also splendid. a lotion that has been tried over and over again and found excellent for tired and inflamed eyes, is made by rubbing one teaspoonful of pulverized boracic acid in fifteen drops of spirits of camphor and pouring over this two-thirds of a cup of hot water. stir and strain, and use as needed. to brighten the eyes, steep good green tea in rose-water, soak bits of absorbent cotton in the liquid, and bind on at night. for granulated lids--and what is more maddening and painful?--make an alum paste. this is done by rubbing a small piece of alum into the white of an egg until a curd is formed. apply to the lids upon retiring at night, tying a piece of soft linen over the eyes. so many girls say that they look a fright in eyeglasses, and ask if they should wear them. most certainly if the eyes are worn out and failing. an oculist of the very best reputation should be consulted. the fee does not exceed that of the quack, and the eyes are tested with greater thoroughness. glasses must be chosen with the utmost care, as ill-fitting lenses can make a great deal of trouble. they are worse than no glasses at all. then, after eyeglasses are put on, they must be changed now and then to suit the changing conditions of the sight. if the eyes are not in a bad state, wearing spectacles for a few months may strengthen them so that the glasses can be discarded. also, if the oculist knows his business as he should, he can give you much valuable information concerning the care of your eyes. the girl who cries. now, about the girl who weeps. you don't see many of her these days. women used to think that big, sad eyes, just ready to send forth a november gale of tears, was quite the proper thing, especially if there chanced to be a man about. women of experience--and who should really know--say that tears are worn-out weapons for bringing masculinity to time. we later-day mortals go in for everything that bespeaks strength and backbone and a certain amount of strong-mindedness. when little wifey wife begins to snivel nowadays, mr. husband doesn't upset the furniture in his efforts to kiss away the tears. he is quite likely to straighten up and say: "oh, brace up, pauline!" or else, "go look in the glass, my love, and see what a beautifully tinted nose you have!" yes, these are unromantic days, and there's no mistaking that fact! there's little room for the weepy, wailing woman whose big, inflated ambition is to dampen stunning neckties and deluge nicely laundered shirt-fronts. of course, women must have their good, comfortable cries once in a while, but if they're wise they will retire to their own rooms and have it out by themselves. this is not quite so satisfactory as the old-time methods, for the reason that loneliness does not inspire an exhibition of woe, and if one doesn't look out one is apt to forget what one is boo-hooing about. but, take it all in all, it's safer and more in keeping with fin de siecle rules and regulations. it used to be that a man would say: "well, it breaks me all up to see a woman cry. i just can't stand it!" but now it's different. instead, he remarks wearily: "anything but a yowling woman!" the poets have written lots of lovely things about tears. notwithstanding that fact, there is an old german proverb: "nothing dries sooner than a tear," which isn't so bad. and byron, you know, said that the busy have no time for tears. which, one must acknowledge, is quite true when one thinks how everybody is up and hustling these days. they're either wearing themselves down to skin and bone trying to earn a living and to reside in a $60 flat with electric lights and a real back yard, or else they're gradually killing themselves in an effort to enjoy life and to have a good, jolly time all around. however, that's neither here nor there. so let's jog along to more timely topics. the eyelashes. who hasn't bumped into the woman who is woefully wandering around minus her eyelashes? my dear girls, you make the mistake of your life when you begin to snip and clip and tinker with those pretty little curtains that fall over your eyes. if eyelashes are cut in infancy they will grow longer, but when one gets big enough to wear long skirts and to do one's hair up high and wear a little bonnet with jet dofunnies on it, there's not much of a show for eyelashes being made longer by trimming. touching the lashes with castor oil will increase the growth, and moistened salt is also good. the eyebrows. the eyebrows must be kept well brushed, and by persistent care can be pinched into graceful lines. a heavy eyebrow can be trained with really little effort. the brush should be small and rather stiff and firm. it will at once cleanse and invigorate. i cannot approve of penciled eyebrows. a professional in the "make-up" art can touch the eyebrows here and there and bring a marvelous change. but for the ordinary amateur it is better left undone. besides, if coloring is applied, it is only a short time before the hair will fall out. and then won't you look pretty? eyebrows that meet over the nose are really very disfiguring, and the cure is so simple that there is no need of this blemish, providing, of course, that one can afford to take the necessary treatment. the electric needle is the only sure and certain cure, and two sittings will be sufficient to remove them for good and always. be sure that you patronize only the best operator, as you will surely regret it if you don't. sage tea, with a few drops of alcohol added, will darken the eyebrows without injury. cocoanut oil makes an excellent tonic to increase the growth. the teeth "some ask'd how pearls did grow, and where? then spoke i to my girl, to part her lips, and shew me there the quarrelets of pearl." --_herrick._ femininity may be heir to many beauty woes, but ugly teeth is one trouble which is often caused by sheer neglect. how many of us can recall the days of childhood and girlhood without remembering the fibs we told to escape cleaning our teeth? the blessed mothers implored and begged and threatened and fussed, but we went our way joyful and serene, making all due preparations for future unhappiness. but when the girl began to think more about her personal appearance, and less of the frivolities of advanced babyhood--oh, that we were all back at that jolly time of life!--things were very different. the neglected teeth got good attention then, but often the mischief had already been done. i trust that the younger readers of this volume on beauty will remember that this is hopelessly true, and something not to be forgotten--like yesterday's toasted marshmallows or to-day's lesson in political economy. i have heard it said that too much brushing will injure the teeth, but don't you believe it! the sooner you become accustomed to a moderately stiff brush, that will do its work well and thoroughly, the better. all foreign matter must be constantly removed, else decay will come as sure as fate. a perfect state of cleanliness cannot be unless the teeth have proper and constant attention. by this i do not mean that you must cease all other occupations and take up that of eternal scrubbing. simply keep your teeth clean. toothpicks must not be used excessively, cold water should not be applied--or very hot, either, for that matter--and all powders containing gritty substances must be tabooed. it is quite unnecessary for me to add that you must not bite thread or break nuts with your teeth, for all of us have had this bit of information dinned into our ears since the time when "little children should be seen and not heard" made life a worry and a care. i must confess, however, that i have seen women untie knots and do various bits of very remarkable mechanical work in this unique manner. my experience has been so broad in this particular line of observation that the expression "biting ten-penny nails" has never appeared to me to be much overdrawn. if one seriously desires fine, beautiful, white teeth--and who doesn't?--one must treat them well. just before going to bed, give them a thorough cleaning, using waxed dental floss to remove any large particles which may be between them. use only a pure powder, the ingredients of which you know. be sure that all powder is well rinsed away. see that your brush is kept scrupulously clean. upon arising in the morning rinse the mouth with diluted listerine. this makes an excellent wash, especially when the gums are tender and liable to bleed. brush the teeth with tepid water. after breakfast, luncheon and dinner, wash them again, letting the last cleansing be the most searching and thorough. once in a while it is wisdom to squeeze a little lemon juice onto the brush. this will remove the yellow appearance that often comes, and will also keep your teeth free from tartar. [illustration: princess henry of pless] every six months visit your dentist and have your teeth thoroughly examined. the smallest cavities should be filled at once, and the pain will be less than when these agonizing crevices get so large that you feel that it's a flip-up between going to a dentist or jumping into the lake. i know that most of us women are cowards when it comes to seances in dentist chairs, but all such things--like house-cleaning and writing letters to folks you don't like, and entertaining your husband's maiden aunt--all these things are heaps nicer when they're well over with. they are the events which we prefer should ornament the past instead of the future. to sweeten the breath: alcohol, twelve ounces. cinnamon, two and one-half drams. ginger, one-half dram. essence of peppermint, one dram. cloves, one-eighth dram. mix and leave in infusion for two weeks in a tightly covered vessel; filter and bottle. put one teaspoonful in a glass of water, and rinse the mouth with this every morning. recipe for violet tooth powder appears in the chapter on perfumes. bathing "even from the body's purity, the mind receives a secret sympathetic aid." --_thomson._ the road to beauty has never been better known than it was to the greek and roman women of centuries ago, yet they did not begin to have the resources in cosmetic arts that we have now. but they bathed incessantly, believing that cleanliness and health were the vital points in their endeavors to be lovely. they went in for athletic games to a large degree, and thereby hangs the secret of well-developed figures and fine, stately carriage. creamy lotions for the face, made mostly of almond oil and the oil of cocoanut, were their complexion solaces. no doubt these beauties of the past centuries had more time than we for their baths and games, but nevertheless let us make a strong, stern effort to follow in the wake of their excellent teachings. surely they proved the wisdom of them in their own incomparable beauty. speaking of baths reminds me of mme. tallien, the beautiful french woman, who lived in the time of the first napoleon. she went in for baths galore. let me tell you what she did. she gathered together all the strawberries or raspberries that the corner grocery could supply. these were mashed to a pulp and the bathtub filled. in this mme. tallien bathed until the idea of milk and perfumed baths appeared to her fancy. there were many absurd and useless fads those days as well as wise beautifying practices--just the same state of affairs as now confronts us. how much more rational than mme. tallien's notions were the methods of diana of poitiers, who, history tells us, was fresh and lovely at sixty-five! she left the berries and things to their rightful place, the breakfast table, and each morning took a refreshing bath in a big tub of clear rain-water. there has nothing yet been found, even in this progressive age of electric elixirs and beautifying compounds, that can equal this old-time aid to loveliness. with the delightfully convenient bath-rooms, that even the most ordinary apartment or flat has now, bathing is not a matter of trouble and bother, but is, instead, an invigorating pleasure. i believe firmly in the need of the daily bath. not the thorough scrubbing, mind you, but the quick sponging and the plunge. let the thorough scrubbing be at least twice during the week, and the five-minute plunges on other days. certain it is that one is much refreshed by the dipping luxury, and still more certain is the fact that in no other way can the flesh be kept healthy and firm. to those who are robust enough to stand it, the cold bath is very good, but i would not advise it as a general thing for women. for actual cleansing warm water and pure soap are necessary. the shock of cold water immediately closes the pores, and they then retain all the impurities that they should cast out. the temperature of the water for the daily tepid bath should be about seventy-five or eighty degrees, never more than that. whether or not the bath should be taken at night or in the morning is a question which each must decide for herself. while it has often been claimed that a bath at night will quiet the nerves and make one sleep sweetly, i have known many persons who found it an utter impossibility, as it caused them to be restless and wide-awake. one reason why the bath before going to bed is desirable is that a soothing emollient can be applied to the face, neck and hands, and thus will the skin be whitened and beautified. after a warm plunge the pores of the skin are opened and in excellent condition to absorb a good skin food or a pleasant cream. bath bags are simply luxuries. they are pleasant ones, to be sure, but they should never take the place of the flesh brush. it is best to follow the scrubbing with a gentle washing with a bath bag, for the almond meal and the orris root will give a charming, velvety appearance to the skin. they should never be used a second time, as the bran frequently becomes sour after a drying. so, if you are of an economical turn of mind, you will make your bath bags very small, just large enough to serve for one beauty bath. a little starch thrown into the bath will sometimes whiten the skin. salt is not cleansing at all, but is very invigorating and a pleasant tonic if one is worn out and languid. turkish baths are splendid complexion-makers, but must not be indulged in too frequently. if the skin is dry and feverish, a dry bath--or massage--with oil of sweet almonds will promote a healthy skin and bring about good circulation. constant bathing is the best remedy for excessive perspiration. but this is not really effective unless a little benzoin is added to the water, and the armpits well dried, and dusted with powder afterward. a good bathing powder for this purpose is made of two and one-half drams of camphor, four ounces of orris root and sixteen ounces of starch. reduce to a fine powder and tie in coarse muslin bags. remember that a coarse complexion, with black, disfiguring, open pores, can be almost entirely cured by keeping the pores of the body free from sebaceous matter. have the bathtub carefully scoured each day, as the oils and dust washed from the body invariably collect on the sides just where the water reached. for the thorough cleansing have the tub half filled with warm water. use a coarse rag, a bath brush and large, coarse towels. before stepping into the water wash the face and neck well with castile soap and a camel's-hair brush, this being particularly necessary when the pores are clogged and acne has formed. rinse thoroughly and dry with gentle pats. when using the brush, do not forget to let the scrubbing go well down onto the chest, lest your neck will be bleached white and nice only part of the way. once in the tub, go over the body briskly with the flesh brush, using plenty of good soap and not being at all sparing of elbow grease. this scrubbing is very invigorating, for it exercises the muscles and stirs up one's blood as well. after the scrubbing use the bath spray, letting the water get gradually chilled. the drying should be brisk and quick, and a warm robe of some sort must be donned while the hair is being combed for the night, the teeth brushed and the face anointed with a pure home-made cosmetic. then go to bed. if you don't find a prettier, fresher complexion with you next morning, then i'll miss my guess, and will take up another occupation than that of doling out beauty advice. quireda bath bags: one pound of fine oatmeal. one-half quart of new clean bran. two-fifths pound powdered orris root. two-fifths pound almond meal. one-fourth pound white castile soap, dried and powdered. one ounce primrose sachet powder. dipped in tepid water and used as a sponge these bath bags make a velvety lather that softens and whitens the skin in a way that warms the cockles of one's heart. diet _ "good food is the basis of good conduct, and consequently of happiness; more divorces are caused by hash than by infidelity."--_hetty green._ the object of eating is nourishment to build up the nerves, the muscles, the blood, the tissues, and, in fact, the whole body. judging by woman's mad devotion to things she should not eat, this is a piece of information which has never before been confided to her. let the food be well cooked, daintily served and delicately flavored--for all that aids digestion with persons of sensibility and refinement--but see to it that the ingredients are wholesome and of the best and freshest qualities. a fifteen-cent lunch at one of the tearooms, where dishes are prepared with some idea of the rules of hygiene, is much better than a twenty-five-cent course dinner at a cheap restaurant. this is a hint for the business girl who lunches downtown. ripe fruits, served upon green leaves, are always appetizing, even if there is nothing more than toast or rolls to go with them. cereals, such as rice, barley or hominy (they must be steamed for hours), served with rich cream, make ideal luncheons. a baked apple, a bit of rice pudding, or a custard--they, too, are worth the while and the price. eggs, either boiled or carefully scrambled, or made into an omelet, flavored with a dash of parsley, and chops or fish delicately broiled, are substantial viands. soups or broths, breads, fruits and an occasional salad make desirable luncheons. a noonday meal of creamed potatoes and green peas is not to be despised, and it's a godsend to the poor stomach that has been heroically tussling with cocoanut pudding, fruit cake and chocolate rich enough to own a castle in europe. such dishes as italian spaghetti, with tomato sauce and parmesan cheese, or celery or cress salad, with no other dressing than the best olive oil and a teaspoonful of vinegar, will do very well. there is no economy in buying badly cooked luncheons. seek quality, not quantity, and, so far as health and good looks go, you'll find yourself getting along famously. rich foods, especially pastries, can bring forth an array of facial eruptions that is positively maddening to the poor victim. ice cream soda, too, deranges the stomach and creates all sorts of disagreeable disturbances. hot bread and rolls, indulged in to an appalling extent in southern households, can do more real damage to a good, fair skin than all the winds and wintry blasts that ever shook chimneys or swept friskily around corners and alleyways. overeating not only brings indigestion and creepy dreams, but invariably makes the complexion coarse, high-colored and overruddy. that does not mean that one should nibble at things and not demolish a "good square meal." eating should be understood--rules laid down and religiously carried out. usually hygienic dishes and health foods comprise a complete list of one's special horrors. most girls who have tried them say so. but just the same, there are dozens--yes, hundreds--of nutritious viands that are decidedly more palatable and appetizing than the sweets and indigestible doughy nothings that not only make of you a physical wreck but set you to wishing most heartily that the man who invented mirrors had died of the measles in his early infancy. rice is a good old stand-by as a builder-up of a run-down constitution. but you don't like it? well, then, stew it with chicken sometime and you will soon discover what great possibilities are in this despised grain. oatmeal, as it is usually cooked, is a thing of horror, to be shunned and avoided and run away from. but oatmeal left to slowly simmer for a full hour, and served half liquid, fluffed over with a bit of powdered sugar and covered with rich cream, is fit for a queen--most especially if the royal lady is ambitious for a fair visage with sweet, soft skin and cheeks just touched with the crimson of health. a thick porterhouse steak, broiled quickly and well seasoned with salt, pepper and butter, or rare little chops of lamb, are always excellent tonics, as well as complexion tinters. very often a lack of beauty is nothing more than a lack of proper nourishment. the best cure in the world for a haggard, wan, white face is a proper understanding of good foods. sometimes a tonic of iron is needed to brace the wearied physical state. cod liver oil, which is so very disagreeable to most people, is the sure cure for the girl whose extreme slenderness causes her to lie awake nights to fret and worry. but when the oil is prepared with malt it is even better, and also less trying to swallow. a combination of malt and hypo-phosphates is excellent too, and will bring back the fire of energy to the eye, and the roses to the cheeks. a dessertspoonful taken before meals will stimulate and strengthen, and get the tired body into a better state to resist the wear and tear of ill health or overwork. one beautiful woman of my acquaintance declares that the secret of her radiant looks is simply lettuce and olive oil. she eats lettuce summer and winter, and this queer complexion cure has certainly worked like a charm in her case. she buys the crisp young head lettuce, being careful to use only the inner leaves. over this she pours two tablespoonfuls of the best olive oil and the very slightest dash of vinegar. salt and the least wee bit of sugar finish the salad. the good qualities of lettuce are usually destroyed by rich, mustardy dressings, that breed acute dyspepsia and desperate despair over good looks. but olive oil and lettuce is as good a combination for rugged health and a fair face as one can find in a year's search from cape horn to the yukon. others besides the lovely lady of whom i speak have found it so. the secret, though, is, i fancy, in the olive oil, which is an excellent aperient. a complexion-destroying habit is that of eating late lunches just before going to bed. an apple or an orange is a benefit--as is also plenty of cold, distilled water--but when it comes to gnawing chicken bones, devouring big slabs of rich cake or finishing up a dish of leftover salad, then is the time that kind relatives or guardians should step in, say a word and take a hand. the girl should be saved from herself at almost any expense. fruit is a panacea for many complexion ills. what a pity, then, that blind womankind persists in dabbing things on her nose instead of putting healthful, purifying beauty food into her stomach. there is no reason in the world why fruit should be considered a luxury. it should be used as a staple article of diet. surely that must have been the original intention. but alas, how many housewives will pay forty cents for a can of lobster that will upset stomachs, frazzle pleasant tempers, cause all sorts of complexion horrors and bring a perfect comet trail of nightmares and dyspepsia! and these same women will wrap themselves in a sanctimonious mantle of economy when the woman next door pays the same sum for a dozen great juicy oranges. grapes and apples are among the most nutritious fruits, and there is nothing in the world so good for a skin of oily surface or yellow hue as a grape diet. besides, grapes are extremely appetizing, are very easily digested and are sure to agree with even the most delicate stomach. ripe peaches have nearly all the merits of the grape, and, if in proper condition, are also quite unlikely to bring about indigestion or stomach disorders. there has never yet been concocted a better spring tonic than strawberries. the reason why they are particularly excellent to enrich and purify the blood is because they contain a larger percentage of iron than any other fruit. it is a shame ever to embarrass and humiliate the luscious things by imprisoning them in the indigestible layers of a shortcake. a fluff of pure powdered sugar and a dash of whipped cream and you have a toothsome dish fit for the most finicky god that ever graced olympia's pleasant realms. the woman who has a dingy, muddy skin must pin her faith to oranges, lemons and limes. these are simply unrivaled as complexion clearers. the juice of the grape fruit is fine, too. fruits of this class stimulate and make active the digestive organs, which, as you probably know, are the main seat of nearly all complexion ills. a breakfast of oranges and strawberries will do more toward making you a pretty, wholesome, healthy woman than almost anything else. to be perfectly wholesome, fruit with firm flesh, like plums or apples or cherries, must be thoroughly masticated. the skin of raw fruit should under no circumstances be eaten. it is covered invariably with multitudes of minute germs which always swarm upon the surface of the fruit and multiply rapidly under favorable conditions of warmth. before eating grapes or cherries all dust and impurities must be removed by careful washing in several waters. but to sum up the entire question of diet, eat what you know will agree with you, and choose the blood-making, nourishing foods. let fruit and vegetables predominate in your meals, but do not avoid meats entirely. cake is not harmful unless very rich, but greasy pastries--like pies and tarts and things of that sort--are simply utterly, hopelessly impossible! fats make the skin oily and coarse, pastries produce pimples and blackheads faster than you can doctor them away, and too much sweets will have about the same effect. instead of buying candies, save your money and acquire a fine complexion along with a bank account. it will pay in the end. sleep. "what a delightful thing rest is! the bed has become a place of luxury to me. i would not exchange it for all the thrones in the world."--_napoleon i._ if womankind half realized the beauty benefits of plenty of restful, refreshing sleep, all femininity would be crawling into bed at sunset. i've often wondered why the great sisterhood that is praying and working and fretting for physical loveliness does not understand that more real help comes from rational, hygienic living than can be squeezed out of all the cosmetic jars that ever enticed weak feminine hearts. beauty sleep! why, we've heard of it since the long-ago days when our blessed mothers sung it, lullaby-fashion, into our ears! as little girls it brightened the "sand-man" hour and made us go contentedly to bed. as women it should rightly continue its good work, and the dear lord knows we need it more now than we did then, for--perhaps--the crow's feet have begun to show their ugly little tracks and the fine complexion of early girlhood is losing its luster and brightness, and is growing a bit dull and yellowed--like a leaf first touched with the autumn chill. perhaps you won't believe it, but there are right ways of sleeping and wrong ways as well. the girl who curls up like a shrimp is the one who will be writing to me in a great flurry and worry, telling me that her shoulders are round, and that she simply can't make them nice and square as they should be for the new tailor-made that is to transform her into a happy little easter girl! the woman who is horrified to find wrinkles appearing like wee birds of omen does not have to tell me that she is a pillow fiend and sleeps with her head half a foot higher than her heels. it stands to reason that a pillow will push the flesh of the face up into little lines. there is no necessity for pillows at all, and girls don't need them for comfort any more than a little puppy dog needs patent leathers or overshoes. the bed should be hard and perfectly flat, with springs that do not sag or give and let the poor sleeper roll down in the middle in a jumbled-up heap. a hair mattress is the best for health and comfort, but others will do nicely if they are only perfectly flat and not too soft. the first thing to do, then, is to dispense with the pillow. if this change cannot be accomplished all at once, then let your pillow be gradually made smaller and smaller until none at all is desired. your sleep will be much better, and after the habit is once formed a pillow is looked upon with derision. i know foolish mothers who put their children to sleep on pillows as big as a school-girl's love for caramels, and the poor babies tumble and toss, and the next morning those mothers dose them for a pain in the "tum-tum." alack-a-day! babies don't need pillows--unless it be those little soft cushions of down that are as flat as pancakes. but to return from babies to beauty. if your sleep is restless and you awaken with a dull headache and the feeling of weariness that makes you want to begin the night over again so as to get refreshed, you may be sure that something is wrong--either you are worried or troubled or are working too hard for your own good. perhaps your digestion is out of order, or the room is not properly ventilated. it may be any of these things that keep you from getting the rest that is really so very necessary for health and comfort and good looks. heavy bedding is also distressing, and as good a maker of nightmares as deviled crabs or plum pudding. light blankets make the best covering. let the window be open at top and bottom, so as to have perfect ventilation. don't eat an indigestible lunch before retiring; this is the greatest of all beauty follies. lie on the abdomen, with your hands at your sides. this position will keep your shoulders back, will give you a good figure and a better carriage. when you have followed these directions and still find that you spend most of the night crawling around over your bed vainly seeking a comfortable and restful spot, then you can make up your mind that you need a good tonic and a doctor's counsel, for your nerves or your digestive organs are not as they should be. to sum it all up in a nutshell: you must sleep well, and you must sleep a great deal if you wish to be the "woman beautiful." sitting up late at night will cause grey hair as will nothing else. it makes those dark circles about the eyes, and causes the "windows of the soul," to lose half their luster and softness and beauty. who ever saw a pretty woman with dull, lifeless eyes? she wouldn't be pretty were she so afflicted. by sleeping properly, the body is kept stronger and fresher, and thus the complexion is benefited greatly. wrinkles do not come so soon, the skin does not take on that muddy, yellow hue as it would otherwise, and cheeks are pink and rosy with that greatest of all rouges--health. there's a heap of truth in all this. if you do not believe it, then give up late hours--be they for study or pleasure--and see if the problem won't work itself out nicely with you. i think it will. in fact, i am really quite sure of it. exercise "better to hunt in fields for health unbought then fee the doctor for a nauseous draught the wise for cure on exercise depend; god never made his work for man to mend." --_dryden._ it would have done your heart good to see her. she came into the room with the briskness of a march flurry of snow. her cheeks were poppy-red, her eyes sparkled with the mere joy of living. and she chuckled happily as she tucked back the curly scolding locks that were flying about, all helter-skelter, like feathers unloosed or fluffy chicks blowing away from the mother wing. "isn't it jolly?" she chirped, as she threw her muff on the floor and made a dive for peter jackson. peter jackson is a cat, as black as the ace of spades and as pugilistic a feline as ever walked a fence. "isn't what jolly?" i queried. "the weather or your sprightly self? do you know, you'd make a splendid poster now for some new-fangled cork-soled walking shoe? or perhaps a bearskin ulster for klondike wear. i'm sure a feather boa concern would pay a fortune for your picture. i would i were an artist man, with a little brush and a little pencil and a little palette with nice little paint puddles on it----" "what-in-the-world? here i start in to dilate upon the joys of exercise and off you go, just like a musical top with your buzz-buzz-buzz, and your incomprehensible talk about little painters and little palettes and little paint puddles. i'm sure it's not a bit nice of you." peter jackson was shoved to the floor. "but walking is jolly!" she piped, "and i've just had the very gloriousest tramp and i feel as fine as a--what is it they say? oh, as fine as a violin--i--i mean fiddle. i walked miles and miles--perhaps not quite so far--and the wind was blowing a blue streak right in my face. ugh! first it made me shiver and creep up into my collar. but bimeby i got nice and warmy, and my cheeks tingled. i felt as if i could walk from here to the place where the sun goes down. do you know, i never before realized how much fun it was to take a good tramp. i've half a mind to reform from my rã´le of lazy-bones and walk every day, whether it snows, blows, cyclones, or turns warm, and fells us all with sunstrokes and heat prostrations." "health is the vital principle of bliss, and exercise of health," said i, quoting thomson. "oh, well," and my pretty, rosy-cheeked guest arose. "i must be going. you know how it is when one gets to preaching physical culture and spouting poetry. ta-ta!" and away she went, like the fleeting memory of last night's dream. * * * * * if women paid as much attention to exercise as do men there would not be so many wrinkles and stooped shoulders among the feminine sex, and old age wouldn't rap on the door ahead of time. the girl who goes in for outdoor sport, who isn't afraid of walking a block or two, who loves the cold air and who revels in wheeling and swimming and skating, is the one who won't be an old woman in appearance while she is still young in years. keep the muscles firm and healthy by exercise. this will not only improve your carriage and add to your general development, but will aid the digestive organs in their work and keep you animated and cheery. who of us does not know the inspiration of a walk in the open air after a few days spent in the close atmosphere of the house? fresh air is the elixir of life. we can't have too much of it, and--oh, my girls--think of the exceeding cheapness of it! it can be got for the asking, which is more than one can say for the various beauty pomades and lotions that beckon us toward poverty. walking and skating are the best exercises during the winter, but all kinds of exercises are acceptable, providing they are gone about in the proper manner. it is easy enough to see why thorough and regular exercise is absolutely necessary to health. we all know--at least, we all should know--that the general size of the human body depends on muscular development. the same bony frame which makes a slim-jim girl that tips the scales at seventy-five pounds can be padded with good solid flesh until it boasts of a triple chin, fingers like wee roly-poly puddings, and a full 200 pounds in weight. the framework of the body counts little toward size. the muscles are like the various bits of machinery which go to make up a steam engine. in performing their work they produce heat and motion. the fuel which supplies this force is taken into the body as food, prepared for use in the intestinal tract, and from there carried by the blood to be stored up in the muscles and various tissues as latent force. through the circulation of the blood the whole body is heated by muscular exercise. it stands to reason that continual exercise of a certain kind will develop certain muscles. for instance, there's the arm of the blacksmith or the firmly developed legs of the danseuse. the same muscle that grows when used within certain limits will waste away when deprived of proper exercise. in physical culture the object is the symmetrical development of all the muscles, not one at the expense of the other. so, for that reason, don't pin your faith to dumb-bells and indian clubs and neglect more necessary exercise. if you do you will in time find yourself possessed of big sandow arms that will make the rest of you look as spindle-like as a last year's golden-rod stalk. walking is as good a form of exercise as anything yet discovered. but walking as most girls and women walk won't do you one bit of good. you might just as well spend your time trying to count 700 backward or while away the hours talking 1880 fashions with the woman next door, for all the health or happiness or physical development that you will get out of it. corsets and bands and belts must be done away with. you must have full, free use of your lungs. then, don't wear heavy petti-coats that will retard the free movements of your legs and make your hips ache with their tiresome weight. dress warmly but as lightly as possible. above everything else don't stick your fingertips into a muff and waddle along like a little duck in sealskin and purple velvet trimmings. your arms must swing easily at your sides. thus equipped walking should not be a task, but a great, big, lovely joy, no matter if the frost does nip your nice little nose and make your cheeks feel as if they had been starched, dried, ironed and hung on the line to air. english women who come to america can tell us a thing or two about long walks. only the other day a pretty englishwoman with a complexion like apple blossoms casually divulged the information that a walk of ten or fifteen miles was an old, old story to her. so, when i say that three miles a day--the three miles ought really to be covered inside an hour--is not a bit too much to give one's muscles the necessary exercise, i hope you won't lean back in your chair and gracefully expire. some of you will gasp, no doubt, for a walk of five blocks to a suburban station is usually looked upon as a heroic martyrdom to circumstances and environments. alas, for woman's fickleness! and alas, for her playful habit of going to extremes! suppose, for instance, that polly jones says she is going to take a nice long walk every day of her life; that she knows the bountiful blessings and benefits of a brisk tramp, and that she will take that tramp in spite of obstacles as big as the auditorium or as immense as her longing for a cherry-colored silk petticoat. the first day--and, mind you, she has not walked a mile for weeks, the lazy girl--she covers five miles in an hour and ten minutes. and when she comes home she's such a wreck that the whole family is up in arms in a jiffy, and whisk out the tomahawks ready for war. that's the end of polly jones' pedestrian exercises. and daisy brown. she does quite the same thing, only not so violently. the first day she walks four miles, the next two, and then comes a trip around the corner to get arnica and liniments for her poor, aching bones. thus also terminates daisy's stern resolution to take daily constitutionals. but the wise woman. daisy's and polly's methods are not hers. far from it! when she begins to walk for health and beauty she dons loose, comfortable clothes, and with swinging arms and head well back, strides along briskly and easily. her first day's walk is scarcely a mile. the second tramp is longer; and gradually the distance is increased until the three miles are covered in about fifty minutes. the wise woman does not take her exercise in the afternoon, but in the morning, an hour or so after breakfast, when the day is young and everything seems bright and hopeful and cheery. then it is that the babies are out in their go-carts and carriages, and the "chillens" are trooping to school. it's heaps pleasanter than an afternoon walk when one has more of the worries and events of the day on one's mind. [illustration: queen helena of italy] it is the regularity of exercise--and living, in fact--that brings the best results. a stated time for baths, meals, rests and walks is the proper plan for those fortunate ones who are not rushed into a condition of decrepit antiquity trying to do fourteen different tasks in thirteen small, limited minutes. some of us, the very busy ones, cannot have the necessary rests during the day, but baths and exercise can usually be arranged and carried out. they should be, for they are of more vital import than most of us realize. running is splendid exercise, but we city folk have few opportunities for exhilarating fun of that sort. a woman sprinting for a cable car might quite as well be a trained bear in a pink mosquito netting petticoat for the sensation and giggles she creates. with a bonnet perched over one ear or dangling dizzily from an escaping empire knot she is neither a dignified nor an inspiring picture. so it's quite as well all around to run in one's own room. in fact, the best way to run is to run in one small spot and not go ahead. that sounds befuddled, but it is easily explained. get into loose clothes, throw open the window, place your hands on your hips and go through the movements of running. it is best to be in stocking feet or light slippers, else that odious woman in the flat below may knock on the steam pipe as a signal for peace and quiet. after fifteen minutes of mock running take an invigorating, tepid sponge bath with just a dash of benzoin in the water. after that comes vigorous friction with a rough towel. then take a nap if you can spare the time. of course one must guard against exposure to cold after one is heated by the exertion of exercise. dancing would be one of the best of exercises were it not for the close, ill-ventilated rooms, the tight clothes, the exposed shoulders and the nervous strain which is always on hand at large social affairs. as for skating, there is nothing better. it makes a woman feel like a new man. i say that quite consciously, as, in my opinion, to feel like a new woman--that poor, long-ridiculed creature--would be more humiliating than joyful. don't you think so? horseback riding is questionable exercise. the side saddle is apt to increase the tendency to curvature of the spine, while tight corsets prevent the good that would come to the heart and lungs and digestive organs. swimming is good, particularly for nervous, high-strung persons. and the wheel? well, that best of all exercises--for it is the best when indulged in by the wise woman, not the crooked-back, scorching, silly--is a story in itself. stooped shoulders "her grace of motion and of look, the smooth and swimming majesty of step and tread, the symmetry of form and feature, set the soul afloat, even like delicious airs of flute or harp." --_milman._ stooped shoulders is one beauty ill that is wholly unnecessary. any girl with real brains and a little energy and will power can make herself straight and bestow upon herself a good carriage. it is entirely a matter of doing and persevering. most of us know remedies for our small failings, but how many of us apply them persistently until a cure is brought about? few indeed, and more's the pity. when starting the reform always bear in mind that the chest must be held upward and outward. when this is done it is not necessary to keep the shoulders back in a forced, strained position, and so make little crowfeet in the back of your gown. the benefits of holding the chest thus are more than one--or two, either, for that matter. if practiced continually it will strengthen the lungs. it will also develop the chest and neck as no masseure of miracle-working fingers can ever hope to. breathing exercises are also excellent. incorrect positions during sleep cause many stooped shoulders. the big fat pillow of our grandmother's day is the worst kind of a horror. no pillow at all is best, and after one becomes accustomed to sleeping that way it will be found much more restful and altogether comfortable. the best position for sleep is to lie face downward, with the arms straight at the sides. of course, i am fully aware that most women sleep curled up like kittens, but they can change their ways if they will but try. the woman with straight, good shoulders never carries her arms heaped full of bundles, for that draws them forward and makes them droop as dismally as an ostrich plume in a blizzard. instead, the "budgets" are carried with the arms down at the sides. neither does she clutch the back of her skirt in that bantamlike fashion practiced by the woman of less judgment. the back breadths of her new tailor-made are grasped about six inches from the belt, and held up just so that they clear the ground. hats worn deep over the eyes are not desirable, this wise woman also knows, for however tightly they are pinned to one's back hair, they are mighty likely to keep one's body at an uncomfortable slant. the plump woman who wears her hose supporters pinned to the front of her corsets seldom knows that the constant pulling of the elastics has a tendency to make her shoulders droop. shoes of high heels and narrow toes are equally bad, for the wearer is plunged forward in an ungraceful and line-destroying attitude. the low-heeled, square-toed shoe--that is now in vogue--is the thing to wear, and blessed be the lord for at last bringing womankind to a rational understanding of what she should wear on her much-abused little feet! the tailor-made gown is serviceable as a promoter of good figures, for usually, unless one keeps one's shoulders back, the front of the bodice proceeds to lay wrinkles in itself and so spoil the good effect that women love as they do their pet jelly dishes and their dresden teacups. other things to be remembered are: always stand on the front or ball of the foot and keep the knees straight. carry yourself so that a string extended downward from your chest would reach the floor without touching another part of the body. do not push your head forward and do not be in a hurry so that you will waddle along like a little duckling with absolutely no grace or carriage. dress comfortably, have your clothing well fastened, and your gown loose enough to give your lungs opportunity for the full expansion that, for the sake of your health, they should have. make sofa cushions of your pillows and sleep always face downward, flat on the mattress. last, but not least, don't be a woeful lady and amble along in a disconsolate, sloppy-weather fashion that is so utterly hopeless that i could never set before me the awful task of suggesting a remedy. one of the secrets of happiness and success is cheerfulness. men and women and even babies like cheerful folk, while they will race their overshoes off trying to get away from the unhappy ones of dismal tales and many worries. be cheerful, even though the laundress has washed your best handkerchief into a real-lace sieve, or the rains and snows of december have descended upon your best sunday bonnet and made a pocket edition of a rag-bag thereof, or even if the gas range has blown itself and all the kitchen windows into the next block. be cheerful at all hazards! it pays! really it does! breathing "the common ingredients of health and long life are, great temp'rance, open air, easy labor, little care." --_sir philip sidney._ among the first lessons that the beauty student must learn is how to breathe properly. i know, my girls, that that sounds awfully stupid, but there are yards and acres of truth in it nevertheless, and the subject is well worth your while--you can depend upon that. haven't you ever noticed that most of the women who have gone in for vocal culture have round, pretty waists? almost invariably the singer is a woman of fine figure, well-poised head, firmly-set shoulders and easy carriage. and the reason is simple. she has learned from the beginning that she must breathe properly, that every breath must come from the abdomen and not from the chest, and that to breathe in that way she must hold up her chin and expand her lungs. we often mistake carriage for fine figure. it is the woman who poises her head well and who keeps her shoulders back that attracts the eye of other women. there is something brisk and energetic and active about her that makes of her a sight good to look upon; while another woman with perhaps a much better figure will trail about with a down-in-the-mouth air and a slow, doleful gait that will give one the blues and an absence of appetite for weeks to come. you cannot possibly breathe properly and have your shoulders stooped--at least you cannot make such a combination without a mighty big lot of discomfort. if you breathe as you should you will develop the chest and bust, give better lines to the shoulders and--unless you are naturally inclined to be plump and rotund--will make your waist become round and slender and pretty. if you doubt this, try for yourself and see. i wish that i could impress my readers with the fact that improper breathing brings many ills. breathing is a highly important function, and bad breathing not only produces symptoms of consumption, but makes the waist unduly large. the reason for this is that holding the chest up will keep all the internal organs in their proper places, and so not allow them to spread the waist in the unsightly way that usually denotes deficient vitality instead of the "greek health" upon which physicians are wont to dilate. good breathing strengthens muscles and makes the flesh firm. the reward is a perfect, round, slender figure and a trim waist. begin your breathing lessons in the morning just after getting out of bed, when you will have no tight skirts or bands to hinder the full expansion of the lungs. raise every window and get all of god's blessed air that you can, and, above all things, let not this practice cease when the winds of winter blow as if from greenland's icy mountains. the breathing exercise is all the better then. place your hands on your hips and walk slowly across the room, your chest held upward and outward, and every breath coming deeply from the abdomen. after three trips you will find yourself pretty well tired out. rest for a few moments and try again. the next morning make the exercises longer, and as soon as the muscles that hold your chest up become firm and strong there will be little exhaustion. vary the exercise by standing still, taking as long a breath as possible and holding it for several seconds. this practice, indulged in for five or ten minutes every day, is most beneficial. but the main motive in all breathing exercises is to get into the habit of standing straight with the shoulders held back and the chest up. "play" that you are trying to make your chest creep up and touch your chin. one of the greatest injuries that come from wearing tightly laced corsets is the compression of the ribs. the unyielding steel and buckram will not permit a variation in the waist measure as a deep breath is inhaled or expelled. the proper and healthful corset is the one that expands or contracts with each respiration of its wearer, and that is why i am such an enthusiastic devotee of the corset waist with the elastic bands on either side. it matters not one bit how tight the clothing may be, so long as it is given elasticity and is yielding. this is absolutely necessary to perfect health and the proper development of a woman's figure. with the breathing capacity increased, enlargement of the lungs and development of the chest are sure to be the results. but, be it understood, please, that this growth is not the work of a day or a week, or a month even. however, if it is continued religiously there will be a difference of five or six, or even seven, inches in your chest measure in the course of a year, to say nothing of the improvement in carriage and figure, and the health and strength that correct breathing will give. there are a number of things to remember. the first is that one must secure breath control, the next that the best authorities condemn thoracic or upper chest breathing. keep the chest up and out, and let the expansion be at the waist line. inhale slowly and smoothly as much air as you can, swelling out the lower chest at the sides just below the arm pits as the air is drawn in. hold this air five seconds. then exhale it slowly and gradually, crushing in the ribs gently with the hands as the air goes out. during the exhalation be sure to keep the upper chest still. do not let it sink, as it will be apt to if not restrained by an effort of the will. exhale again and hold the breath for ten seconds, then for fifteen seconds, and finally for twenty seconds. this exercise will do for the first day. increase the power of holding the breath by practicing regularly each day. be careful not to make any motion suddenly. in calisthenics of any kind the more slowly and carefully the exercise is performed the greater will be the benefit. but best of all, keep in mind that these breathing exercises are not only making you a pretty woman of pretty figure, but giving you that greatest of all beauty elixirs--health. massage "the love of beauty is one of the most firmly implanted qualities of the human mind, and only those who are mentally deficient fail to appreciate it. from the human standpoint there is no edifice so beautiful as that earthly temple which enshrines the soul."--_dr. cyrus edson._ massage is as old as the hills. most really good things are, i've found. the grecian and roman women preserved their wondrous, wholesome beauty by reveling in luxuriant baths and then undergoing vigorous massage by their stout-armed slaves. massage is a natural alleviator and comfort-giver. the first thing a baby does when he bumps his precious head is to rub the injured spot with his little fist. relief seems to come with friction. if one's temples hurt, the hands seem to itch and tingle to get to rubbing and smoothing out the aches there. and the reason for it is that friction makes active the nerves and blood vessels and exercises the tired or fretting muscles. massage is exercise. if we were to cease using our arms the muscles would shrink and soon become incapable of movement. the skin outside would, of course, be affected by the general warpings of the tissues, and the result would be everything that is dreadful to the mind feminine--crow's feet, wrinkles, sallowness and lack of the tints and colors of health. you who have enjoyed the pleasures of a turkish bath must know how new and robust and fresh you feel after the invigorating cleansing and pummeling by a strong and experienced masseuse. we all know about the system of decay and renewing which the skin constantly undergoes. it is much the same way with the muscles. the very tiny cells of which the muscles are composed are continually being repaired. as the wornout particles are rejected the new fiber is created. does it not stand to reason that massage will facilitate this process, make the flesh firmer, restore vigor to the muscles and give new life to the entire system? the muscles of the face, more than those of any other part of the body, are lazy and torpid. as the troubles of life descend, the wear and tear of bothersome existence begins to show. the circulation becomes defective, and this brings flabby tissues and a wrinkled, sallow skin. then, oh, woe! woe! one feels as if one might just as well be dead and gone as to be trailing through life so afflicted. massage means "i knead." while the professional masseuse should be well informed concerning the muscles of the face and neck, the location of the veins and arteries, and the general formation of the skin, the little home body who wishes to rub away a few wrinkles or turkey tracks can easily dispense with the acquiring of so much knowledge. with knowing what "not to do," she will get along very well, although it has always been my opinion that the simplest and most satisfactory way to learn to massage one's own cheeks and brow is to go to a first-class professional for one or two treatments. if you keep your eyes open you will easily learn the simplest and most effective movements. the first thing to remember is that massage will both create and reduce flesh, according to the treatment given and the time devoted to it. severe rubbing and rolling of the flesh between the fingers will gradually dissolve the fatty tissues. the flesh will then become soft and flabby, and the skin will be likely to fall into tiny lines unless an astringent wash, like weak alum water (used hot), is applied to tighten and harden it slightly, and so make the flesh firm. if the massage is continued, the flabby flesh will also be reduced, especially when the astringent wash is applied to help the hardening process. when the face is to be plumpened or wrinkles removed, then rub the skin very gently with a rotary motion, which is not a mere rubbing but a kneading as well, and follow with light tapping movements. never roll the flesh between the fingers unless reduction is the object. also, never massage oftener than once every twenty-four hours, and then only for fifteen or twenty minutes. so much for the don'ts. before beginning the massage have the face perfectly clean. wash with tepid water and pure castile soap. otherwise the dust and powder are kneaded into the pores and the result is frequently extremely irritating. the reasons for massage are many. it facilitates and stimulates the skin in its continual effort to throw off the tiny flakes of dried, dead cuticle. it is exercise for the muscles, and at the same time it inspires a livelier circulation of the blood. it is easy to understand then why massage is so beneficial for the face, and why it makes a rosy, healthy complexion. massage alone will remedy many a complexion ill, for when the muscles are sluggish and torpid, the tissues weak and flabby, the circulation as slow as the messenger boys in the funny papers, and the skin sallow and wrinkled, all in the world that is needed is a little gentle patting and coddling and rubbing into a less lifeless state. great care must be taken lest the skin become bruised and irritated. for this reason a cream or skin food is used. let me suggest that this emollient be of the good, pure, home-made kind, not the cheap cosmetic which has mutton tallow or lard as a principal foundation. the orange flower skin food (formula appears in the chapter on the complexion) is the best formula for this purpose, as it will, by absorption, fatten and build up the impoverished tissues, and at the same time strengthen, whiten and soften the skin. mineral oils must never be used. glycerin not only makes the complexion darker and rather yellow, but it dries the secretions of the skin very rapidly, and a dry, harsh surface is the sure result. vaseline--as we should know from its reputation as a hair tonic--will not prove a happiness to one. the skin food should be rubbed in all over the face and far down upon the neck with a firm, circular movement. when the cream is partially absorbed begin the manipulations, starting at the forehead. place the thumbs on the temples and in that way hold the skin firm and taut. with the tips of the first and second fingers of both hands rub the lines transversely. if there be wrinkles across the forehead, rub up and down, holding the skin tight at the top of the forehead with the first fingers and manipulating with the second and third. another movement which is excellent for wrinkles is to place the first finger of each hand crosswise of the wrinkles about half an inch apart. then push up a little fold. as the left hand finger pushes its way along the wrinkle, let the right hand one rub up and down, always keeping the line up into a little hill. in massaging the lines about the eyes the movement should begin by rubbing the eyelid from the nose outward half an inch beyond the end of the eye, then returning below the eye toward the nose. this will make the massage sweep back crosswise of the crow's feet. another movement is to hold the skin taut and then knead the lines firmly with the first and second fingers of the right hand. if the chin is fleshy and you wish to massage it down to smaller proportions, you must dissolve the fatty tissues by picking up the flesh between the thumb and forefinger and rolling and rubbing as much as you possibly can without injuring or breaking the skin. then, in order to keep the flesh from getting flabby the rotund little chin must be bathed in cold water, in which is a small pinch of alum, a piece the size of a bean being plenty for a pint of water. this alum bath, remember, is only to be applied when you are reducing the carbon or fat. the "kneading" movement is very beneficial. this is done very gently with the thumb and forefinger only--precisely the motion used in kneading bread. the smoothing manipulation for the wrinkles is probably better explained as an "ironing out" motion. all lines can stand these two movements. whenever the skin seems particularly dull of color and generally lifeless, then the patting comes in excellent play. this is merely a gentle tattoo over the entire face. electricity is an excellent accessory to massage--but that is another story. after the massage, wet a wash cloth in water slightly chilled, and lay over the face. this will close the pores nicely. dry and apply powder. i trust that my beauty students will easily understand the foregoing--it is certainly a difficult topic to explain lucidly. as i said before, it is a wise plan to go to some one who thoroughly understands the art and let her teach you. while massage can be given at home, it is more satisfactory if done by a professional whose knowledge of anatomy will assist her toward the best results. dress "be plain in dress, and sober in your diet; in short, my deary, kiss me! and be quiet." --_lady w. montague._ the world has its full share of silly women--more's the pity--but there is not one who can hold a candle to the girl who trots about in the cold, bleak days of winter clad in summery undergarments fit only for the warm atmosphere of a baker's oven in august. so long as these exhibitions of utter absurdity continue we cannot consistently harp upon woman's recently acquired good sense in dress. it seems more and more the fad for girls to boast that they have never worn a vulgar outfit of flannel undergarments, but it is quite observable that these same girls are the very ones who are eternally grunting and groaning and coughing and fussing. and how can they help it? you can't have good health if you keep yourself in a semi-refrigerated state. a sleeveless vest of silk is not sufficient to keep one's body warm, even though the prettiest bodice in christendom and the swellest of "coaties" cover it. skirts of white muslin, with pretty frills and lacey trimmings that fall in soft folds and ruffles around one's feet, are mighty dainty things for the summer girl--but is there a colder sound than that of a starched white petticoat in the dead of winter? bur-r-rr! it gives one the cold chills to even think of it! who has not beheld the stunningly gowned girl stalking majestically around the shopping district in a little tailor-made jacket topped off with a fur collarette? she tells herself that she is perfectly warm and comfortable, but you and i know better, my dear, for we have seen her unhappy efforts to crawl up into this same collarette, and we have beheld her shivering misery as a good stiff gust of january wind sends her flying around a corner. i am a firm believer in the tailor-made gown, and i am of the opinion that style often counts more than real beauty with women of stately carriage and pretty figure. but nevertheless, i believe first in keeping warm and in protecting one's health. the girl in the smart little jacket could well afford to wear a winter coat over it on the coldest days, and even then she would not swelter from the heat. really, it is torture for a woman of common sense to go along the shopping district and see her poor, miserable sisters who let comfort fly to the four winds of heaven while they revel madly in appearances. it's all very well, my girls, to look your best. but don't make sacrifices that will injure your health. i'd rather see a woman in a last winter's coat with the seams shiny than look upon a foolish but radiant creature in a bit of a cape that would keep her about as warm as would two good-sized cobwebs stitched together. the first woman would have the advantage of displaying evidence of real brains on the inside of her head. and beauty without brains isn't real beauty at all, but a sad, shop-worn, tear-wringing imitation. it is my opinion that in choosing underclothing for cold weather finely-woven cotton is the best of all. silk is not durable, and wool, even of the finest quality, will often prove irritating. besides, so many of us spend most of our time in steam-heated homes or offices that woolen garments keep one too warm. the cotton union suit makes a very desirable undergarment. this should be high-necked, long-sleeved, and made to come well down over the ankles. for the girl whose particular worry is a nose of flaming red, let me say that in fleece-lined stockings, calfskin boots and warm overshoes lies her only hope of a less flamboyant nasal appendage. there is no need of fourteen petticoats, notwithstanding the fact that really nice old ladies insist upon wearing that number. one skirt of silk or moreen, together with a tiny short one of white muslin and a pair of sensible, warm, woolen equestrian tights will make one more comfortable and will allay that immense swelling about the hips which much be-petticoated old ladies have. the tights, however, should be worn only when one is out of doors. during really cold weather no woman with sense enough to fill a one-grain quinine capsule will venture out of the house without thus properly clothing her lower limbs. let femininity come to the understanding that in proper dressing and rational eating she will find the first and best materials for building her house of beauty. it's all very well to wear pretty, fluffy, lace-trimmed undergarments, but if you think that a wan, white, pinched little face pays you for such extravagances in silliness, then you are a ninny. wear the fluffy things if you will, but put on the warm ones, too. in making a choice between the raiments of a ballet dancer and those of an eskimo lady, i'd point the finger of approval toward the latter--at least at those times when the thermometer is lounging around the zero point. the thin girl "beauty gives the features perfectness, and to the form its delicate proportions." --_willis._ diogenes and his lantern had an easy, simple task. if they had started out together to turn their searchlight of discovery upon a woman who was neither too fat nor too thin, no doubt they'd been poking around in other people's affairs ever since. i once heard of a woman to whom the idea of gaining or reducing flesh had never occurred, but she died before i got a chance to look at her, so of course i am rather doubtful as to the truth of the story. to my mind she should have been made president of something or other or else been put on exhibition where the rest of suffering womankind could have gone and feasted their eyes upon such an impossible paragon. if there is not a general wail about over-weight or under-weight, then it's a thin neck, or big hips, or an inclination to too much "tum-tum," or skinny arms, or cheeks like miniature pumpkins--and goodness only knows what else. and by the time one particular horror is massaged out of existence another crops up like a spook in the closet of a "fraidy-cat" girl, and then the business is begun all over again. therefore, say i this: don't worry yourself into your grave about too much flesh or a lack of it unless you find yourself taking on the extreme proportions of a skeleton lady, or a museum exhibit of unusual plumpness. a thin neck may be a bad thing--as all girls so afflicted can testify--but if that thin neck is rebellious, and pays absolutely no attention to tonics or massage or other coddling for which it should rightly be grateful, then merely say, "all right, if you insist!" and turn your attention to other things. what admirer of feminine beauty would not look upon a bright mind, quick, kindly wits, and sweet lovableness as a thousand times more acceptable than a neck as round and perfect as that of a venus? on the other hand, let me say that, if you will merely look after your health--exercise every day, be out of doors, eat proper foods and take your daily sponge bath--you will keep your chest broad and full, and your waist trim and neat. breathing exercises every morning are excellent for this happy condition of affairs. it is my firm belief that women could mold their bodies as they would if they only had patience and perseverance--not so much in flesh-gaining or flesh-losing, but in being wholesomely strong and healthy. this is most necessary, not only to prolong life and make it pleasanter and more livable in every way, but to be what god evidently intended--a robust, well-developed and perfectly formed woman. thin girls must be lazy and plump ones busy. if you work hard and have the usual load of worries that half the women lug about with them as they do their powder rags and their purses, then you may never hope to revel in a vast amount of fat. fretters are invariably thin; they simply worry off the flesh faster than nature can create it. when a woman is unusually slender it is her duty to get fat, not any more for the reason that she will look prettier with the angles filled out than for the reason that she will be stronger and healthier and in a better condition to resist illness and fatigue. she should have at least ten hours' sleep out of twenty-four, and this must be healthy sleep in a well-ventilated bedroom, on a hard mattress, and with no high pillows to make her stoop-shouldered and of ungainly figure. a nap during the day is a good thing if one can afford the time. absolute freedom from care and anxiety are necessary, but--alas--we cannot always regulate the antics of fate or circumstances that deny us these sweet privileges. the diet must be of the most nourishing, and should consist mostly of food containing starch and sugar, such as good fresh butter, rich milk, cream, fruits both raw and cooked, macaroni, fish, corn, sweet potatoes, peas, beans, ice creams, desserts without pastries, and nourishing broths. cereals, poultry, game, chocolate and sweet grapes are all excellent. avoid all spiced, acid or very salty foods. while plenty of outdoor life is most essential, a great deal of exercise is not. if there is any internal disease, especially the slightest inclination to dyspepsia or liver trouble, one cannot possibly gain flesh until the cause of the extreme slenderness is removed. when the body is plump in one part and fails in another, either massage or a gymnastic course is advised. dumb-bells and indian clubs will develop the arms; massage with a fattening emollient, together with loose clothing, tepid baths and breathing exercises, will increase the size of the chest and bust, while swimming, moderate bicycling and walking are good for nearly all plaints of the thin lady. but until these changes are brought about--and it will take lots of time--do not fret or worry. merely wear your clothing very loose, substitute a comfortable little waist for stiff, unwieldy corsets, and see that your gowns are made full and dainty. in this last particular you will have an immense advantage over the woman who would sell the shoes off her feet to be thin and "willowy." the plump girl "what's female beauty but an air divine, through which the mind's all-gentle graces shine? they, like the sun, irradiate all between; the body charms, because the soul is seen." --_young._ if one had to choose between being too fat or too lean, the wise woman would certainly take the smaller allowance of flesh. jack sprat might incite pleasant ridicule, but jack sprat's wife--lo! there would be naught but pity and tears for her! it is better by far to be the butt of jokes concerning "walking shoestrings" or "perambulating umbrella cases" than to waddle through life burdened to death with an excessive amount of flesh. the thin sister can pad out the angles, put frills and puffy things over the bony places, but alas for the fat one! she gets into clothes that are skin-tight, and she draws in her corset string until it snaps and gives at every breath and sneeze, and even then she does not look graceful and pretty, for the fat--like secrets--will out, and it rolls over and around like the little bumps and humps in a pudding bag. [illustration: lady naylor-leland] yet, after all, there's more hope for her than for her sister in misery. while some thin girls might revel in cod liver oil and nearly convert themselves into a hospital storeroom of tonics and fattening foods, they can't get round and rotund--the lord seems to will it that certain persons are to amble disconsolately through life minus the proper allotment of flesh. but with the overplump lady it all lies within herself as to whether she is to be stout and buxom or of more artistic and beautiful proportions. it is simply a matter of getting up and hustling, a condition of animation frequently foreign to her nature, but not at all impossible to even the most unwieldy. while a certain careful routine of living is necessary for a speedy change for the better, the two main points to remember are diet and exercise. to the girl who says: "but i can't diet. i get hungry. i love sweets and goodies, and have to have them," i must reply: "well, then, be fat." what is worth having is worth working for, and the woman who is too fat for her own comfort and personal appearance invariably has ahead of her the dreadful bogy of additional flesh as the years go on. and surely that should be enough to inspire her to mend her ways. in beginning the change--that is, in starting out on a regular system of dieting and exercising--you should remember that the reform must be worked gradually. one must go slowly into the more healthful manner of living. the severe methods of flesh-reducing cannot be too greatly deplored, and many a woman has lost her life by these extreme measures. i do not mean that they have died at their exercisers or that they fell exhausted because they did not have enough to eat, but that in their mad efforts to become thin quickly they undermined their health and laid a good foundation for physical disorders. good health, with too much plumpness, is preferable to beautiful proportions and the listlessness and pain of ill health. so you can follow my advice with the greatest safety, as health--to my way of thinking--is greater than beauty, for the last depends upon the first, invariably. to-morrow, when you get up, throw on a loose, warm wrapper, and then open the window. stand in the cool, crisp morning air, and expand your lungs a dozen times, holding your hands on your hips and raising yourself lightly on your toes. vary this by walking across the room, taking long, full breaths from the abdomen. this practice is equally good for the thin girl, or any other kind of a girl, for that matter. after airing your lungs close the window and run into the bath-room, where you should have a quick sponge bath, rubbing the body briskly with a heavy towel. a quick alcohol rub can follow, just as one pleases. for breakfast let there be fresh uncooked fruit, especially oranges. tea or coffee must be taken clear, as neither milk nor sugar should be indulged in by the beauty patient whose chief ambition it is to lose flesh. toast must always be eaten instead of bread, and butter used sparingly at all times. avoid fats, starchy cereals, flesh-producing vegetables and pastries. this is very simple, when you once make up your mind to it. do not fancy you are thus left with nothing whatever to eat--like mother hubbard's unhappy dog. meats, either cold or broiled, are good if eaten in moderation. poultry, fish and game are all right. asparagus, string beans, spinach and tomatoes are the most appetizing of vegetables, and in these four alone there will be sufficient variety, especially when salads of all sorts are included, although these must, of course, be taken without oil. young onions are also excellent, as are condiments, dried fruits and acidulated drinks. a hot lemonade, taken every night, is good, but it must have little sugar, else the effects of the acid will be overbalanced. as for exercise, walking is best of all. running is very beneficial, but the unique witticisms of the average small boy will probably keep this form of exercise confined strictly to the house. begin by walking half a mile for several days, then make the distance a mile, and keep increasing your daily walk until you cover at least five miles. that may sound like an impossibility, but don't you believe it, for it's not at all. in great britain a walk of fifteen miles is not considered half an effort, and who does not know that the english girls have the most superb complexions in the world? besides this, they are healthy, wholesome, well-developed women, and that counts a good deal in the race for beauty. if the five-mile walk is too exhausting, then take a longer time getting to the point, when it will be exhilarating instead of enervating. sleep must be limited to seven hours, and daily naps are strictly tabooed. to those who prefer, mechanical massage can be given, and this will take the place of long walks, although they are really preferable, as the fresh air is necessary. oxygen destroys or burns out carbon, and carbon is fat. the more exercise and fresh air, the more oxygen, and consequently destruction of fat by the one healthy means of remedying obesity. soda phosphates and the various fat-reducing preparations are not desirable. the only way to cajole willowiness of body into coming in your direction is to diet and to take plenty of exercise. do not drink much water. a little lemon juice added to it will make it less fattening. there, now, plump lady, are your rules! abide by them and your woes will surely disappear with a swiftness that will make you laugh. the working girl "labor is life!--'tis the still water faileth; idleness ever despaireth, bewaileth; keep the watch wound, or the dark rust assaileth." --_mrs. frances s. osgood._ it has often occurred to me that there are a vast number of plucky little bread-winning girls and women to whom even a tiny jar of creme marquise is a hopeless impossibility. for them is this chapter written. in the first place, we all feel pretty sure that--in the great, wonderful beginning of things--it was never meant that women should work. we can't help knowing this when we look about us every night at six o'clock and see the weary, patient, brave little faces that line either side of the elevated trains or the crowded street cars. women are not given to the solving of problems, so we won't go into the great "whys" or the "wherefores." that's a loss of time anyhow. but we will do heaps better than that. we will try to be hopeful and cheery, and learn how to make the best of the little happinesses that do come our way. the working girl--and we all take off our hats to her pluck--needs more than any other class of womankind to take care of her health. she is out in all kinds of weather, she works hard, and ofttimes struggles through a daily routine that is harrowing beyond everything. after hours there is mending to be done, or a thousand and one little duties to keep her busy until, tired out and nerve-weary, she goes to bed to gain rest and strength for the struggles of the morrow. she cannot afford the little luxuries of the toilet that are so dear and near to the heart of womankind the world over. the joys of having her hair "done" or her pretty cheeks massaged are not hers--and the pity of it is that often enough the fault lies not within herself, but in the unhappy circumstances of fate that have placed her among the less fortunate sisterhood. let a large bar of castile soap be the working girl's first investment. i say a "large" bar for the reason that it is much cheaper when bought that way. a good-sized piece of the pure white castile can be bought at some of the drug stores for fifteen or twenty cents. this should be cut into small cakes and put on a high shelf, where it will become dry and hard and so it will be more lasting. with plenty of warm water, a few good wash-rags and this pure soap you will have a beauty outfit that will be more beneficial than all the rouges and eyebrow pencils that were ever put into the windows of beauty shops. the bath should be daily. now do not say that you have not the time, for the sponge bath--which will make the blood tingle and the flesh glow--can be got through with in almost no time. it is most imperative that the secretions of the skin and the dust gathered during the day should be removed. when the body is not kept scrupulously clean the complexion is sure to suffer, for there the pores of the skin are most susceptible, and eruptions and blackheads come from very slight causes. when the hands become rough and tender, and will not stand soap, prepare a little almond meal. this, too, is very inexpensive, for, instead of the powdered almonds, you can use the pressed almond cake, which is nearly as good and very cheap, and in place of the orris root wheat flour can be used. take three ounces of the first and seven of the latter. if you can afford it, add a little powdered talcum. a cream for the face and hands, and one which can be used with perfect safety, is benzoinated mutton tallow. this is simply the best mutton tallow to which benzoin has been added, and both ingredients kept at a steady heat until the alcohol of the benzoin has been completely evaporated. about the hair: the greatest secret of luxuriant locks is absolute cleanliness. there are many women who vainly fancy that they keep their pretty locks perfectly clean, when they really do not at all. only plenty of running water can thoroughly rinse the soap or shampoo out. if the hair is at all sticky, or if a slight oily substance adheres to the comb, then the hair is not clean. (and let me say right here, combs and brushes too must be kept as scrupulously clean as the hair itself.) castile soap makes the best shampoo in the world, especially when a little piece is dissolved in warm water and a tiny bit of ammonia or alcohol added, although for dry hair neither the alcohol nor ammonia is at all necessary. if a tonic is needed, then use the sage tea, which, however, must not be put on light, blond tresses. common kerosene, if one can endure the odor, is an unsurpassed remedy for falling hair. rubbing the scalp every night with the finger tips until the flesh tingles and glows is a most inexpensive way of stimulating the circulation, and frequently makes the hair grow long and nice and fine. what one eats plays such a leading part in the beauty-getting efforts--but i have but little space left now to tell about that. summed up in a nutshell, it is this: eat very little pastry, and shun greasy foods or fat meats, like pork or bacon. pin your faith to vegetables and fruit. a luncheon of two apples is of greater nourishment, and more, real value to good looks, than a repast of mince pie and coffee--two unspeakable horrors to any one who regards health and beauty as worth the having or the striving for. as for the dress, i could write a seven volume treatise on that. it sounds prosy, i know, and very stupid, but let me tell you that it is the wise girl who buys for comfort, utility and wear, instead of style and elaborateness. a plain little fedora, if well brushed, makes a trimmer, neater appearance than a cheap velvet hat ornamented with feathers that have straightened out and flowers that have long since lost their glory in the rains and storms of autumn time. it is the same way with shoes and gloves. if one can possibly afford it, calfskin boots and heavy gloves should always be purchased. they will not only outwear two or three pairs of the lighter, less durable kind, but they will give warmth and comfort and a well-groomed look as well. the nervous one "the beautiful seems right by force of beauty; and the feeble wrong because of weakness."--_elizabeth barrett browning._ of all the unfortunates on the face of the globe there is none so worthy of real all-wool pity and yard-wide sympathy as the woman of nerves. yes, and her family needs a dash of consolation, too. one nervous woman can create more nervousness among other women than could a cageful of mice or a colony of cows suddenly let loose. it is not for herself that the fuss-budget should mend her ways, but for the great good of humanity at large. we are all of us more or less nervous, and it is really interesting to observe what strange outlets woman's natural nervousness chooses. "i'd walk from hyde park to the city hall at midnight and never be a bit scared. but let me stay in the flat alone after dark and i'm in a state of terror that would make you weep were you to behold me," confesses nervous lady no. 1. "i have nerves of iron," pipes up nervous lady no. 2. "except when there is a thunderstorm. then i wish i were as dead as julius cã¦sar." "well!" drawls nervous lady no. 3. "i don't believe in ghosts at all, but i'm scared to death of 'em. sometimes i not only keep the gas burning all night, but i sit up in bed so as to be right ready to run away from 'em." some people have contempt for the nervous ones. i have only pity. any one who has gone through the tortures of hearing imaginary burglars three nights in the week for ten or twelve years on an endless stretch needs consolation and then a good, straight talk on the beautiful convenience of horse sense. most women are always hearing burglars. probably one in a thousand turns out to be a real, live housebreaker. whenever the wise woman hears one fussing with the lock on the front door or trying to squeeze into the pantry window, she just says: "same old burglar. he'll be gone in the morning," and he always is. that's a heap better plan than arousing the household and suffering the unmerciful torture that a family given to ridicule can inflict. i heard a woman say the other day that she never knew what it was to be nervous until a certain ragman began to take pedestrian exercises up and down the alley back of her house. he carries a canvas bag over his shoulder, and he yells "eny ol' racks" until that woman locks herself in a closet and stuffs sofa cushions into her ears. his "eny ol' racks" has got on her nerves so that she is simply beside herself until that man takes himself and his yell out of hearing distance. to be sure, he yells through his nose, but why in the world that woman should make herself miserable about something she can't possibly help is a double-turreted mystery to me. the thing for her to do is to sit down placidly on the back porch and make up her mind that the ragman is not going to upset the tranquillity of her existence; that he hasn't any right to interfere with her happiness, and that she isn't going to be fool enough to let him. i'll wager a peseta against a gum drop that she could do it, too, and without half an effort, if she would only once be consistent and determined. there is no use in beating about the bush. i feel sorry for the nervous woman at all times and every day in the week, but there's no chance of a doubt that the nervous woman is mentally unbalanced for want of courage and lack of will power. some place, way back in the far corners of her intellect, there are numerous little sore spots that need the healing tonic of level-headedness and the bravery of belief in her own strength. those wise gentlemen of pellets and pills tell us that when there is a defect in the structure of the nervous system, some certain region of cells not well flushed with blood is usually at the bottom of the infirmity. the cure, they say, is discipline and training, good food, exercise and plenty of sleep and good fresh air. [illustration: mrs. j. r. de lamar] sunlight is a glorious medicine for the woman of nerves. if i had a nervous fuss-budget under my care, the first thing i would do would be to feed her well. i'd give her nourishing broths and daintily-served vegetables, and little steaks and chops and plenty of fattening cereals and drinks. i would bundle her off to the parks every morning with sealed orders not to come back until she was dead tired and as hungry as a small girl at a boarding school. i would impress upon her mind the great need of throwing worry to the winds and taking in good, long breaths of god's blessed fresh air. then, after feeding her some more, i'd make her take a nice, refreshing sponge bath and tumble early into bed. after several days of such treatment i'd corner her where she couldn't get away and lay down the laws. "now it's just with yourself," the lecture would begin with, "whether you are to be a jolly-hearted, wholesome-looking woman or a tailor-made gown with a bundle of nerves inside of it. no matter what comes, don't make yourself wretched by fretting. every one has troubles. you can't escape them. sometimes they come with a sweep-like tornadoes gone mad, and you'll say to yourself: 'my heavens! i wonder if i'll live through it all?' but you will, and between you and me, my dear, it's just as well to come out of the battle with a smiling face as with eight additional crow's feet and a new scolding lock of gray hair. just say to yourself: 'i will not grind my teeth because the man next to me in the street car is chewing a toothpick. i am not responsible for his lack of manners. i positively refuse to have fits because the woman in the flat next to mine plays the flute eight hours a day. if it's convenient i'll move; if it isn't i'll not make existence a daylight nightmare.' "school yourself!" i will continue. "get lots of starch in you and a backbone that is a backbone! don't fall down in a heap and mope over things you can't help. the agreeable things in life are as rare as sage-brush growing in gotham, while the disagreeable is bobbing up eternally. so brace up, my friend, and make the best of it. discipline yourself. keep your mind fresh and bright, and your body strong and healthy. if you have hard work to do then do it with the least possible expenditure of worry and nerve-force. be in the open air as much as you can, and above everything else dwell not on the unhealthy state of your nerves. let self-mastery be your shibboleth and 'no nerves' your prayer." perfumes "oh, how much more doth beauty beauteous seem, by that sweet ornament which truth doth give! the rose looks fair, but fairer we it deem, for that sweet odor which doth in it live." --_shakespeare._ women love delicate perfumes as they do silk stockings and violets. it's just "born in 'em," like their deep-rooted horror of mice and bills and burglars. from the time when the baby girl sniffs the sweetness of the powder puff as it fluffs about her soft, pretty neck until the white-haired lady lovingly fondles the lavender sachets that lie between the folds of her time-yellowed wedding gown, she loves sweet odors. the true gentlewoman never uses strong perfumes, yet her hats and clothing and handkerchiefs always send forth a faint scent of fragrant flowers. the odor is so very slight that it does not suggest the dashing on of perfume, but, instead, bespeaks scrupulous cleanliness of body and garments, with perhaps an added suggestion of the soft winds that blow over a clover field. no perfume at all is far better than too much, for who does not look with suspicious eyes upon the woman who, when passing one on the street, seems to be in an invisible vapor of white rose or jockey club--strong enough to work on the streets? there is a secret about it all, and such a simple one! it is merely choosing one particular odor and using it in every possible way. there is nothing sweeter than violet perfume, so suppose i illustrate with that? begin by using orris root for your teeth, combined, of course, with the other necessary ingredients. then, if you can afford it, get the expensive imported violet soaps, although as a matter of beautifying there is nothing better than the pure white castile. the odor of this, disliked by some, can be entirely done away with by using a little violet toilet water in the bath and touching the ear lobes with it afterward. then, between the folds of your gowns and in the crowns of your hats lay little violet sachets, always removing them before the gown or hat is worn, as the perfume must be faint and delicate. a few drops of essence of violet will scent your face powder, if it is not already perfumed, and bath bags of orris--and other good things--will add to your galaxy of sweet odors. if you use creme marquise or any of the other delightful cosmetics told about in our beauty book, add a little essence of violets to them while they are being mixed. putting it all in a nutshell: simply choose your favorite perfume and carry it out in every detail. for those who are fond of violet i will give the following recipes: creme de la violettes: place in a porcelain kettle one ounce each of white wax and spermaceti, cut in fine shavings. when melted add to this five ounces oil of sweet almonds and heat, but do not let boil. remove from fire and pour in quickly one and one-half ounces of rose-water in which ten grains of borax has been dissolved. beat briskly. when beginning to thicken, add one-half teaspoonful essence of violets. when nearly cold put in little jars. use as cold cream or any general face cosmetic. it is more effective when applied at night, just after the face is bathed in warm water and while the flesh is pink and moist. perfume--violettes de bois: essence of violets, five ounces. essence of acacia, one ounce. essence of rose, one ounce. extract of iris root, one ounce. oil of bitter almonds, five drops. violet lotion: alcohol, four ounces. ammonia, one ounce. essence of violets, one dram. add one teaspoonful of this to a bowl of water when bathing the face, neck and arms. hard water is the cause of many bad complexions, and this will remedy that particular trouble of the beauty-seeker. poudre de vicomtesse: talcum powder, seven and one-half ounces. finest starch, one and one-fourth ounces. powdered orris root, one and one-fourth ounces. oil of orris, ten drops. violet bath bags: two pounds of finely ground oatmeal. three ounces of almond flour. one cake of best white castile soap, shaved fine. one-quarter pound powdered orris root. take one yard of cheese cloth and make it into little bags about four inches square and fill with the mixture. these will make a soft white lather, and afterward the face, neck and arms should be rinsed in water containing a few drops of benzoin. larger bags can be made for the regular bath. for the teeth: one-fourth pound of prepared chalk, finely powdered. three-fourths ounce pulverized castile soap. one ounce powdered orris root. one-half dram oil of sassafras. one ounce pulverized sugar. violet sachet: black currant leaves, powdered, one-fourth pound. rose leaves, one-fourth pound. cassia buds, one-eighth pound. orris, ground, one-half pound. gum benzoin, one-eighth pound. grain musk, powdered, one-fourth dram. mix thoroughly and let stand for one week. violet toilet water: essence of violet, one and three-fourth ounces. essence of rose, one-half ounce. essence of cassie, one-half ounce. alcohol, 14 ounces. essence de fleur d'oranges: one-half ounce pure neroli. one pint alcohol. one ounce essence of jonquille. violet sachet powder: eight ounces of orris root. five drops oil of bergamot. three drops oil of bitter almonds. four drops oil of rose. one fluid dram tincture of musk. mix thoroughly. lavender sachet powder: one pound powdered lavender. one-quarter pound gum benzoin (powdered). six ounces oil of lavender. mix. heliotrope sachet powder: one-quarter pound rose leaves. two ounces tonquin, ground fine. one-quarter pound pulverized orris root. one ounce vanilla (powdered). one-half grain musk. two drops oil of almonds. mix by fluffing through a sieve. the toilet of flora. illustration: _frontispiece. the graces._ the toilet of flora; or, a collection of the most simple and approved methods of preparing baths, perfumes, essences, and pomatums, sweet-scented powders, waters. with receipts for cosmetics of every kind, that can smooth and brighten the skin, give force to beauty, and take off the appearance of old age and decay. by pierre-joseph buc'hoz _for the use of the ladies._ a new edition, improved. london, printed for j. murray, no. 32, fleet-street; and w. nicoll, st. paul's church yard. m dcc lxxix. advertisement. the chief intention of this performance is to point out, and explain to the fair sex, the methods by which they may preserve and add to their charms; and by which many natural blemishes and imperfections may be remedied or concealed. the same share of grace and attractions is not possessed by all of them; but while the improvement of their persons is the indispensable duty of those who have been little favoured by nature, it should not be neglected even by the few who have received the largest proportion of her gifts. the same art which will communicate to the former the power of pleasing, will enable the latter to extend the empire of their beauty. it is possible to remove, or, at least, to cover the defects of the one class, and to give force and lustre to the perfections of the other. the author, however, though in general he has framed his work for the advantage of the ladies, has not entirely confined it to them. the virtues of plants and vegetables, beside the service they furnish for the toilet, have their use in articles of luxury. he has thence been induced to address himself also to the perfumer: and his publication, he flatters himself, while it comprizes a very perfect collection of the methods which tend to improve beauty, to repair the wastes of fatigue, and to avert the marks of age or decline, includes likewise a full account of whatever relates to domestic oeconomy and expence. uncommon pains have been taken to improve the present edition, which contains a system of the cosmetic art, infinitely superior to any that has hitherto appeared; and it has likewise uniformly rendered the various prescriptions not only compatible with, but subservient to, the preservation, and even the improvement of health; an object of the greatest importance in a work of this kind. contents. no. page. 1. an aromatic bath 1 2. a cosmetic bath 2 3. an emollient bath for the feet ib. 4. an aromatic bath for the feet 3 5. an excellent preservative balsam against the plague ib. 6. an excellent cosmetic for the face 5 7. a curious perfume ib. 8. perfumed chaplets and medals 6 9. receipt to thicken the hair, and make it grow again on a bald part ib. 10. an approved depilatory fluid 7 11. a powder to prevent baldness 8 12. to quicken the growth of hair ib. 13. a compound oil for the same intention ib. 14. a fluid to make the hair grow 9 15. a liniment of the same kind ib. 16. to change the colour of the hair 10 17. simple means of producing the same effect ib. 18. to change the hair or beard black 11 19. a fluid to dye the hair of a flaxen colour 12 20. a perfumed basket 13 21. natural cosmetics ib. 22. a remedy for corns on the feet 14 23. a coral stick for the teeth 14 24. a receipt to clean the teeth, and make the flesh grow close to the root of the enamel 15 25, 26, 27. receipts to strengthen the gums and fasten loose teeth 15, 16 28. for rotten teeth 17 29. a liquid remedy for decayed teeth ib. 30. a powder to clean the teeth 18 31. a remedy for sore gums and loose teeth ib. 32. an approved receipt against that troublesome complaint, called the teeth set on edge ib. 33. a liquid for cleansing the teeth 19 34. a sure preservative from the tooth ache, and defluxions on the gums or teeth ib. 35, 36, 37, 38, 39. methods to make the teeth beautifully white 20-22 40. a powder to cleanse the teeth 22 41. mr. rae's receipt for making a powder for the like purpose 23 42. another ib. 43. an efficacious tooth-powder 24 44. a powder to cleanse the teeth ib. 45. a tincture to strengthen the gums, and prevent the scurvy 25 46. mr. baumé's manner of preparing the roots for cleaning the teeth ib. 47. manner of preparing sponges for the teeth 28 48. rule for the preservation of the teeth and gums 29 49. for stopping the decay of teeth 31 waters. 50. the celestial water 32 51, 52. receipts to make the genuine hungary-water 35, 36 53, 54. directions for making lavender-water 37, 38 55, 56. ----rose-water 39-41 57, 58. ----orange-flower water 42, 43 59. magisterial balm-water 46 60. compound balm-water, commonly called eau de carmes 49 61. sweet honey-water 50 62. sweet-scented water 52 63. german sweet-scented water 53 64. imperial water 56 65, 66. odoriferous water 57 67. the ladies water 58 68. a beautifying wash 59 69. a cosmetic water ib. 70. an excellent cosmetic ib. 71. venice water highly esteemed 60 72. a balsamic water ib. 73. angelic water, of a most agreeable scent 61 74. nosegay or toilet water 62 75. spirit of guaiacum 63 76. the divine cordial ib. 77. compound cypress water 65 78. imperial water 66 79. all flower water 68 80. a curious water known by the name of the spring nosegay 69 81. a cosmetic water, that prevents pits after the small-pox 71 82. a cooling wash ib. 83, 84. an excellent water to clear the skin, and take away pimples 72 85. venetian water to clear a sun-burnt complexion 73 86. a water for pimples in the face 74 87. a fluid to clear a tanned skin ib. 88. a fluid to whiten the skin ib. 89. a beautifying wash 75 90. a water that tinges the cheeks a beautiful carnation hue 76 91. a cosmetic water 77 92. a water, christened, the fountain of youth ib. 93. a water that preserves the complexion 78 94. a water that gives a gloss to the skin 80 95. a preservative from tanning ib. 96, 97, 98. certain means of removing freckles 81, 82 99, 100. a water to prevent freckles, or blotches in the face 82, 83 101, 102. a water to improve the complexion 83 103, 104. a cosmetic water 84, 85 105. a simple balsamic water, which removes wrinkles 85 106. a water to change the eye-brows black 86 107. to remove worms in the face 86 108. the duchess de la vrilliere's mouth-water 87 109. another water for the teeth, called spirituous vulnerary water 88 110. receipt to make vulnerary water 89 111, 112, 113, 114. waters for the gums 90-92 115. a simple depilatory 92 116. prepared sponges for the face ib. 117. spirit of roses 93 118. inflammable spirits of all kinds of flowers 97 essences. 119, 120. method of extracting essences from flowers 98-101 121. essence of ambergrise 102 122. a remedy for st. anthony's fire, or erysipelatous eruptions on the face 103 flowers. 123. manner of drying flowers, so as to preserve their natural colours ib. 124, 125. different methods of preserving flowers 106-108 126. another method of preserving flowers a long while, in their natural shape and colour. 109 gloves. 127. white gloves scented with jasmine after the italian manner 110 128. gloves scented without the flowers 111 129. white gloves scented with ketmia or musky seed 112 130. to colour gloves a curious french yellow 113 131, 132. curious perfumes in gloves 114 133, 134. excellent receipts to clear a tanned complexion 115 breath. 135, 136. receipts to sweeten the breath 115, 116 oils. 137, 138. cosmetic oils 116 139. oil of wheat 117 140. compound oil, or essence of fennel ib. 141. oil of tuberoses and jasmine 118 142. an oil scented with flowers for the hair 119 essential oils, or quintessences. 143. essential oil, commonly called quintessence of lavender 121 144. to make essence of cinnamon 122 145. to make quintessence of cloves 123 146. a cosmetic juice 125 virgin's milk. 147. a safe and approved cosmetic ib. 148, 149. others, very easily made 126, 127 150. a liniment to destroy vermin 127 lotions. 151. a lotion to strengthen the gums, and sweeten the breath 128 152. another lotion to fasten the teeth, and sweeten the breath 130 153. an admirable lotion for the complexion 131 154. an admirable varnish for the skin 132 155. a liniment to destroy nits 133 156. a liniment to change the beard and hair black ib. 157, 158. depilatory liniment 134, 135 159, 160. excellent lip-salves 135, 136 nails. 161. a liniment to promote the growth and regeneration of nails 136 162, 163. remedies for whitlows; a disorder that frequently affects the fingers 137, 138 perfumes. 164. scented tablets or pastils 138 165. a pleasant perfume 139 166. common perfumed powder 141 167. a cassolette ib. 168. to perfume a whole house, and purify the air ib. 169. a perfume for scenting powder ib. pastils. 170, 171. excellent compositions to perfume a room 143, 144 172. fragrant pastils made use of by way of fumigation 145 173. pastils of roses 146 pastes. 174. paste of dried almonds to cleanse the skin ib. 175. soft almond paste 147 176. paste for the hands 148 177, 178, 179, 180, 181, 182. pastes for the hands 148-152 pomatums. 183. cold cream, or pomatum for the complexion 152 184, 185. cucumber pomatums 154, 155 186. lavender pomatum 156 187, 188, 189. lip-salves 158, 159 190. a yellow lip-salve 160 191, 192, 193, 194, 195. scarlet lip-salves 161, 164 196. white pomatum 164 197. red pomatum 165 198. a pomatum to remove redness, or pimples in the face 166 199. a pomatum for wrinkles 167 200, 201. for the same intention 167, 168 202. pomatum for a red or pimpled face 168 203. a pomatum for the skin 169 204. pomatum to make the hair grow on a bald part, and thicken the hair 170 205. another pomatum for the hair 171 206. manner of scenting pomatums for the hair 172 207. orange-flower pomatum 173 208. sultana pomatum 174 209, 210. sweet smelling perfumes 174-176 powders. 211. orange-flower powder 177 212. jonquil powder 178 213, 214. coarse violet powders 179, 180 215. jasmine powder 181 216. ambrette powder ib. 217, 218. cyprus powders 182, 183 219. perfumed powder 183 220. the white powder that enters into the composition of the delightful perfume 184 221. prepared powder ib. 222. a powder to nourish the hair 185 223. common powder 186 224. white powder ib. 225, 226. grey powders 187 227. flaxen-coloured powder 188 228. bean flour ib. 229, 230. to sweeten the breath 188, 189 231. a remedy for scorbutic gums 189 232. a remedy for moist feet ib. fleas. 233, 234, 235, 236. certain methods of destroying fleas 190, 19 wrinkles. 237. a secret to take away wrinkles 191 carmines. 238, 239. rouges for the face 192, 193 240. the turkish method of preparing carmine 193 241. a liquid rouge that exactly imitates nature 194 242. an oil that possesses the same property 195 sweet scented bags. 243. a sweet-scented bag to wear in the pocket 196 244. bags to scent linen ib. 245. an agreeable sweet-scented composition 197 246. manner of making various sorts of these little bags or sachels ib. wash-balls. 247. white soap 199 248. honey soap ib. 249. a perfumed soap 200 250. a fine scented wash-ball 201 251. a wash-ball, an excellent cosmetic for the face and hands 202 252. bologna wash-balls 203 253. another excellent wash-ball for the complexion 204 254. seraglio wash-balls 205 255. an hepatic salt, to preserve the complexion 206 eye-brows. 256. to change the eye-brows black 207 marks of the skin. 257, 258. to efface spots or marks of the mother, on any part of the body 208 259. to take away marks, and fill up the cavities left after the small-pox 209 complexion. 260. certain methods to improve the complexion 210 261. the montpellier toilet ib. 262. sweet-scented troches to correct a bad breath 212 263. a curious varnish for the face 213 warts. 264, 265, 266, 267, 268. medicines to cure warts 215 vinegars. 269. distilled vinegar 216 270. distilled lavender vinegar 217 271. vinegar of the four thieves 219 eyes. 272, 273, 274. for watery eyes 220, 221 275. an excellent ophthalmic lotion 221 276. an ophthalmic poultice 222 277. a poultice for inflamed eyes ib. 278. sir hans sloane's eye salve 223 279. an ophthalmic fomentation ib. 280. a simple remedy to strengthen the sight 224 supplement. useful receipts. 281. to take iron mould out of linen 225 282. stains of oil ib. 283. scowering balls 226 284. stains of coomb ib. 285. stains of urine 227 286. stains on cloth of whatever colour ib. 287. spots of ink ib. 288. spots of pitch and turpentine 228 289. spots of oil on satin and other stuffs, and on paper ib. 290. spots on silk 229 291. balls to take out stains ib. 292. to clean gold and silver lace 229 293. to restore its original lustre to tapestry ib. 294. to clean turkey carpets 230 295. to refresh tapestry carpets, hangings, or chairs ib. 296. to take wax out of silk or camblet 231 297. to take wax out of velvet of all colours except crimson 232 298. to wash gold or silver work on linen, or any other stuff, so as to look like new ib. 299. to take spots out of silk or woollen stuff 233 300. to take stains of oil out of cloth ib. 301. to take stains out of white cloth 234 302. to take stains out of crimson velvet, and other coloured velvets ib. 303. a soap that takes out all manner of spots and stains 235 304. another method to take spots or stains out of white silk or crimson velvet 236 305. a receipt to clean gloves without wetting ib. 306. to colour gloves 237 307. to wash point lace 238 308. to clean point lace without washing ib. 309. to wash black and white sarcenet ib. 310. a soap to take out all kinds of stains 239 311. an expeditious method to take stains out of scarlet, or velvet of any other colour 240 different ways of preparing snuff. 312. method of making snuff 240 313. method of cleansing snuff in order to scent it 241 314, 315. methods of scenting snuff 243, 244 316, 317. perfumed snuff 245, 246 318. snuff after the maltese fashion 246 319. the genuine maltese snuff ib. 320. italian snuff 247 321. snuff scented after the spanish manner ib. 322. method of colouring snuff red or yellow 249 323, 324, 325, 326. herb snuffs 250, 251 the toilet of flora. 1. _an aromatic bath._ boil, for the space of two or three minutes, in a sufficient quantity of river-water, one or more of the following plants; viz. laurel, thyme, rosemary, wild thyme, sweet-marjoram, bastard-marjoram, lavender, southernwood, wormwood, sage, pennyroyal, sweet-basil balm, wild mint, hyssop, clove-july-flowers, anise, fennel, or any other herbs that have an agreeable scent. having strained off the liquor from the herbs, add to it a little brandy, or camphorated spirits of wine. this is an excellent bath to strengthen the limbs; it removes pains proceeding from cold, and promotes perspiration. 2. _a cosmetic bath._ take two pounds of barley or bean-meal, eight pounds of bran, and a few handfuls of borrage leaves. boil these ingredients in a sufficient quantity of spring water. nothing cleanses and softens the skin like this bath. 3. _an emollient bath for the feet._ boil, in water, a pound of bran, with a few marsh-mallow roots, and two or three handfuls of mallow leaves. 4. _an aromatic bath for the feet._ take four handfuls of pennyroyal, sage, and rosemary, three handfuls of angelica, and four ounces of juniper berries; boil these ingredients in a sufficient quantity of water, and strain off the liquor for use. 5. _an excellent preservative balsam against the plague._ scrape fine twelve scorzonera and goatsbread roots; simmer them over a gentle fire in three quarts of lisbon or french white wine, in a vessel closely covered, to prevent the too great evaporation of the vinous spirit. when the roots are sufficiently boiled, strain off the liquor through a linen strainer with a gentle pressure: then add to it the juice of twelve lemons, with cloves, ginger, cardamom seeds, and aloes wood, grossly powdered, of each half an ounce; and about one ounce of each of the following herbs, viz. fresh leaves of rue, elder, bramble, and sage; boil all together over a gentle fire, till one quart is wasted away; strain the liquor off immediately through a strong linen bag, and keep it in an earthen or glass vessel close stopped. drink every morning fasting, for nine days together, half a pint of this balsam, by which means you will be able to resist the malignancy of the atmosphere, though you even visit infected persons. the same end may be promoted by washing the mouth and nostrils with vinegar; and by holding to the nose a bit of camphire, slightly wrapped in muslin; or by frequently chewing a piece of gum myrrh. 6. _an excellent cosmetic for the face._ take a pound of levigated hartshorn, two pounds of rice powder, half a pound of ceruss, powder of dried bones, frankincense, gum mastic, and gum arabic, of each two ounces. dissolve the whole in a sufficient quantity of rose-water, and wash the face with this fluid. 7. _a curious perfume._ boil, in two quarts of rose-water, an ounce of storax, and two ounces of gum benjamin; to which add, tied up in a piece of gauze or thin muslin, six cloves bruised, half a drachm of labdanum, as much calamus aromaticus, and a little lemon-peel. cover the vessel up close, and keep the ingredients boiling a great while: strain off the liquor without strong pressure, and let it stand till it deposit the sediment, which keep for use in a box. 8. _perfumed chaplets and medals._ take marechal powder, and make it into a paste with mucilage of gum tragacanth and arabic, prepared with all-flower-water (the receipt for which is contained in this book.) the mould into which it is put must be rubbed with a little essence of jassmine, or of any other sweet-scented herb, to prevent the paste from sticking. this paste in colour resembles coffee. 9. _receipt to thicken the hair, and make it grow on a bald part._ take roots of a maiden vine, roots of hemp, and cores of soft cabbages, of each two handfuls; dry and burn them; afterwards make a lye with the ashes. the head is to be washed with this lye three days successively, the part having been previously well rubbed with honey. 10. _an approved depilatory, or a fluid for taking off the hair._ take polypody of the oak, cut into very small pieces; put them into a glass vessel, and pour on them as much lisbon, or french white wine, as will rise about an inch above the ingredients: digest in balneo mariæ (or a bath of hot water) for twenty-four hours; then distil off the liquor by the heat of boiling water, till the whole has come over the helm. a linen cloth wetted with this fluid, may be applied to the part on which the hair grows, and kept on it all night; repeating the application periodically till the hair falls off. the distilled water of the leaves and roots of celandine, applied in the same manner, has the like effect. 11. _a powder to prevent baldness._ powder your head with powdered parsley seed, at night, once in three or four months, and the hair will never fall off. 12. _to quicken the growth of hair._ dip the teeth of your comb every morning in the expressed juice of nettles, and comb the hair the wrong way. this expedient will surprisingly quicken the growth of the hair. some, after having shaved the head, foment it with a decoction of wormwood, southernwood, sage, betony, vervain, marjoram, myrtle, roses, dill, rosemary, or misletoe. 13. _a compound oil for the same intention._ take half a pound of green southernwood bruised, boil it in a pint and a half of sweet oil, and half a pint of red wine; when sufficiently boiled, remove it from the fire, and strain off the liquor through a linen bag: repeat this operation three times with fresh southernwood. the last time add to the strained liquor two ounces of bears-grease. this oil quickly makes the hair shoot out. 14. _a fluid to make the hair grow._ take the tops of hemp as soon as the plant begins to appear above ground, and infuse them four and twenty hours in water. dip the teeth of the comb in this fluid, and it will certainly quicken the growth of the hair. 15. _a liniment of the same kind._ take six drachms of labdanum, two ounces of bears-grease, half an ounce of honey, three drachms of powdered southernwood, a drachm and a half of ashes of calamus aromaticus roots, three drachms of balsam of peru, and a little oil of sweet almonds. mix into a liniment. 16. _to change the colour of the hair._ first wash your head with spring-water, then dip your comb in oil of tartar, and comb yourself in the sun: repeat this operation three times a day, and at the end of eight days at most the hair will turn black. if you are desirous of giving the hair a fine scent, moisten it with oil of benjamin. 17. _simple means of producing the same effect._ the leaves of the wild vine change the hairs black, and prevent their falling off. burnt cork; roots of the holm-oak, and caper-tree; barks of willow, walnut-tree and pomegranate; leaves of artichoaks, the mulberry-tree, fig-tree, rasberry-bush shells of beans; gall and cypress-nuts; leaves of myrtle; green shells of walnuts; ivy-berries, cockle, and red beet-seeds, poppy-flowers, alum, and most preparations of lead. these ingredients may be boiled in rain-water, wine or vinegar, with the addition of some cephalic plant, as sage, marjoram, balm, betony, clove-july-flowers, laurel, &c. &c. 18. _to change the hair or beard black._ take oil of costus and myrtle, of each an ounce and a half; mix them well in a leaden mortar; adding liquid pitch, expressed juice of walnut leaves and laudanum, of each half an ounce; gall-nuts, black-lead, and frankincense, of each a drachm; and a sufficient quantity of mucilage of gum arabic made with a decoction of gall nuts. rub the head and chin with this mixture, after they have been shaved. 19. _a fluid to die the hair of a flaxen colour._ take a quart of lye prepared from the ashes of vine twigs; briony, celandine roots, and turmeric, of each half an ounce; saffron and lily roots, of each two drachms; flowers of mullein, yellow stechas, broom, and st. john's-wort, of each a drachm; boil these ingredients together, and strain off the liquor clear. frequently wash the hair with this fluid, and in a little time it will change to a beautiful flaxen colour. 20. _a perfumed basket._ place a layer of perfumed cotton extremely thin and even on a piece of taffety stretched in a frame; strew on it some violet powder, and then some cypress powder; cover the whole with another piece of taffety: nothing more remains to complete the work, but to quilt it, and cut it of the size of the basket, trimming the edges with ribband. 21. _natural cosmetics._ the juice that issues from the birch-tree, when wounded with an auger in spring, is detersive and excellent to clear the complexion: the same virtue is attributed to its distilled water. some people recommend strawberry-water; others the decoction of orpiment, and some frog-spawn-water. 22. _a remedy for corns on the feet._ roast a clove of garlic, or an onion, on a live coal or in hot ashes; apply it to the corn, and fasten it on with a piece of cloth. this softens the corn to such a degree, as to loosen and wholly remove it in two or three days. foment the corn every other night in warm water, after which renew the application. the same intention will be yet more effectually answered by applying to the corn a bit of the plaster of diachylon with the gums, spread on a small piece of linen; removing it occasionally to foment the corn with warm water, and pare off the softened part with a penknife. 23. _a coral stick for the teeth._ make a stiff paste with tooth powder and a sufficient quantity of mucilage of gum tragacanth: form with this paste little cylindrical rollers, the thickness of a large goose quill, and about three inches in length. dry them in the shade. the method of using this stick is to rub it against the teeth, which become cleaner in proportion as it wastes. 24. _a receipt to clean the teeth and gums, and make the flesh grow close to the root of the enamel._ take an ounce of myrrh in fine powder, two spoonfuls of the best white honey, and a little green sage in fine powder; mix them well together, and rub the teeth and gums with a little of this balsam every night and morning. 25. _ditto, to strengthen the gums and fasten loose teeth._ dissolve an ounce of myrrh as much as possible in half a pint of red wine and the same quantity of oil of almonds: wash the mouth with this fluid every morning. this is also an excellent remedy against worms in the teeth. 26. _another._ dissolve a drachm of cachoe (an indian perfume) in a quart of red wine, and use it for washing the mouth. 27. _or rather._ bruise tobacco roots in a mortar, and rub the teeth and gums with a linen cloth dipped in the juice. you may also put some tobacco bruised between the fingers into the hollow of the tooth. or take the green leaves of a plum-tree, or of rosemary, and boil them in lees of wine or vinegar; gargle the mouth with the wine as hot as you can bear it, and repeat it frequently. 28. _for rotten teeth._ make a balsam with a sufficient quantity of honey, two scruples of myrrh in fine powder, a scruple of gum juniper, and ten grains of roch alum. frequently apply this mixture to the decayed tooth. 29. _a liquid remedy for decayed teeth._ take a pint of the juice of the wild gourd, a quarter of a pound of mulberry bark, and pellitory of spain, each three ounces; roch alum, sal gem, and borax, of each half an ounce. put these ingredients into a glass vessel, and distill in a sand heat to dryness; take of this liquor and brandy, each an equal part, and wash the mouth with them warm. this mixture removes all putridity, and cleanses away dead flesh. 30. _a powder to clean the teeth._ take dragon's blood and cinnamon, of each one ounce and a half, burnt alum, or cream of tartar, one ounce; beat all together into a very fine powder, and rub a little on the teeth every other day. 31. _a remedy for sore gums and loose teeth._ boil oak leaves in spring-water, and add to the decoction a few drops of spirit of sulphur. gargle the mouth with a little of this liquor every morning while necessary. 32. _an approved receipt against that troublesome complaint, called the teeth set on edge._ purslain, sorrel, sweet or bitter almonds, walnuts, or burnt bread, chewed, will certainly remove this disagreeable sensation. 33. _a liquid for cleansing the teeth._ take lemon juice, two ounces, burnt alum and salt, of each six grains; boil them together about a minute in a glazed pipkin, and then strain through a linen cloth. the method of application is to wrap a bit of clean rag round the end of a stick, dipping it in the liquid, and rub it gently against the teeth. you must be careful not to have too much of the liquid on the rag, for fear it should excoriate the gums or inside of the mouth. this application ought not to be used above once every two or three months. 34. _a sure preservative from the tooth ache, and defluxions on the gums or teeth._ after having washed your mouth with water, as cleanliness and indeed health requires, you should every morning rince the mouth with a tea spoonful of lavender-water mixed with an equal quantity of warm or cold water, whichever you like best, to diminish its activity. this simple and innocent remedy is a certain preservative, the success of which has been confirmed by long experience. 35. _a method to make the teeth beautifully white._ take gum tragacanth, one ounce; pumice-stone, two drachms; gum arabic, half an ounce; and crystals of tartar, finely powdered, one ounce; dissolve the gums in rose-water, and adding to it the powder, form the whole into little sticks, which are to be dried slowly in the shade, and afterwards kept for use. 36. _or,_ take dried leaves of hyssop, wild thyme, and mint, of each half an ounce; roch alum, prepared hartshorn, and salt, of each a drachm; calcine these ingredients together in a pot placed on burning coals; when sufficiently calcined, add of pepper and mastic, each half a drachm, and of myrrh a scruple; reduce the whole into a fine powder, and make them into a proper consistence with storax dissolved in rose-water. rub the teeth with a small bit of this mixture every morning, and afterwards wash the mouth with warm wine. 37. _or,_ dip a piece of clean rag in vinegar of squills, and rub the teeth and gums with it. this not only whitens, but fastens and strengthens the roots of the teeth, and corrects an offensive breath. 38. _or,_ take rose-water, syrup of violets, clarified honey, and plantain-water, of each half an ounce; spirit of vitriol one ounce; mix them together. rub the teeth with a linen rag moistened in this liquor, and then rince the mouth with equal parts of rose and plantain-water. 39. _or,_ rub them well with nettle or tobacco ashes, or rather with vine ashes mixed with a little honey. 40. _a powder to cleanse the teeth._ take prepared coral and dragons-blood, of each an ounce; cinnamon and cloves, of each six drachms; cuttle-bone, and calcined egg-shells, of each half an ounce; sea salt decrepitated, a drachm, all in fine powder: mix them in a marble mortar. 41. _the following was communicated by mr. rae, surgeon dentist, in the adelphi, london._ take of cuttlefish-bone, and the finest prepared chalk, each half an ounce; peruvian bark, and florentine iris root, each two drachms: reduce the whole into a fine powder, and mix them. this may be coloured with a little rose pink, and scented with a few drops of oil of cinnamon. 42. _or,_ take pumice-stone prepared, sealed earth, and red coral prepared, of each an ounce; dragons-blood, half an ounce; cream of tartar, an ounce and a half; cinnamon, a quarter of an ounce; and cloves, a scruple: beat the whole together into a powder. this powder serves to cleanse, whiten, and preserve the teeth; and prevents the accidents that arise from the collection of tartar or any other foulness about them. 43. _an efficacious tooth-powder._ take myrrh, roch allum, dragon's blood, and cream of tartar, of each half an ounce; musk, two grains; and make them into a very fine powder. this, though simple, is an efficacious dentifrice; but nothing of this kind should be applied too frequently to the teeth for fear of hurting the enamel. 44. _a powder to cleanse the teeth._ take pumice-stone and cuttle-fish bone, of each half an ounce; tartar vitriolated, and mastich, of each a drachm; oil of rhodium four drops: mix all into a fine powder. 45. _a tincture to strengthen the gums and prevent the scurvy._ take an ounce of peruvian bark grossly powdered, infuse it a fortnight or longer in half a pint of brandy. gargle the mouth every night or morning, with a tea spoonful of this tincture diluted with an equal quantity of rose-water. 46. _manner of preparing the roots for cleaning the teeth, according to mr. baumè._ the roots that are used to clean the teeth are formed at both ends like little brushes; and in all probability were substituted in the room of tooth-brushes, on account of their being softer to the gums and more convenient. they are used in the following manner; one of the ends is moistened with a little water, dipped into the tooth-powder, and then rubbed against the teeth till they look white. fibrous and woody roots are best formed into little brushes, and on this account deserve a preference to others. the roots are deprived of their juicy parts by boiling them several times in a large quantity of fresh water. when lucern roots are used, those of two years growth are chosen, about the thickness of one's little finger; such as are thicker, unsound or worm-eaten, being rejected. they are cut into pieces about six inches long, and, as we have just observed, are boiled in water till all the juicy parts are extracted. being then taken out, they are left to drain; after which each end of the roots is slit with a penknife into the form of a little brush, and they are slowly dried to prevent their splitting. in the same manner are prepared liquorice roots. marsh-mallow roots are prepared in an easier way; but, on account of the mucilage they contain, they become very brittle when dry. such as are large and very even are made choice of, and rasped with a knife to remove the outer bark. they are dyed red by infusing them in the same dye as is used to colour spunges. when the roots have remained twenty-four hours in the dye, they are taken out, slowly dried, and varnished with two or three coats of a strong mucilage of gum tragacanth, each being suffered to dry before another is laid on. the whole is afterwards repeatedly anointed with friars balsam, in order to form a varnish less susceptible of moisture. lucern and liquorice roots are dyed and varnished in the same manner: those of marsh-mallows, from the loss of their mucilage, considerably diminish in thickness during the time they stand in infusion. 47. _manner of preparing sponges for the teeth_ for this purpose very thin sponges are made choice of, which are to be washed in several waters; squeezing them with the hands, to loosen and force away the little shells that adhere to their internal surface. being afterwards dried, they are neatly cut into the shape of balls about the size of small eggs; and when they have undergone this preparation, they are dyed in the following manner. take brazil wood rasped, four ounces; cochineal bruised, three drachms; roch alum, half an ounce; water, four pints: put them into a proper vessel, and boil till one half of the liquor is consumed. then strain the decoction through a piece of linen, and pour it hot upon the sponges, which are to be left in infusion twelve hours; at the expiration of which time, they are to be repeatedly washed in fresh water, as long as any colour proceeds from them. being dried, they are afterwards dipped in spirit of wine, aromatized with essential oil of cinnamon, cloves, lavender, &c. the sponges are then fit for use, and when dried by squeezing, are kept in a wide-mouthed glass-bottle well corked. 48. _rules for the preservation of the teeth and gums._ the teeth are bones thinly covered with a fine enamel, which is more or less strong in different persons. when this enamel is wasted, either by a scorbutic humour or any external cause, the tooth cannot long remain sound, and must therefore be cleaned, but with great caution. for this purpose the best instrument is a small piece of wood, like a butcher's skewer, rendered soft at the end. it is generally to be used alone; only once in a fortnight dip it into a few grains of gunpowder, which has previously been bruised. this will remove every spot and blemish, and give your teeth an inconceivable whiteness. it is almost needless to say, that the mouth must be well washed after this operation; for besides the necessity of so doing, the salt-petre, &c. used in the composition of gunpowder, would, if it remained, prove injurious to the gums, &c. but has not, nor can have, any bad effect in so short a time. it is necessary to observe, that very near the gums of people whose teeth are otherwise good, there is apt to grow a crust, both within and without, which, if neglected, separates the gums from the fangs of the teeth; and the latter being by this means left bare, are frequently destroyed. this crust must therefore be carefully scraped off. 49. _for stopping the decay of teeth._ take of bole armenian the quantity of a large nutmeg, a like quantity of roch alum, two penny-worth of cochineal bruised, and a small handful of the chips of lignum vitæ; simmer them with four ounces of honey in a new pipkin, for a little time, well stirring them all the while, till the ingredients are mixed. in using it, take a large skewer, on the end of which is tied a piece of linen rag; dip the rag in the medicine, and rub the teeth and gums with it. the longer you abstain from spitting, after the use of the remedy, the better. wash the mouth well at least once every day, particularly after meals, first rubbing the teeth with salt upon the end of your finger. teeth much decayed, or useless, should be drawn, if the operation can be performed with safety. the reader will find several other receipts for the teeth, under the article of waters. waters. 50. _the celestial water._ take the best cinnamon, nutmegs, ginger, zedoary, galangals, and white-pepper, of each an ounce; six lemon-peels, pared thin; two handfuls of damascene grapes; as much jujebs; a handful of pith of dwarf-elder; four handfuls of juniper-berries perfectly ripe; fennel-seeds, flowers of sweet basil, st. john's-wort, rosemary, marjoram, pennyroyal, stechas, musk roses, rue, scabious, centaury, fumitory, and agrimony, of each a handful; spikenard, aloes-wood, grains of paradise, calamus aromaticus, mace, gum olibanum, and yellow sanders, of each two ounces; hepatic aloes, fine amber and rhubarb, of each two drachms. all these drugs being procured good in their kind, beat in a mortar those that ought to be pulverized, and put the whole, thoroughly mixed together, into a large strong glass alembic; pouring as much genuine brandy upon them as will rise at least three fingers breadth above the ingredients. then having well closed the mouth of the alembic, bury the vessel fifteen days in warm horse-dung, and afterwards distil the tincture in balneo mariæ, the water almost boiling hot. when you perceive the water in the receiver change its colour, instantly stop the process, and separate the phlegm from the spirit, by another distillation conducted in the same manner. the liquor thus obtained is the genuine celestial water. _note_, when you perceive this second water begin to lose its transparency, and incline to a reddish colour, put it by in a strong glass bottle closely stopped, and dissolve in the residue half a pound of the best treacle, with as much venice turpentine and fresh oil of almonds. place the alembic in a sand heat, and urge the fire to the first degree, to have the genuine balsamic oil, which ought to be of the consistence of clarified honey. if a person rubs himself in the morning with this water on the forehead, eyelids, back of the head, and nape of the neck, it renders him quick and easy of conception, strengthens the memory, enlivens the spirits, and greatly comforts the sight. by putting a few drops with a bit of cotton up the nostrils, it becomes a sovereign cephalic, and cleanses the brain of all superfluous cold and catarrhal humours. if a table spoonful is drank every third day, it tends to preserve the body in vigour. it is an excellent remedy against asthmatic complaints, and corrects an offensive breath. 51. _a receipt to make the genuine hungary-water._ put into an alembic a pound and a half of fresh pickt rosemary flowers; pennyroyal and marjoram flowers, of each half a pound; three quarts of good coniac brandy; having close stopped the mouth of the alembic to prevent the spirit from evaporating, bury it twenty-eight hours in horse-dung to digest, and then distil off the spirit in a water-bath. a drachm of hungary-water diluted with spring-water, may be taken once or twice a week in the morning fasting. it is also used by way of embrocation to bathe the face and limbs, or any part affected with pains, or debility. this remedy recruits the strength, dispells gloominess and strengthens the sight. it must always be used cold, whether taken inwardly as a medicine, or applied externally. 52. _another receipt to make hungary-water._ fill a glass or stone cucurbit half full of fresh gathered rosemary-tops picked in their prime; pour on them as much spirit of wine as will thoroughly soak them. put the vessel in a water-bath, and having closely luted on the head and receiver, leave it to digest on a gentle fire for three days; at the expiration of which period unlute the vessel, and pour back into the cucurbit whatever liquor you find in the receiver. then lute your cucurbit again, and encrease the fire so as to cause the spirit to rise fast over the helm. when about two thirds of the liquor are drawn off, remove the fire, and let the vessel stand to cool; you will find in the receiver an excellent hungary-water, which is to be kept in a glass bottle closely stopped. hungary-water must be drawn off with a brisk fire, or the spirit of wine will come over the helm, very little impregnated with the essence of rosemary. 53. _directions for making lavender-water._ fill a glass or earthen body two thirds full of lavender flowers and then fill up the vessel with brandy or melasses spirits. let the flowers stand in infusion eight days, or less if straitened for time; then distil off the spirit, in a water-bath with a brisk fire, at first in large drops or even a small stream, that the essential oil of the flowers may rise with the spirit. but as this cannot be done without the phlegm coming over the helm at the same time, the spirit must be rectified. the first distillation being finished, unlute the still, throw away what remains in the body, and, fill it with fresh flowers of lavender, in the proportion of two pounds of lavender flowers to one pint of spirit; pour the spirit already distilled according to the foregoing directions, on the lavender flowers, and distil a second time in a vapour-bath. 54. _another method._ take fresh or dried lavender flowers, sprinkle them with white wine, brandy, melasses spirit, or rose-water; let them stand in infusion for some days, and then distil off the spirit. the distilled water will be more odoriferous, if the flowers are dried in the sun in a glass bottle close stopped, and white wine afterwards poured upon them. if you would have speedily, without the trouble of distillation, a water impregnated with the flavour of lavender, put two or three drops of oil of spike, and a lump of sugar, into a pint of clear water, or spirit of wine, and shake them well together in a glass phial, with a narrow neck. this water, though not distilled, is very fragrant. 55. _to make rose-water._ to make an excellent rose-water, let the flowers be gathered two or three hours after sun-rising in very fine weather; beat them in a marble mortar into a paste, and leave them in the mortar soaking in their juice, for five or six hours; then put the mass into a coarse canvas bag, and press out the juice; to every quart of which add a pound of fresh damask roses, and let them stand in infusion for twenty-four hours. then put the whole into a glass alembic, lute on a head and receiver, and place it on a sand heat. distil at first with a gentle fire, which is to be encreased gradually till the drops follow each other as quick as possible; draw off the water as long as it continues to run clear, then put out the fire, and let the alembic stand till cold. the distilled water at first will have very little fragrancy, but after being exposed to the heat of the sun about eight days, in a bottle lightly stopped with a bit of paper, it acquires an admirable scent. 56. _or,_ infuse in ten or twenty pints of juice of damask roses, expressed in the manner above described, a proportionable quantity of damask rose leaves gathered with the usual precautions. after standing in infusion twenty-four hours, pour the whole into a short-necked alembic, distil in a sand heat, and draw off as much as possible, taking care not to leave the residuum quite dry, for fear the distilled water should have an empyreumatic or still-burnt flavour. after emptying the alembic, pour the distilled water a second time into it, and add a good quantity of fresh picked damask roses. lute it well, placing it again in a sand heat, and repeat the distillation. but content yourself this time with a little more than half the water you put back into the alembic. to impress on rose-water the utmost degree of fragrancy of which it is susceptible, it is necessary to expose it to the genial warmth of the sun. rose-water is an excellent lotion for the eyes, if used every morning, and makes a part in all collyriums prescribed for inflammations of these parts; it is also proper in many other complaints. 57. _to make orange-flower water._ having gathered (two hours before sun-rise, in fine weather) a quantity of orange-flowers, pluck them leaf by leaf, and throw away the stalks and stems: fill a tin cucurbit two thirds full of these picked flowers; lute on a low bolt-head, not above two inches higher than the cucurbit; place it in balneo mariæ, or a water-bath, and distill with a strong fire. you run no risk from pressing forward the distillation with violence, the water-bath effectually preventing the flowers from being burnt. in this method you pay no regard to the quantity, but the quality of the water drawn off. if nine pounds of orange flowers were put into the still, be satisfied with three or four quarts of fragrant water; however, you may continue your distillation, and save even the last droppings of the still, which have some small fragrancy. during the operation, be careful to change the water in the refrigeratory vessel as often as it becomes hot. its being kept cool prevents the distilled water from having an empyreumatic or burnt smell, and keeps the quintessence of the flowers more intimately united with its phlegm. 58. _another method._ take four pounds of unpicked orange flowers, bruise them in a marble mortar, and pour on them nine quarts of clear water. distil in a cold still, and draw off five or six quarts, which will be exquisitely fragrant. if you are desirous of having it still higher flavoured, draw off at first full seven quarts, unlute the still and throw away the residuum; empty back the water already distilled, and add to it two pounds of fresh orange flowers bruised. again luting the still, repeat the distillation, and draw of five or six quarts. then stop, being careful not to draw off too much water, lest the flowers should become dry and burn too. the use of orange-flower water is very extensive. it is high in esteem for its aromatic perfume; and is used with success for hysteric complaints. waters from all kinds of flowers are made in the same manner as orange-flower and rose-water; but waters from dried odoriferous plants, such as thyme, hyssop, marjoram and wormwood, are made as follows. fill two thirds of a large stone jar with the tops of the plant you propose to distil; boil, in a sufficient quantity of water, some twigs or tops of the same plant; and when one half of the water has evaporated, pour the remainder into a jar over the flowers, and let them stand to infuse three or four days; then distil them in a common or cold still. care, however, must be taken not to distil to dryness, lest you risque the bottom of the vessel; to prevent which accident, the best way is never to draw off more than two thirds of the liquor put into the still. if you be desirous that the distilled water should acquire a higher flavour, after the first distillation unlute the still, throw out what remains at the bottom, and fill it half full of fresh tops of the plant, pouring on them the water already distilled; repeat the distillation, and this second time the water drawn off will be highly odoriferous. if the plant contains a large portion of essential oil, it will not fail to float on the top of the liquor contained in the receiver, and may be separated by the usual method. 59. _magisterial balm-water._ take half a pound of cinnamon, six ounces of cardamon-seeds, and the same quantity of green aniseeds; cloves, four ounces; coriander-seeds, eight ounces: beat these spices in a marble mortar, and putting them afterwards into a stone jar, add the yellow rind of eight lemons, a pound of juniper-berries bruised, twelve handfuls of balm gathered in its prime, six handfuls of rosemary-tops, as much sage, hyssop, and angelica, sweet marjoram and thyme, of each six handfuls; wormwood a handful; cut the herbs very small, putting them into the jar with the spices, and pour on four gallons of brandy or melasses spirits. when they have stood in infusion eight days, empty the ingredients and liquor into an alembic of a common height, and distil in a water-bath. at first draw off ten quarts, which are to be thrown again into the alembic, continue the same degree of fire for some time, then gradually lessen it till the aromatic spirit comes off in quick drops. continue your distillation in this manner till you perceived the phlegm rise, which is easily known by the weakness of the spirit, and when the process is ended, expose the aromatic spirit which has been drawn off to the rays of the sun, in a glass bottle, stopped only with a loose paper cork, to give the fiery particles an opportunity of evaporating. what remains in the body of the still is not to be considered as wholly useless. after evaporating it to dryness, burn the residuum of the plants and aromatics; and when the whole mass is reduced to ashes, throw them into a vessel of boiling water, in which let them remain two or three minutes on the fire. then remove the vessel, and let the water stand till cold, when it is to be filtered through blotting paper: the water, which appears limpid, is to be set on the fire again, and wholly evaporated. at the bottom of the vessel, which ought to be a new-glazed earthen pot, will remain a pure white fixed salt, which may be dissolved in the magisterial balm-water. this water is highly esteemed, and has even acquired a reputation equal to that of hungary-water, (the receipt for preparing which has been already given) and in particular cases is preferable. 60. _compound balm-water, commonly called eau de carmes._ take of the fresh leaves of balm, a quarter of a pound; yellow rind of lemons, two ounces; nutmegs and coriander-seeds, of each one ounce; cloves, cinnamon, and angelica root, of each half an ounce: having pounded the spices and seeds; and bruised the leaves and roots, put them with a quart of brandy into a glass cucurbit, of which stop the mouth, and set it in a warm place, where let it remain two or three days. then add a pint of simple balm-water, and shake the whole well together; after which distil in a vapour bath till the ingredients are left almost dry; and preserve the water thus obtained, in bottles well stopped. this water has been long famous at paris and london, and carried thence to most parts of europe. it has the reputation of being a cordial of very extraordinary virtues, and not only of availing in all lowness of spirits, but even in apoplexies. it is also much esteemed in cases of the gout in the stomach; whence the carmelite friars, who originally were in possession of the secret, have reaped great benefit from the sale of this water. 61. _sweet honey-water._ take of good french brandy, a gallon; of the best virgin honey and coriander-seeds, each a pound; cloves, an ounce and half; nutmegs, an ounce; gum benjamin and storax, of each an ounce; vanilloes no. 4; the yellow rind of three large lemons: bruise the spices and benjamin, cut the vanilloes into small pieces, put all into a cucurbit, and pour the brandy on them. after they have digested forty-eight hours, distil off the spirit in a retort with a gentle heat. to a gallon of this water, add of damask rose-water and orange flower-water, of each a pint and a half; musk and ambergrise, of each five grains; first grind the musk and ambergrise with some of the water, and afterwards put all into a large matrass, shake them well together, and let them circulate three days and nights in a gentle heat. then, letting the water cool, filtre and keep it for use, in a bottle well stopped. it is an antiparalytic, smooths the skin, and gives one of the most agreeable scents imaginable. forty or sixty drops put into a pint of clear water, are sufficient to wash the hands and face. 62. _sweet-scented water._ take orange flower-water and rose-water, of each an equal quantity; put them into a large wide-mouthed glass, and strew upon the surface gently as much jasmine flowers as will cover it; then tie the mouth of the glass so carefully that the flowers be not shook down to the bottom. repeat the process, letting each quantity of the flowers remain five or six days, until the water is strongly scented with them. then dissolve ambergrise and musk, of each a scruple, in a few ounces of the water, which filtre and put to the rest. this water may also be made by putting the whole into a retort with a sufficient quantity of jasmine flowers, and drawing it off in a vapour bath into a receiver well luted. this is an excellent perfume, and taken inwardly, is of service in some nervous cases and languors. 63. _german sweet-scented water._ begin with infusing for eight days in two quarts of vinegar, two handfuls of lavender flowers, as many provence roses picked from the stalks, wild roses, and elder flowers. while they stand in infusion prepare a simple odoriferous water as follows: put into a glass body the yellow rind of three lemons, sweet marjoram, lilies of the valley and lavender flowers, of each two handfuls; pour on them a pint of double distilled rose-water, and a quart of spring-water. lute on a bolt-head, place the alembic in a sand heat, fix on a receiver, and leave matters in this state two days, then light a fire under it and distil quick. when you have drawn off a quart, stop your distillation, and keep this simple odoriferous water for the following use. take wild thyme, sweet marjoram, sweet basil, and thyme, of each a handful; florentine orrice and cinnamon, of each half an ounce; cloves, mace, purified storax, and benjamin, of each three drachms; labdanum, two drachms; aspalathum, half an ounce; socotrine aloes, half a drachm; put all these ingredients, thoroughly bruised, into a stone jar, and add to them the vinegar infusion, the distilled odoriferous water, and a quart of frontiniac, mountain, or cowslip wine. stir them well together, and leave the whole to digest for fifteen days, at the expiration of which time, empty the infusion into a glass body, large enough to contain a sixth part more liquor; lute on the head, place it in a sand heat, and begin your distillation with a very gentle fire, increasing it gradually. it sometimes happens that the phlegm of the vinegar comes over the helm first; when that is the case, set it aside as useless. as soon as the spirit begins to rise, which you will directly perceive by its aromatic flavour, fix a receiver on the beak of the alembic, and distil off about three pints. keep this by itself as the most spirituous part of your preparation; and continue to draw off the remainder as long as it runs clear. the german sweet-scented water is penetrating and incisive, admirably revives the vital spirits, removes headaches, comforts the heart, is excellent against unwholesome air, and of course a preservative from contagion. 64. _imperial water._ take five quarts of brandy, in which dissolve an ounce of frankincense, mastic, benjamin, and gum arabic; add half an ounce of cloves and nutmegs; an ounce and a half of pine-nut kernels, and sweet almonds; with three grains of musk. bruise these ingredients in a marble mortar, distil in a vapour bath, and keep the water that is drawn off in a glass bottle, close stopped. this water takes away wrinkles, and renders the skin extremely delicate; it also whitens the teeth, and abates the tooth-ache, sweetens the breath, and strengthens the gums. foreign ladies prize it highly. 65. _odoriferous water._ take sweet basil, mint, sweet marjoram, florentine orrice-root, hyssop, balm, savory, lavender, and rosemary, of each a handful; cloves, cinnamon, and nutmegs, of each half an ounce; three or four lemons, cut in thick slices; infuse them three days in a good quantity of rose-water; distil in a water bath with a gentle fire, and add to the distilled water a scruple of musk. 66. _or,_ take sweet marjoram, thyme, lavender, rosemary, pennyroyal-buds, red roses, violet-flowers, clove-july-flowers, savory, and orange-peels, of each equal parts; infuse in white wine till they entirely sink to the bottom of the wine; then distil in an alembic, two or three times. keep the water in bottles well corked; and preserve the residuum as a perfume. 67. _the ladies water._ take two handfuls and a half of red roses; rosemary flowers, lavender, and spikenard, of each a handful; thyme, chamomile flowers, sage of virtue, pennyroyal, and marjoram, of each a handful; infuse in white wine twenty-four hours; then put the whole into an alembic; sprinkle it with good white wine, and throw on it a powder, composed of an ounce and a half of choice cloves, gum benjamin, and storax, strained, each two drachms. the distilled water is to be kept in a bottle well stopped. 68. _a beautifying wash._ take equal parts of white tansey, and rhubarb water, and to every half pint add two drachms of sal ammoniac. this fluid is applied with a feather or hair pencil, three or four times a day, to pimples or tetters, on any part of the body. 69. _a cosmetic water._ wash the face with the tears that issue from the vine, during the months of may and june. 70. _an excellent cosmetic._ pimpernel water is so sovereign a beautifier of the complexion, that it ought always to have a place on a lady's toilet. 71. _venice water, highly esteemed._ in the month of may, take two quarts of cow's milk, which pour into a bottle with eight lemons and four oranges, sliced; add an ounce of sugar candy, and half an ounce of borax; distil in a water bath or sand heat. this water is counterfeited at bagdat in persia, in the following manner. take twelve lemons peeled and sliced, twelve new-laid eggs, six sheeps trotters, four ounces of sugar candy, a large slice of melon, and another of pompion, with two drachms of borax; distil in a large glass alembic with a leaden head. 72. _a balsamic water._ take a pound of venice turpentine; oil of bays, galbanum, gum arabic, ivy gum, frankincense, myrrh, hepatic aloes, aloes-wood, galangals, cloves, comfrey, cinnamon, nutmegs, zedoary, ginger, and white dittany, each three ounces; borax, four ounces; musk, a drachm; ambergrise, a scruple; after bruising such of the ingredients as are capable of being powdered, infuse the whole in six quarts of brandy; and distil it. the balsamic water drawn off will be good to strengthen the limbs, and cause that beauty and vigour which so much delights the eye. 73. _angelic water, of a most agreeable scent._ put into a large alembic the following ingredients, benjamin, four ounces; storax, two ounces; yellow sanders, an ounce; cloves, two drachms; two or three bits of florentine orrice, half the peel of a lemon, two nutmegs, half an ounce of cinnamon, two quarts of rose-water, a pint of orange flower-water, and a pint of magisterial balm-water. put the whole into an alembic well luted; distil in a water bath; and what you draw off will prove an exquisite angelic water. 74. _nosegay or toilet water._ take honey-water, an ounce; eau sans pareille, two ounces; jasmine-water, not quite five drachms; clove-water, and violet-water, of each half an ounce; cyprus-water, sweet calamus-water, and lavender-water, of each two drachms; spirit of neroli or oranges ten drops; mix all these waters together, and keep the mixture in a vial close corked. this water has a delightful scent; but its use is only for the toilet. 75. _spirit of guaiacum._ spirit of guaiacum is prepared by infusing two ounces of guaiacum shavings in a quart of brandy, ten or twelve days, shaking the vessel now and then. the tincture is then filtred through paper, and used to gargle the mouth in the same manner as the vulnerary-water. 76. _the divine cordial._ to make this, take, in the beginning of the month of march, two ounces of the roots of the true acorus, betony, florentine orrice-roots, cyprus, gentian, and sweet scabious; an ounce of cinnamon, and as much yellow sanders; two drachms of mace; an ounce of juniper-berries; and six drachms of coriander-seeds; beat these ingredients, in a mortar, to a coarse powder, and add thereto the outer peel of six fine china oranges; put them all into a large vessel, with a gallon and a half of spirit of wine; shake them well, and then cork the vessel tight till the season for flowers. when these are in full vigour, add half a handful of the following: viz. violets, hyacinths, jonquils, wall flowers, red, damask, white, and musk roses, clove-july-flowers, orange flowers, jasmine, tuberoses, rosemary, sage, thyme, lavender, sweet marjoram, broom, elder, st. john's-wort, marigold, chamomile, lilies of the valley, narcissuses, honeysuckle, borage, and bugloss. three seasons are required to procure all these flowers in perfection; spring, summer, and autumn. every time you gather any of these flowers, add them immediately to the infusion, mixing them thoroughly with the other ingredients; and three days after you have put in the last flowers, put the whole into a glass cucurbit, lute on the head carefully, place it in a water bath over a slow fire, keep the receiver cool, and draw off five quarts of spirit, which will prove of a rare quality. as a medicine, it is far more efficacious than balm-water; and for its fine scent, one of the best perfumes. 77. _compound cyprus water._ take a gallon of spirit of jasmine, infuse in it half an ounce of florentine orrice grossly powdered, a quarter of an ounce of bruised angelica-seeds, three scraped nutmegs, three ounces of white musk-roses bruised, a drachm of spirit of orange, and fifteen drops of essence of ambergrise. if it is not the season for roses, when you make this water, put instead of them a pint of rose-water scented with musk, and if that cannot be procured, use common rose-water; draw off the spirit in a water bath, and in a stream like a thread; taking care to place the receiver in cold water, that the spirit may cool as fast as possible and thereby the better preserve its perfume. 78. _imperial water._ put into a gallon of brandy, a quarter of a pound of picked violets, an ounce of florentine orrice, a quarter of a pound of double jonquils, two ounces of picked orange flowers, two ounces of white musk-roses, three ounces of tuberoses, a drachm of mace, half a drachm of cloves, an ounce of quintessence of bergamot, and an ounce of quintessence of oranges. all the flowers must be gathered in their proper season. observe to put into the brandy at the same time with the violets, the orrice, mace, and cloves, in gross powder, then add the different flowers as they come in season, remembering not to add the quintessences, till after the tuberoses, which are the last flower. every time you put in a fresh flower, shake the vessel, and cork it very tight. eight days after the tuberoses have been infused, put the whole into a glass body, lute on the head carefully, and place under the receiver an earthen vessel filled with cold water, that the spirit may cool as fast as it comes over, by which means its scent will be the better preserved. you may draw off two quarts of a rectified spirit, that will give perfect satisfaction to the most delicate judge. 79. _all flower water._ pour into a large vessel five quarts of strong spirit of wine, and infuse in it the following flowers, as they come in season: violets, hyacinths, and wall flowers, of each a quarter of a pound; single and double jonquils, of each two ounces; a quarter of a pound of lilies of the valley, and the same quantity of spanish jasmine; half an ounce of rosemary flowers; an ounce of elder flowers; two ounces of wild, damask, and white roses, bruised; three ounces of orange flowers; a quarter of a pound of clove-july-flowers, syringo blossoms, tuberoses, and tops of mint in flower; and thirty drops of quintessence of musk-seed. the latter, however, need not be added till the time of distillation, which must not be till three days after the last flowers have been infused. perform the operation in a water bath, and having carefully luted the head and receiver, which must be placed in a tub of cold water, to preserve the scent, draw off about three quarts and a pint with a moderate fire, then change the receiver, fix on another, and draw off another pint, which, though of an inferior quality, is well worth preserving. 80. _a curious water, known by the name of the spring nosegay._ take six ounces of hyacinths, a quarter of a pound of picked violets, the same quantity of wall flowers picked, and jonquils; an ounce of florentine orrice bruised; half an ounce of mace grossly powdered; and two ounces of quintessense of orange. put the whole (the jonquils, wall flowers, and lilies of the valley excepted) about the end of march, into a glass body, with a gallon of strong spirit of wine; bruise the hyacinths, violets, orrice, and mace; and towards the end of april, add the jonquils, when in their perfection, that is to say, when full blown. a few days after, put in the wall flowers, the petals only; then add the lilies of the valley, carefully picked, and shake all the ingredients well: eight days after having put in this last flower, empty the infusion into an alembic, lute on a head and receiver, which must be placed in cold water, and distil in a water bath, with a gentle fire. from the above quantity three quarts of excellent spirit may be drawn off, that justly deserves the appellation of the spring nosegay. 81. _a cosmetic water, of great use to prevent pits after the small-pox._ dissolve an ounce and a half of salt in a pint of mint-water; boil them together, and skim the liquor. this is a very useful wash for the face after the small-pox, in order to clear away the scabs, allay the itching, and remove the redness. 82. _a cooling wash._ infuse in a sufficient quantity of clear water, some bran, yolks of eggs, and a grain or two of ambergrise, for three or four hours; then distil the water, which will prove an excellent cosmetic, and clear the skin surprisingly. it is of service to keep it in the sun eight or ten days, in a bottle well corked. the distilled waters of melons, bean flowers, the wild-vine, green or unripe barley, and the water that is found in vesicles on the leaves of the elm-tree, may also be used for the same intention. 83. _an excellent water to clear the skin, and take away pimple_s. take two quarts of water, in which a quantity of horse-beans has been boiled till quite soft; put it into an alembic, and add two handfuls of pimpernel, the same quantity of white tansy, a pound of veal minced small, six new-laid eggs, and a pint of white-wine vinegar; distil this mixture in a water-bath, and it will afford an excellent lotion to remove all eruptions on the face, if washed with it every night and morning. 84. _another._ knead a loaf with three pounds of wheaten flour, a pound of bean flour, and goats milk, with mild yeast or leaven. bake it in an oven, scoop out the crumb, and soak it thoroughly in new goats milk and six whites of eggs; add an ounce of calcined egg-shells. mix all well together, and distil in a sand heat. you will obtain an excellent cosmetic water, by washing with which every day, the face will become smooth and clear. 85. _venetian water to clear a sun-burnt complexion._ take a pint of cow's milk, or, in the month of may, a pint of the water that distils from the vine when wounded, eight lemons and four seville oranges cut in thin slices, two ounces of sugar candy, half an ounce of borax in fine powder, and four narcissus roots beaten to a paste; distil these ingredients in a vapour-bath. rectify the distilled liquor by the same method, and keep it in a bottle closely corked. 86. _a water for pimples in the face._ boil together a handful of the herbs patience, and pimpernel in water; and wash yourself every day with the decoction. 87. _a fluid to clear a tanned skin._ take unripe grapes, soak them in water, sprinkle them with alum and salt, then wrap them up in paper, and roast them in hot ashes; squeeze out the juice, and wash the face with it every morning, it will soon remove the tan. 88. _a fluid to whiten the skin._ take equal parts of the roots of centaury and the white vine, a pint of cow's milk, and the crumb of a wheaten loaf; distil in a glass alembic. the distilled water, for use, must be mixed with an equal quantity of hungary water: it then admirably clears the complexion. the distilled waters of fennel, and white lilies, with a little gum mastic, will produce the same effect. 89. _a beautifying wash._ put into a cucurbit five pints of french brandy; add to it a pound and a half of crumb of bread, three ounces of plum-tree-gum, two ounces of litharge of silver in fine powder, and four ounces of sweet almonds. the ingredients are to be beat together into a paste, and left to digest in the spirit eight days; then distil in a vapour-bath, and wash the face and hands with the water thus obtained. it must be suffered to dry on the skin without being wiped off, and the complexion will presently become clear and glossy. 90. _a distilled water that tinges the cheeks a beautiful carnation hue._ take two quarts of white wine vinegar, three ounces of isinglass, two ounces of bruised nutmegs, and six ounces of honey; distil with a gentle fire, and add to the distilled water a small quantity of red sanders, in order to colour it. before the tincture is used, a lady should wash herself with elder-flower water, and then the cheeks will become of a fine lively vermillion, that cannot be distinguished from the natural bloom of youth. 91. _a cosmetic water._ take three aron roots minced small, three melons of a middling size, three cucumbers, four new laid eggs, a slice of a pumkin, two lemons, a pint of whey, a gallon of rose-water, a quart of water-lily-water, a pint of plantain, as much white tansy-water, and half an ounce of borax. distil the whole together in a vapour-bath. 92. _a water, christened, the fountain of youth._ take an ounce of sulphur vivum; olibanum and myrrh, each two ounces; six drachms of amber; a quart of rose-water; distil the whole in a vapour-bath, and wash yourself with the water every night going to rest: the next morning wash yourself with weak barley-water, and your complexion will have a youthful air. it is asserted also that the distilled water of green pine-apples takes away wrinkles, and gives the complexion an air of youth. 93. _a water to preserve the complexion._ mix together water-lily water, bean-flower water, melon water, cucumber water, and lemon juice, of each an ounce; to which add, of bryony, wild succory, white lilies, borrage and bean flowers, each a handful. take seven or eight white pigeons, pick them, and cut off their heads and pinions, mince the rest of them small, and put them into an alembic with the other ingredients. to these add four ounces of sugar candy in powder, as much camphor, and the crumb of three small wheaten loaves, each weighing about half a pound; digest the whole eighteen or twenty days in an alembic, then distil, and keep the water that is drawn off in proper vessels for use. before washing with it, carefully observe to cleanse the face with the following composition. take a quarter of a pound of the crumb of rye bread hot from the oven, the whites of four new laid eggs, and a pint of white wine vinegar; beat the whole well together, and strain through a linen rag. the use of these two preparations perfectly cleanses and clears the skin, preserves its freshness, and prevents wrinkles. 94. _a water that gives a gloss to the skin._ take a handful of bean, elder, and bugloss flowers, a small pigeon clean drawn, the juice of two lemons, four ounces of salt, and five ounces of camphor; distil them in a vapour-bath; add to the distilled water a few grains of musk, and expose it to the sun for the space of a month, observing to take the vessel within doors every night. the way to use this water, is to dip the corner of a fine napkin in it, and gently rub the face. 95. _a preservative from tanning._ infuse in clean water for three days a pound of lupines, then take them out, and boil them in a copper vessel with five quarts of fresh water. when the lupines are boiled tender, and the water grows rather ropy, press out the liquor, and keep it for use. whenever you are under a necessity of exposing yourself to the sun, wash the face and neck with this preparation. the oil of unripe olives, in which a small quantity of gum mastic has been dissolved, possesses the same virtue. 96. _to remove freckles._ take houseleek, and celandine, of each an equal quantity; distil in a sand heat, and wash with the distilled water. 97. _or,_ apply the juice of onions to the part affected. 98. _or,_ boil ivy leaves in wine, and foment the face with the decoction. 99. _a water to prevent freckles, or blotches in the face._ take wild cucumber-roots and narcissus-roots, of each an equal quantity; dry them in the shade, and reduce them to a very fine powder, putting them afterwards into strong french brandy, with which wash the face, till it begins to itch; and then wash it with cold water. this method must be repeated every day till a perfect cure is obtained, which will soon happen, for this water has a slight caustic property, and of course must remove all spots on the skin. 100. _or,_ take a handful of fresh wood-ashes, boil them in a pint of clear water, till one half is wasted away, then pour off the liquor as long as it runs clear; boil it again a little while, and filter it through coarse paper. 101. _a water to improve the complexion._ take snakeweed-roots and narcissus-roots, of each an equal quantity; a pint of cow's milk, and the crumb of a wheaten loaf; distil these ingredients in a glass alembic. this water should be mixed with an equal quantity of hungary-water. 102. _or,_ take chick peas, french beans, and garden beans, of each four ounces; peel off their skins, powder them, and infuse in a quart of white wine; add the gall of an ox, and the whites of fifteen new laid eggs. mix the ingredients thoroughly, distil in a glass alembic with a sand heat; and wash the face with the distilled water, as occasion requires. 103. _a cosmetic water._ take a pound and a half of fine wheaten bread, four ounces of peach kernels, the same quantity of the four cold seeds, viz. gourd-seed, cucumber-seed, melon-seed, and lettuce-seed; the whites of twelve new laid eggs, the juice of four lemons, three ounces of sugar candy, a gallon of goat's milk; mix the whole together, and distil in a vapour-bath. to every two quarts of the distilled water, add a quarter of a pint of spirit of cherries. 104. _or,_ take six aron roots minced small, six ounces of bran, four ounces and a half of myrrh in powder, three pints of milk, and the same quantity of wine; distil according to the rules of art; and to the distilled water add a small bit of alum. 105. _a simple balsamic water, which removes wrinkles._ take barley-water, strained through a piece of fine linen cloth, and drop into it a few drops of balm of gilead; shake the bottle for several hours, until the balsam is entirely incorporated with the water, which is known by the turbid milky appearance of the mixture. this greatly improves the complexion, and preserves the bloom of youth. if used only once a day, it takes away wrinkles, and gives the skin a surprising lustre. before this fluid is used, the face should be washed clean with rain water. 106. _a water to change the eye-brows black._ first wash your eyebrows with a decoction of gall nuts; then wet them with a pencil or little brush dipped in a solution of green vitriol, in which a little gum arabic has been dissolved, and when dry, they will appear of a beautiful black colour. 107. _to remove worms in the face._ make use of the distilled waters of the whites of eggs, bean flowers, water lilies, white lilies, melon seeds, iris roots, solomon's seal, white roses, or crumb of wheaten bread, either mixed together, or separately, with the addition of the white of a new-laid egg. 108. _the duchess de la vrilliere's mouth-water._ take cinnamon, two ounces; cloves, six drachms; water cresses, six ounces; fresh lemon peel, an ounce and a half; red rose leaves, an ounce; scurvy grass, half a pound; spirit of wine, three pints. bruise the spices, cut the water cresses and scurvy grass small, and macerate the whole in spirit of wine, in a bottle well corked, during twenty-four hours; then distil to dryness in a vapour-bath, and afterwards rectify the distilled water, by repeating the same process. this water strengthens the gums, prevents the scurvy, and cures aphthæ, or little ulcerations in the mouth. it is used to gargle the mouth with, either by itself, or diluted with water, as occasion may require. 109. _another water for the teeth, called spirituous vulnerary water._ for this intention are commonly used spirituous waters, that are no ways disagreeable; waters proper to strengthen and fortify the gums, as spirituous vulnerary water tinctured with cochineal, or seed lac; guaiacum water, or the duchess de la vrilliere's water above described. to tinge vulnerary water, put any quantity into a glass matrass, and infuse in it some bruised cochineal; then filter the vulnerary water, and use it to gargle the mouth, after which the teeth are to be cleaned with tooth powder. this, when found too strong, may be lowered by the addition of spring water. 110. _receipt to make vulnerary water._ take fresh gathered leaves of sage, angelica, wormwood, savory, fennel, and spiked mint, of each four ounces; leaves of hyssop, balm, sweet basil, rue, thyme, marjoram, rosemary, origanum, calamint, and wild thyme, fresh gathered, of each four ounces; the same quantity of lavender flowers, and a gallon of rectified spirit of wine. cut the herbs small, infuse them ten or twelve hours in spirit of wine, and then distil in a vapour-bath. preserve the spirit drawn off, in a bottle well corked. 111. _a water for the gums._ take of the best cinnamon, an ounce; cloves, three drachms; the yellow peel of two lemons; red rose leaves, half an ounce; water cresses, half a pound; scurvy grass, four ounces; rectified spirit of wine, three gallons: bruise the spices, and infuse the whole a sufficient time in the spirit in a glass vessel; then distil off the spirit for use, in a vapour-bath. 112. _another, prepared by infusion._ take two drachms of cinnamon, finely powdered; half a drachm of cloves, in fine powder; and half an ounce of roch alum; pour on them three gallons of boiling water; when cold, add six ounces of plantain water, half an ounce of orange-flower water, a quarter of an ounce of essence of lemons, and a gill and a half of rectified spirit of wine; let the whole stand together in digestion four and twenty hours, then filter through paper, and reserve the clear water for use. 113. _or,_ take mace, cinnamon, cloves, pellitory of spain, and terra sigillata, or sealed earth, of each half an ounce; beat the whole together in a mortar, and infuse it a month in a quart of spirit of wine. strain off the spirit, and add eight ounces of spirit of scurvy grass. drop six or seven drops in a glass of very clear water, and rince the mouth; afterwards rubbing the gums with conserve of hips acidulated with five or six drops of spirit of vitriol. 114. _another water for the gums._ take of the best cinnamon, an ounce; cloves, three drachms; the peel of two lemons; half an ounce of red rose leaves; half a pound of water cresses, four ounces of scurvy grass, and three gallons of rectified spirit of wine. bruise the spices, and let the whole stand in digestion in a glass vessel twenty-four hours; then distil in a vapour-bath. 115. _a simple depilatory._ oil of walnuts frequently rubbed on a child's forehead, will prevent the hair from growing on that part. 116. _prepared sponges for the face._ steep in water some time the finest and thinnest sponges you can pick out; wash them well, dry them, and soak them in brandy a whole day; then squeeze the brandy out, and dry them again. lastly, dip them in orange-flower water, and let them remain in it eleven or twelve hours. when squeezed, and thoroughly dried, they are fit for use. 117. _spirit of roses._ to make the inflammable spirit of roses, take twenty pounds of damask roses, beat them to a paste, in a marble mortar; put this paste, layer by layer, with sea salt, into a large stone jar, or two jars, if one is not large enough to contain the whole quantity; that is to say, sprinkle every layer of the paste about half an inch thick with salt; and press the layers of roses as close together as possible. cork the jar with a waxed cork, cover the upper-most end of the cork, and the edges of the mouth of the jar, with wax also, and place it six weeks, or two months, in a vault, or some other cool place. at the expiration of this period, open the jar; if it exhales a strong vinous smell, the fermentation has arrived at its proper height; but if you do not perceive such an odour, throw into the jar a little yeast, and stop it close in the same manner as before. a strong fermentation having been excited, take five or six pounds of your fermented rose paste, put it into a common cucurbit, and distil it with a very gentle fire in a vapour-bath. when you have drawn off as much water as you can, unlute the alembic; throw away what remains in the cucurbit, take five or six pounds more of the fermented paste of roses, and put it into the cucurbit, with the water already drawn; distil in a vapour-bath with such a degree of fire, as will cause the distilled water to run off in a middling sized stream. when you can draw off no more, empty the cucurbit, fill it again with fresh fermented paste of roses, and pour on it all the distilled water that the preceding distillations have produced. distil as before; and repeat these operations, till you have used all your fermented paste of roses. every time you open the jar, be careful to cork it close, otherwise the most spirituous particles will evaporate. after the last distillation, you will have obtained a very fine scented water, but not very spirituous, because loaded with a considerable quantity of phlegm; and it must therefore be rectified. for this purpose make choice of a very long necked glass matrass of a reasonable size, fill it about three parts full with your unrectified spirit of roses; fit on a bolt-head, and receiver; lute the joints carefully, and distil in a vapour-bath with a very slow fire. when you have drawn off about a tenth part of what was put into the matrass, let the vessel cool, and set apart the spirit that is found in the receiver. what remains in the matrass must not be thrown away as useless, for it is a rose-water far superior to what is prepared according to the usual method. after the first rectification of a part of the spirit, repeat the same operation with another part, till the whole is rectified, and then rectify them all together once more. after this last operation, you will obtain a highly penetrating and inflammable spirit of roses. the phlegmatic part that remains in the matrass may be added to that procured from the preceding rectifications, and the whole kept for use in a cellar or other cool place in a bottle, well corked. the scent of inflammable spirit of roses is extremely sweet; if only two drops of it are mixed with a glass of water, they impart to the water so high a perfume, that it exceeds the very best rose-water. 118. _inflammable spirits of all kinds of flowers._ to distil an inflammable spirit from flowers of all kinds, the preceding method must be used; as also to procure one from all kinds of vegetables. only observe that in plants, and dried flowers, as thyme, betony, mint, stechas, violets, and jasmine, the seeds must be bruised with the flowers and roots; as they also must with the flowers of the tuberose lily, angelica, iris; in odoriferous fruits, as oranges, lemons, citrons, &c. add the rind of those fruits to the flowers; and to the flowers of elder, juniper, lily of the valley, and acacia, &c. add the berries well moistened; whether green or dry is of no signification. essences. 119. _method of extracting essences from flowers._ procure a wooden box lined with tin, that the wood may not communicate any disagreeable flavour to the flowers, nor imbibe the essence. make several straining frames to fit the box, each about two inches thick, and drive in them a number of hooks, on which fix a piece of callicoe stretched tight. the utmost care is requisite, to have the straining cloths perfectly clean and dry before they are used. after having caused the cloths to imbibe as much oil of ben as possible, squeeze them a little, then stretch and fix them on the hooks of the frames; put one frame thus completed at the bottom of the box, and upon its cloth strow equally those flowers, the essence of which you intend to extract; cover them with another frame, on the cloth of which you are to strow more flowers, and continue to act in the same manner till the box is quite filled. the frames being each about two inches thick, the flowers undergo very little pressure, though they lye between the cloths. at the expiration of twelve hours, apply fresh flowers in the same manner, and continue so to do for some days. when you think the scent powerful enough, take the cloths from the frames, fold them in four, roll them up, and tie them tight with a piece of whip-cord, to prevent their stretching out too much, then put them into a press, and squeeze out the oil. the press must be lined with tin, that the wood may not imbibe any part of the oil. place underneath a very clean earthen or glass vessel to receive the essence, which is to be kept in bottles nicely corked. the essence of one kind of flower only, can be made in a box at the same time, for the scent of one would impair that of another. for the same reason, the cloths that have been used to extract the essence of any particular flower, cannot be used to extract the essence of another, till washed clean in a strong lye, and thoroughly dried in the open air. this method is of great use to obtain the scent of flowers which afford no essential oil by distillation, such as tuberoses, jasmine, and several others. 120. _or,_ take any flowers you please, and put them in a large jar, layer by layer, mixed with salt, as directed for inflammable spirit of roses, till the jar is quite full; then cork it tight, and let it stand in a cellar, or some other cool place, for forty days; at the expiration of which time, empty the whole into a sieve, or straining cloth, stretched over the mouth of a glazed earthen or stone pan, to receive the essence that drains from the flowers upon squeezing them gently. afterwards put the essence into a glass bottle, which must not be filled above two thirds; cork it tight, and expose it to the heat of the sun in fine weather, five and twenty or thirty days, to purify the essence, a single drop of which will be capable of scenting a quart of water or any other liquid. 121. _essence of ambergrise._ take of ambergrise a quarter of an ounce; the same quantity of sugar candy; musk, half a drachm; and civet, two grains; rub them together, and put the mixture into a phial: pour upon it a quarter of a pint of tartarised spirit of wine, stop close the phial, which set in a gentle sand heat for four or five days, and then decant the clear tincture for use. this makes the best of perfumes; the least touch of it leaves its scent upon any thing a great time; and in constitutions where such sweets are not offensive to the head, nothing can be a more immediate cordial. 122. _a remedy for st. anthony's fire or erysipelatous eruptions on the face._ take narcissus roots, an ounce; fresh nettle-seeds, half an ounce; beat them together into a soft paste with a sufficient quantity of white wine vinegar, and anoint the eruptions therewith every night; or, bathe the part affected with the juice of cresses. flowers. 123. _manner of drying flowers, so as to preserve their natural colours._ take fine white sand, wash it repeatedly, till it contains not the least earth or salt, then dry it for use. when thoroughly dry, fill a glass or stone jar half full of sand, in which stick the flowers in their natural situation, and afterwards cover them gently with the same, about the eighth part of an inch above the flower. place the glass in the sun, or, if in winter-time, in a room where a constant fire is kept, till the flower is perfectly dried. then remove the sand with the utmost precaution, and clean the leaves with a feather brush. particular flowers lose in some measure their natural lively colours, but this may be helped by the assistance of art. roses and other flowers of a delicate colour, recover their natural lustre by being exposed to a moderate vapour of brimstone; but crimson or scarlet flowers, by being exposed to the vapour of a solution of tin in spirit of nitre. the vapour of a solution of filings of steel in spirit of vitriol, restores to the leaves and stalk, their primitive green colour. this method succeeds perfectly well in single flowers. there are some difficulties with respect to pinks, carnations, and other double flowers; to succeed with them, split the cup on each side, and when the flower is quire dry, glue it together with gum-water; or prick the cup in different parts with a large pin. as to the scent, which is in great measure lost in drying, it may be restored, by dropping into the middle of the flower a drop of its essential oil; for instance, a drop of oil of roses on a rose, oil of cloves on a clove-july-flower, oil of jasmine on a jasmine flower. 124. _a secret to preserve flowers._ fill an earthen, copper, or wooden vessel half full of sifted sand, then fill it up to the brim with clear spring water, and stir the sand well with a stick in order to detach the earthy particles. when the sand has thoroughly settled, pour off the turbid water by inclination, add fresh water, and continue to wash the sand, till all the water that floats on its surface remains perfectly clear. the sand being thus cleansed, expose it to the heat of the sun a sufficient time, to exhale entirely its humidity. prepare for every flower an earthen or tin vessel of a proper size, make choice of the finest, most perfect, and driest flowers of their respective kinds, and be careful to leave the stalks of a good length. place them upright in the vessel, with one hand as lightly as possible, about two or three inches below the rims, so as not to touch the sides, or each other; and with the other hand gradually pour on them the sand till the stalk is quite covered; then lightly cover the flower itself, separating the leaves a little. the tulip requires a farther operation. the triangular top that rises out of the middle of the cup, must be cut off, by which means the leaves of the flower will adhere better to the stalk. when the vessel is filled with flowers, leave it a month or two exposed to the rays of the sun; and the flowers when taken out, though dry, will be very little inferior in beauty to new-blown flowers, but will have lost their scent. 125. _another secret to preserve flowers._ take the finest river sand you can get, after having sifted it several times through a fine sieve, throw it into a glass vessel full of clear water, and rub it a good while between your fingers to render it still finer; then pour off the water by inclination, and dry the sand in the sun. the sand being thus prepared, bury the flowers gently in it with their leaves and stalk, disposing them in such a manner that their form may not be in the least injured. after having thus kept flowers some time, till their humid particles are entirely evaporated, take them out, and inclose them in bottles, well corked; secure them from all changes of the atmosphere, but let them enjoy a temperate warmth; for if the heat is too great, the colours fade; and if not kept sufficiently warm, the humidity of the flowers will not wholly evaporate. 126. _another method of preserving flowers a long while, in their natural shape and colour._ take the finest river sand, divested of whatever impurities it may contain; then dry it in the sun or a stove, sift it through a sieve, and only make use of the finest part. procure a tin box, or a wooden box lined with tin, of any size you think proper, cover the bottom of the box three or four inches deep with prepared sand, and stick in it the stalks of the flowers in rows, but in such a manner that none of the flowers may touch each other, afterwards filling the vacuities between the stalks with sand. then spread the sand all round the flowers, which cover with a layer about two or three inches thick. put this box in a place exposed to the sun, or in some warm situation, for the space of a month. with respect to tulips, the pistil that rises in the middle, and contains the seed, must be dexterously cut out, and the empty space filled with sand: too many flowers should not be put into the same box, nor should the box be too large. gloves. 127. _white gloves scented with jasmine after the italian manner._ take half an ounce of white wax; dissolve it over a gentle fire in two ounces of oil of ben. dress your skins with this liquid, dry them on lines, and clean them well with the purest water; when they are dried and properly stretched, make them up into gloves, which are to have the jasmine flowers applied to them eight days according to the usual method; then bring them into shape, and fold them smooth. this manner of working them up, communicates to the gloves the property of retaining the scent of the flowers much better than those that are drest otherwise, and likewise imparts to them the virtue of preserving the hands and arms delicately soft and white. 128. _gloves scented without flowers._ take an ounce of liquid storax, an ounce of rose-wood, the same quantity of florentine orrice, and half an ounce of yellow sanders. beat the three last articles into a very fine powder, and add to it the storax, with the earths that you use to dye your gloves, and a little gum arabic. then take an equal quantity of rose and orange flower water, to temper this composition which you lay on your gloves; when they are dry, rub them well, and fold them up; then dress them afresh with a little gum water, in which has been dissolved some powder of florentine orrice; hang them up to dry, and afterwards bring them into form, and fold them up as fit for use. 129. _white gloves scented with ketmia or musk seed._ take an ounce of yellow sanders, an ounce of florentine orrice, an ounce of gum benjamin, two ounces of rose-wood, and a drachm of storax; reduce the whole to fine powder, with as much ceruss as you choose. mix them with rose-water, and dress your gloves with the mixture as neatly as you can for the first coat; then rub them well, and open them when they are thoroughly dry. use the same for the second coat, with the addition of a little gum arabic. for the third coat, levigate on a marble, eight grains of ketmia seed, four grains of civet, a little oil of ben, and a very little gum tragacanth, dissolved in rose-water; add to this composition a quarter of a pint of orange flower water; after having applied this third coat to your gloves, bring them into form, before they get thoroughly dry. 130. _to colour gloves a curious french yellow._ take chalk and wood ashes, of each an equal quantity, and make a strong lye of them; then strain off the clear liquor, and simmer it over the fire with a little turmeric in powder, and a very little saffron, till it becomes pretty thick; after which set the liquor by to cool, and it is fit for use. 131. _an excellent perfume for gloves._ take ambergrise, a drachm; the same quantity of civet; and of orange flower butter, a quarter of an ounce; mix these ingredients well, and rub them into the gloves with fine cotton wool, pressing the perfume into them. 132. _or,_ take of essence of roses, half an ounce; oil of cloves and mace, of each a drachm; frankincense, a quarter of an ounce; mix them, and lay them in papers between your gloves. being hard pressed, the gloves will take the scent in twenty-four hours, and afterwards hardly ever lose it. 133. _an excellent receipt to clear a tanned complexion._ at night going to rest, bathe the face with the juice of strawberries, and let it lie on the part all night, and in the morning wash yourself with chervil water. the skin will soon become fair and smooth. 134. _or,_ wash yourself with the mucilage of linseed, fleawort, gum tragacanth, or juice of purslain mixed with the white of an egg. breath. 135. _to sweeten the breath._ at night, going to bed, chew about the quantity of a small nut of fine myrrh. 136. _or,_ chew every night and morning a clove, a piece of florentine orrice-root, about the size of a small bean, or the same quantity of burnt alum. oils. 137. _a cosmetic oil._ take a quarter of a pint of oil of sweet almonds, fresh drawn; two ounces of oil of tartar per deliquium; and four drops of oil of rhodium: mix the whole together, and make use of it to cleanse and soften the skin. 138. _another cosmetic oil._ take a pint of cream, infuse in it a few water lilies, bean flowers, and roses; simmer the whole together in a vapour-bath, and keep the oil that proceeds from it in a vial, which is to be left for some time exposed to the evening dews. 139. _oil of wheat._ this oil is extracted by an iron press, in the same manner as oil of almonds. it is excellent for chaps in either the lips or hands, tetterous eruptions, and rigidity of the skin. 140. _compound oil, or essence of fennel._ take five pints of the best french brandy, and the same quantity of white-wine; three quarters of a pound of bruised fennel seeds, and half an ounce of liquorice root sliced and bruised. put the whole into an alembic, close the mouth with parchment, and set it in a hot house, or in hot ashes, two days; then distil off the liquor with an uniform middling fire. what remains after the distillation of the essence, and is called the white drops, is only fit to wash the hands with. 141. _to make oil of tuberoses and jasmine._ bruise a little the tuberoses or jasmine flowers in a marble mortar with a wooden pestle; put them into a proper vessel, with a sufficient quantity of oil of olives, and let them stand in the sun in a close stopped vessel twelve or fifteen days to infuse; at the expiration of which time, squeeze the oil from the flowers. let the oil stand in the sun to settle, then pour it clear off the dregs. this oil is very fragrant, and well impregnated with the essential oil of these flowers. infuse a fresh parcel of flowers, newly gathered, in the same oil, and proceed as before: repeat this operation twelve or fourteen times, or even oftener if necessary, till the oil is fully impregnated with the flavour of the flowers. some people use oil of ben instead of sallad oil, which in our opinion is preferable, being infinitely less apt to grow rancid. the oils of tuberoses, and jasmine flowers are of use for the toilet on account of their fragrancy. there are cases in which they may be successfully used externally by way of friction, to comfort and strengthen the nerves, and brace up the skin when too much relaxed. 142. _an oil scented with flowers for the hair._ sallad oil, oil of sweet almonds, and oil of nuts, are the only ones used for scenting the hair. blanch your almonds in hot water, and when dry, reduce them to powder; sift them through a fine sieve, strewing a thin layer of almond-powder, and one of flowers, over the bottom of the box lined with tin. when the box is full, leave them in this situation about twelve hours; then throw away the flowers, and add fresh ones in the same manner as before, repeating the operation every day for eight successive days. when the almond-powder is thoroughly impregnated with the scent of the flower made choice of, put it into a new clean linen cloth, and with an iron press extract the oil, which will be strongly scented with the fragrant perfume of the flower. essential oils, or quintessences. 143. _essential oil, commonly called quintessence of lavender._ fill a cucurbit two thirds full with unwashed lavender flowers, pour upon them as much clear water as will float about two inches above the flowers. fit to the cucurbit a head with a short neck, and lute on the refrigeratory vessel. distil in the common manner with a fire of such a degree of strength as will cause the distilled water to run off in a thick thread. the phlegm and spirit will come over in a considerable quantity, and the essential oil, with which lavender greatly abounds, will soon appear floating on the surface of the water in the receiver; which is to be separated according to the rules of art. as soon as you perceive that no more oil drops into the receiver, which generally happens to be the case a good while before the phlegm is entirely drawn off, finish your distillation. if you want a larger quantity of quintessence, empty the still, put fresh flowers, and adding the phlegm and spirit drawn off by the former distillation, instead of so much common water, distil as before, till you have obtained a sufficient quantity. this quintessence possesses great medicinal virtues, and is particularly serviceable in vapourish and hysteric disorders. 144. _to make essence of cinnamon._ take half a pound of cinnamon, reduce it in a mortar to an impalpable powder, put it into a very long necked matrass, pour on it as much highly rectified spirit of wine as will cover the powder about an inch. stop the matrass with a found cork coated with bees-wax, and expose it to the sun for a whole month, observing to shake it well twice a day. at the expiration of the month, uncork the matrass, using the utmost precaution not to disturb the sediment; and gently pour off the tincture into a clean vial. 145. _to make quintessence of cloves._ take a pound of cloves, beat them in a mortar, put them into a glass vessel, and pour on them a gallon of hot but not boiling water, cork the bottle close with a waxed cork, placed in a warm place, and let the cloves infuse three weeks or a month; then empty the contents of the bottle into a middling sized still, fit on a low head with a short neck, and distil in the common manner, with a fire of such a degree of fierceness as to make the distilled water run off in a stream, resembling a thick thread. the quintessence will come over with the spirit, mixed with a large quantity of phlegm; but being heavier than either of those substances, will be found precipitated to the bottom of the receiver. separate it in the usual manner, and keep it for use in a vial closely corked. then unlute your still, and throw in the spirituous water that remains after the separation of the quintessence; distil it a second time, and you will obtain a small quantity more, which may be added to the former. 146. _a cosmetic juice._ make a hole in a lemon, fill it with sugar candy, and close it nicely with leaf gold applied over the rind that was cut out; then roast the lemon in hot ashes. when desirous of using the juice, squeeze out a little through the hole, and wash the face with a napkin wetted with it. this juice greatly cleanses the skin, and brightens the complexion. virgin's milk. 147. _a safe and approved cosmetic._ take equal parts of gum benjamin, and storax, and dissolve them in a sufficient quantity of spirit of wine. the spirit will then become a reddish tincture, and exhale a very fragrant smell. some people add a little balm of gilead. drop a few drops into a glass of clear water, and the water, by stirring, will instantly become milky. ladies use it successfully to clear the complexion, for which purpose nothing is better, or indeed so innocent and safe. 148. _another, very easily made._ beat a quantity of houseleek in a marble mortar, squeeze out the juice and clarify it. when you want to use it, pour a few drops of rectified spirit on the juice, and it will instantly turn milky. it is a very efficacious remedy for a pimpled face, and preserves the skin soft and smooth. 149. _another._ take a half-gallon bottle, pour into it a quart of spirit of wine, and a pint of clear brandy; then add a quarter of a pound of the finest gum benjamin, two ounces of storax, half an ounce of cinnamon, two drachms of cloves, and a nutmeg, all bruised, and four drops of quintessence of egyptian ketmia. carefully cork the bottle, and expose it to the sun a month; but take it within doors in rainy weather. at the month's end, gently draw off the clear tincture; and you will have a fragrant milk, which is used by pouring a few drops on a wet napkin. 150. _a liniment to destroy vermin._ take an ounce of vinegar, the same quantity of stavesacre, half an ounce of honey, and half an ounce of sulphur; mix into the consistence of a soft liniment, with two ounces of sallad oil. lotions. 151. _a lotion to strengthen the gums, and sweeten the breath._ take mountain wine, and the distilled water of bramble leaves, of each a pint; half an ounce of cinnamon; a quarter of an ounce of cloves; the same quantity of seville orange-peel; gum lacque and burnt alum, of each a drachm, all in fine powder. having added two ounces of fine honey, put the whole into a glass bottle, and let them infuse on hot ashes the space of four days. on the fifth day squeeze the liquor through a thick linen cloth, and preserve it in a bottle, well corked. when the gums are relaxed, and want bracing, take a spoonful of this liquid, and pour it into a glass. first use one half to rince the mouth; and after retaining it a little, spirt it out. use the remainder in the same way, rubbing the gums with one of your fingers; and afterwards rince the mouth with warm-water. repeat the operation every morning, or twice a day, if occasion requires. to render this remedy more efficacious, add to the whole quantity of the lotion half a pint of cinnamon water, distilled from white wine. the eastern nations, to procure a sweet breath, to render the teeth beautifully white, and fasten the gums, frequently chew boiled chio turpentine, or gum mastic. the indians who live beyond the ganges chew it all day long, and are so used to this habit, that they cannot without difficulty refrain from it. the spirituous water of guaiacum possesses the property of giving ease in the tooth-ache, and fastening the teeth in their sockets. the mouth is to be gargled with a quantity mixed in a glass of clear water. 152. _another lotion to fasten the teeth and sweeten the breath._ pour three pints of water into an earthen or stone jar, dip in it four different times a red hot poker, and then immediately add an ounce of bruised cinnamon, six grains of burnt alum, an ounce of powdered pomegranate bark, three ounces of fine honey; of vulnerary water, rue water, and myrtle water, each a quarter of a pint; and of brandy, half a pint. the whole being well mixed, tie a wet bladder over the mouth of the jar, and let it stand in the sun, or any warm place, for twenty-four hours; then strain off the liquor through a thick linen cloth, or strong straining bag. add to it two ounces of spirit of scurvy-grass, and keep it in a bottle, well corked. it is used in the same manner as the preceding lotion. 153. _an admirable lotion for the complexion._ after having washed the face with soap and water, wash yourself with the following lixivium. take clear lees prepared from vine ashes, and to every pound of it, add an ounce of calcined tartar, two drachms of gum sandarach, and as much gum juniper. let this lotion dry on the face without wiping it off, and afterwards wash yourself with imperial water. 154. _an admirable varnish for the skin._ take equal parts of lemon juice, and whites of new laid eggs, beat them well together in a glazed earthen pan, which put on a slow fire, and keep the mixture constantly stirring with a wooden spatula, till it has acquired the consistence of soft butter. keep it for use, and at the time of applying it, add a few drops of any essence you like best. before the face is rubbed with this varnish, it will be proper to wash with the distilled water of rice. this is one of the best methods of rendering the complexion fair, and the skin smooth, soft, and shining. 155. _a liniment to destroy nits._ take oil of bays, oil of sweet almonds, and old hogs lard, of each two ounces, powdered stavesacre, and tansy juice, of each half an ounce; aloes, and myrrh, of each a quarter of an ounce, the smaller centaury and salt of sulphur, of each a drachm; mix the whole into a liniment. before you use it, wash the hair with vinegar. 156. _a liniment to change the beard and hair black._ take oil of costus, and oil of myrrh, of each an ounce and a half; mix them well in a leaden mortar, adding of tar, the expressed juice of walnut leaves, and gum labdanum, each half an ounce; gall nuts in fine powder, and black lead, of each a drachm and a half; the same quantity of frankincense; and a sufficient quantity of mucilage of gum arabic, prepared with a decoction of gall nuts. apply it to the head and chin after being clean shaved. 157. _a depilatory liniment._ take a quarter of a pound of quick-lime, an ounce and a half of orpiment, an ounce of florentine orrice, half an ounce of sulphur, the same quantity of nitre, and a pound or pint of a lixivium made of bean-stalk ashes; boil the whole to a proper consistence, which may be known by dipping a wet feather into it. it is boiled enough when the feathery part of the quill easily separates from the other. then add half an ounce of oil of lavender, or any aromatic essence, and mix into a liniment, with which if you rub the hair that grows on any part of the body, it will immediately drop off. when the hair is removed, foment the part with oil of sweet almonds, or oil of roses. 158. _another._ take a quarter of a pound of gum ivy dissolved in vinegar, a drachm of orpiment, a drachm of ant eggs, and two drachms of gum arabic dissolved in juice of henbane, in which half an ounce of quick-lime has been boiled. make the whole into a liniment with a sufficient quantity of fowls grease, and apply a little to the part where you would wish to destroy the hair, after being clean shaved. 159. _an excellent lip-salve._ take an ounce of myrrh, as much litharge in fine powder, four ounces of honey, two ounces of bees-wax, and six ounces of oil of roses; mix them over a slow fire. those who are inclined may add a few drops of oil of rhodium, and some leaf gold. 160. _or,_ take armenian bole, myrrh, and ceruss in fine powder, of each an ounce; mix with a sufficient quantity of goose-grease into a proper consistence. it presently cures chaps in any part of the body. 161. _a liniment to promote the growth and regeneration of the nails._ take two drachms of orpiment, a drachm of manna, the same quantity of aloes and frankincense, and six drachms of white wax. make them into a liniment, which apply to the part with a thumb-stall. nails. 162. _a certain remedy for whitlows; a disorder that frequently affects the fingers._ take pellitory of the wall, cut as small as possible, and mix it with a proportionable quantity of hog's lard; wrap it up in several papers, one over the other, and place it in warm ashes, which though not hot enough to burn the paper, yet retain sufficient heat to roast the pellitory of the wall, and incorporate it thoroughly with the lard. then spread this liniment on a piece of brown paper, wrap it round the whitlow, and apply a fresh dressing, at least twice a day. that it may give the speedier relief, spread the ointment thick. 163. _another._ take vine ashes, with which make a strong lee; and in this, warmed, let the finger soak a good while. to keep up an equal degree of warmth, every minute pour into the vessel a little more hot lees. repeat this operation two or three times, and you will speedily find the good effect of it. perfumes. 164. _scented tables or pastils._ beat into a fine powder, and sift through a hair sieve, a pound of the marc or residuum left in the still, after making angelic water; then put it into a mortar, with a handful of fresh-gathered rose leaves, and a small porringer full of gum tragacanth softened with rose water. beat the whole into a paste; roll it out on a dresser with a rolling-pin, and cut it into lozenges with a knife. to form scented pastils, roll up bits of this paste in the shape of a cone, that they may stand upright, and set them by to dry. these kind of pastils are lighted in the same manner as a candle. they consume entirely away; and, while burning, exhale a fragrant smoke. 165. _a pleasant perfume._ take a drachm of musk, four cloves, four ounces of lavender-seed, a drachm and a half of civet, and half a drachm of ambergrise; heat your pestle and mortar, and rub the musk, cloves, and lavender-seeds together, with a lump of loaf sugar and a wine-glass full of angelic or rose-water. take a handful of powder, and incorporate it well with this mixture, then sift it through a sieve; add two or three pounds more powder, or even a larger quantity, till the perfume is brought to a proper degree of strength. as to the civet, put it on the end of a hot pestle, and rub it well with a handful of powder; after which add, by little and little, six pounds of powder; then sift the whole through a hair sieve to incorporate it with the other perfumed powder. the ambergrise must be well rubbed in the mortar; and by degrees two pounds of powder, either white or grey, must be added to it, till the ambergrise is thoroughly incorporated with the powder; then sift through a hair sieve, and mix all the three powders together. this perfume is to be kept in a leather bag, the seams of which are well sewed with waxed thread. 166. _common perfumed powder._ take florentine orrice, a pound, dried rose leaves, a pound; gum benjamin, two ounces; storax, an ounce; yellow sanders, an ounce and a half; cloves, two drachms; and a little lemon peel; reduce the whole to a fine powder, and mix with it twenty pounds of starch, or rather of grey or white powder; incorporate them well, and sift them through a lawn sieve. 167. _a cassolette._ incorporate the powders of florentine orrice, storax, benjamin and other aromatics, with orange-flower water; and put this paste into a little silver or copper box lined with tin. when you have a mind to use this perfume, set the box on a gentle fire, or on hot ashes, and it will exhale a most delightful odour. 168. _to perfume a house, and purify the air._ take a root of angelica, dry it in an oven, or before the fire, then bruise it well and infuse it four or five days in white wine vinegar. when you use it, lay it upon a brick made red hot, and repeat the operation several times. 169. _a perfume to scent powder._ take a drachm of musk, four ounces of lavender seeds, a drachm and a half of civet, and half a drachm of ambergrise. beat the whole together into powder, and sift through a hair sieve. keep this perfume in a box that shuts very close, to scent powder with, according to your fancy. pastils. 170. _an excellent composition to perfume a room agreeably._ take four ounces of gum benjamin, two ounces of storax, and a quarter of an ounce of aloes-wood. when these ingredients have been well bruised, simmer them about half an hour over a slow fire, in a glazed earthen pipkin, with as much rose-water as will cover them, and then strain off the liquor for use. dry the residuum or marc, and pulverize it in a warm mortar with a pound of charcoal. dissolve some gum tragacanth in the reserved liquor, then add to your powder a drachm of fine oriental musk dissolved in a little rose-water, and form the whole into a paste, of which make pastils about the length and thickness of the little finger, narrower at top than at bottom, that they may stand firm and upright. when they are thoroughly dry, light them at the narrow end, and let them burn till they are wholly consumed. while burning they afford an exquisite perfume. to render the perfume still higher, add six grains of ambergrise. 171. _or,_ pulverize together two ounces of gum benjamin, half an ounce of storax, a drachm of aloes-wood, twenty grains of fine civet, a little sea coal, and loaf sugar; boil the whole in a sufficient quantity of rose-water, to the consistence of a stiff paste. if you are desirous of having your pastils higher flavoured, add twelve grains of ambergrise just before you take the composition off the fire; and the ingredients being thoroughly mixed, form them into pastils. 172. _fragrant pastils made use of by way of fumigation._ take the purest labdanum and gum benjamin, of each two ounces; storax and dry balsam of peru, of each three quarters of an ounce; choice myrrh, half a drachm; gum tacamahac, a quarter of an ounce; olibanum, a drachm; liquid balsam of peru, half an ounce; ambergrise, a quarter of an ounce; musk and civet, of each a scruple; essential oil of rhodium, thirty drops; essential oils of orange-flowers, lemons, and bergamot, of each four drops; gum lacque, in fine powder, two ounces and a half; cascarilla, aloes-wood, rose-wood, st. lucia-wood, yellow sanders, and cinnamon, all powdered, of each a drachm. with the assistance of a vapour-bath reduce them to a mass, which form into pastils in the usual way. 173. _pastils of roses._ pulverize a pound of the marc or residuum left in the still after making angelica water; likewise a large handful of roses; and with a sufficient quantity of gum tragacanth dissolved in rose-water, beat them into a stiff paste, which is to be rolled out upon a marble with a rolling-pin, and cut into lozenges, or formed into pastils. if you have a mind to ornament them, cover them with leaf gold or silver. pastes. 174. _paste of dried almonds to cleanse the skin._ beat any quantity you please, of sweet and bitter almonds in a marble mortar, and while beating, pour on them a little vinegar in a small stream to prevent their turning oily: then add two drachms of storax in fine powder, two ounces of white honey, and two yolks of eggs boiled hard; mix the whole into a paste. 175. _soft almond paste._ blanch in warm water any quantity of bitter almonds, leave them to grow dry, and then beat them in a marble mortar with a little milk, to form them into a paste. to prevent their turning oily, afterwards add the crumb of a light white loaf soaked in milk. beat it with the almonds till they are incorporated into an uniform mass; then put the whole into a kettle, with some fresh milk, and let them simmer over a gentle fire; keeping the composition stirring, till it is boiled into a soft paste. 176. _paste for the hands._ take sweet almonds, half a pound; white wine vinegar, brandy, and spring water, of each two quarts; two ounces of crumb of bread, and the yolks of two eggs. blanch and beat the almonds, moistening them with the vinegar; add the crumb of bread soaked in the brandy, and mix it with the almonds and yolks of egg, by repeated trituration. then pour in the water, and simmer the whole over a slow fire, keeping the composition continually stirring, till it has acquired a proper consistence. 177. _or,_ take bitter and sweet almonds blanched, of each two ounces; pine-nuts, and the four cold seeds, of each an ounce; beat the whole together in a marble mortar with the yolks of two eggs, and the crumb of a small wheaten loaf. moisten the mass with white wine vinegar, put it into a deep pan, simmer it over a slow fire, and when the paste ceases sticking to the pan, it is sufficiently boiled. 178. _or,_ take blanched almonds, a pound; pine-nuts, four ounces; beat them together into a paste with the addition of two ounces of loaf sugar, an ounce of the finest honey, the same quantity of bean flower, and half a gill of brandy. this paste may be scented with the essences of cloves, lemons, bergamot, jasmine, rhodium, orange flowers, &c. or with a few grains of musk, civet, or a few drops of essence of ambergrise, for persons who have no aversion to those perfumes. 179. _or,_ beat half a pound of blanched almonds, with half an ounce of yellow sanders, half an ounce of florentine orrice, and an ounce of calamus aromaticus, in fine powder; pour on them gradually an ounce of rose-water, and then add half a pippin sliced small, a quarter of a pound of stale crumb of white bread sifted fine, and knead the whole into a paste with two ounces of gum tragacanth dissolved in rose-water. 180. _or,_ beat some peeled apples (having first taken out the cores) in a marble mortar, with rose-water, and white wine, of each equal parts. add some crumb of bread, blanched almonds, and a little white soap; and simmer the whole over a slow fire till it acquires a proper consistence. 181. _or,_ infuse some blanched almonds, two or three hours, in goat's or cow's milk, and beat them into a paste. strain the infusion through a linen cloth with a strong pressure, and add to the strained liquor half a pound of the crumb of white bread, a quarter of a pound of borax, and as much burnt roch alum. simmer the whole together, and when almost boiled enough, add an ounce of spermaceti. stir the composition well with a spatula to prevent it from burning to the bottom of the pan; and let it simmer but very gently. 182. _or,_ dry, before the fire, half a pound of bitter almonds blanched, then beat them in a marble mortar as fine as possible, and add a little boiled milk to prevent the almonds from turning oily. beat in the same manner the crumb of two french bricks, with four yolks of eggs boiled hard, and with the addition of some fresh milk knead them into a paste, which incorporate with that of the almonds. pomatums. 183. _cold cream, or pomatum for the complexion._ take white wax and spermaceti, of each a drachm; oil of sweet almonds, two ounces; spring water, an ounce and a half; melt the wax and spermaceti together in the oil of almonds, in a glazed earthen pipkin, over hot ashes, or in a vapour-bath; pour the solution into a marble mortar, and stir it about with a wooden pestle, till it grow cold, and seem quite smooth; then mix the water gradually, and keep stirring, till the whole is incorporated. this pomatum becomes extremely white and light by the agitation, and very much resembles cream, from its similitude to which it has obtained its name. this pomatum is an excellent cosmetic, and renders the skin supple and smooth. some add a little balm of gilead to heighten its virtue; and it is sometimes scented, by using rose-water or orange-flower water in the preparation, instead of spring-water, or with a few drops of any essence, as fancy directs. it is also very good to prevent marks in the face from the small-pox; in which last case, a little powder of saffron, or some desiccative powder, such as flowers of zinc or french chalk, is usually added. keep it for use in a large gallypot tied over with a bladder. 184. _cucumber pomatum._ take hog's lard, a pound; ripe melons, and cucumbers, of each three pounds, verjuice, half a pint; two pippins pared, and a pint of cow's milk. slice the melons, cucumbers, and apples, having first pared them; bruise them in the verjuice, and, together with the milk and hog's lard, put them into an alembic. let them infuse in a vapour-bath eight or ten hours; then squeeze out the liquor through a straining cloth while the mixture is hot, and expose it to the cold air, or set it in a cool place to congeal. afterwards pour off the watery part that subsides, and wash it in several waters, till the last remains perfectly clear. melt the pomatum again in a vapour-bath several times, to separate from it all its humid particles, and every extraneous substance; otherwise it will soon grow rancid. keep it for use in a gallypot tied over with a bladder. 185. _or,_ a more simple cucumber pomatum may be made by simmering together hog's lard and pared cucumbers cut in thin slices. with respect to the rest of the process, follow the method laid down for preparing lip-salve; and keep this pomatum in the same manner as the former. both these pomatums are good cosmetics; they soften the skin, and preserve it cool and smooth. 186. _lavender pomatum._ take two pounds and a half of hog's lard, ten pounds of lavender flowers, and a quarter of a pound of virgin's wax; put two pounds of picked lavender flowers into a proper vessel with the hog's lard, and knead them with your hands into as uniform a paste as possible. put this mixture into a pewter, tin, or stone pot, and cork it tight; place the vessel in a vapour-bath, and let it stand six hours; at the expiration of which time, strain the mixture through a coarse linen cloth, with the assistance of a press. throw away the lavender flowers as useless, pour the melted lard back into the same pot, and add four pounds of fresh lavender flowers. stir the lard and flowers together while the lard is in a liquid state, in order to mix them thoroughly; and repeat the former process. continue to act in this manner till the whole quantity of lavender flowers is used. then set in a cool place the pomatum separated from the lavender flowers, that it may congeal; pour off the brown aqueous juice extracted from them; and wash the pomatum in several waters, stirring it with a wooden spatula, to separate any remaining watery particles, till the last water remains perfectly colourless. then melt the pomatum in a vapour-bath, and keep it in that state about an hour, in a vessel well corked; leaving it afterwards to congeal. repeat this last operation till the aqueous particles are entirely extracted when the wax must be added, and the pomatum having been again melted, in a vapour-bath, in a vessel closely corked, be suffered to congeal as before. when properly prepared, fill it into gallypots, and tye the mouths over with wet bladders, to prevent the air from penetrating. this pomatum is extremely fragrant, but is used only for dressing the hair. in the same manner are prepared, orange-flower pomatum, jasmine pomatum, and all pomatums made of odoriferous flowers. common pomatum scented with the essences of any such flowers, may be used as a good succedaneum. 187. lip-salves. take three ounces of oil of almonds, three quarters of an ounce of spermaceti, and a quarter of an ounce of virgin's wax; melt them together over a slow fire, mixing with them a little of the powder of alkanet root. keep stirring till cold, and then add a few drops of oil of rhodium. 188. _or,_ take prepared tutty and oil of eggs, of each equal parts; mix, and apply them to the lips, after washing the latter with barley or plantain water. 189. _or,_ place over a chafing-dish of coals, in a glazed earthen pan, a quarter of a pound of the best fresh butter, and an ounce of virgin's wax; melt them together; when thoroughly melted, throw in the stones of half a bunch of ripe black grapes, with some alkanet roots a little bruised. simmer these ingredient together for a quarter of an hour; afterwards strain the mixture through a fine linen cloth; and pour into your pomatum, which must be again set on the fire, a spoonful of orange-flower water. having let them simmer together a little while, take the pan off the fire, and keep the pomatum stirring till it become quite cold. it will keep a long while, and is a perfect cure for chapped lips. 190. _a yellow lip-salve._ take yellow bee's wax, two ounces and a half; oil of sweet almonds, a quarter of a pint; melt the wax in the oil, and let the mixture stand till it become cold, when it acquires a pretty stiff consistence. scrape it into a marble mortar, and rub it with a wooden pestle, to render it perfectly smooth. keep it for use in a gallypot, closely covered. it is emollient and lenient; of course good for chaps in the lips, hands, or nipples; and preserves the skin soft and smooth. a crust of bread applied hot, is an efficacious remedy for pimples that rise on the lips, in consequence of having drank out of a glass after an uncleanly person. 191. _a scarlet lip-salve._ take hog's lard washed in rose-water, half a pound; red roses and damask roses bruised, a quarter of a pound; knead them together and let them lie in that state two days. then melt the hog's lard, and strain it from the roses. add a fresh quantity of the latter, knead them in the hog's lard, and let them lie together two days as before; then gently simmer the mixture in a vapour-bath. press out the lard, and keep it for use in the same manner as other lip-salves. 192. _or,_ take an ounce of oil of sweet almonds cold drawn, a drachm of fresh mutton suet, and a little bruised alkanet root; simmer the whole together. instead of oil of sweet almonds you may use oil of jasmine, or the oil of any other flower, if you choose the lip-salve should have a fragrant scent. 193. _or,_ take oil of violets, and the expressed juice of mallows, of each an ounce and a half; goose grease and veal marrow, of each a quarter of an ounce; gum tragacanth, a drachm and a half; melt the whole over a gentle fire. 194. _or,_ take half a pound of fresh butter, a quarter of a pound of bee's wax, four or five ounces of cleansed black grapes, and about an ounce of bruised alkanet root; simmer them together over a slow fire till the wax is wholly dissolved, and the mixture become of a bright red colour; then strain, and set it by for use. 195. _or,_ take deer or goat's suet, six ounces; hog's lard, four ounces: cut them into little bits, and wash them five or six different times in white wine; then by hard pressure squeeze out every drop of the wine. melt the fats in a new-glazed earthen pan with half an ounce of orrice roots cut in thin slices, a grated nutmeg, two or three pippins pared and sliced thin, a pint of rose-water, an ounce of bee's wax, and half an ounce of bruised cloves. simmer the whole over a slow fire about half an hour; then strain through a linen cloth into a pan half full of clean water. let the pomatum remain in the pan till cold, then wash it well, and beat it in a marble mortar with two ounces of white wax, till they be thoroughly incorporated. apply a little to the lips every night going to rest; and rub it upon the hands every night and morning. 196. _white pomatum._ take an ounce of florentine orrice-root, half an ounce of calamus aromaticus, and as much gum benjamin, a quarter of an ounce of rose-wood, and a quarter of an ounce of cloves. bruise the whole into a gross powder, tie it up in a piece of linen, and simmer it in a vapour-bath, with two pounds and a half of hog's lard well washed; add a couple of pippins pared and cut into small bits, four ounces of rose-water, and two ounces of orange-flower water. after the ingredients have simmered together a little while, strain off the liquor gently, and let the pomatum stand till cold; then put it by for use in the same manner as other pomatums. 197. _red pomatum_ is made by adding to the above more or less alkanet root bruised, according to the depth of colour you would wish to impart. simmer the pomatum and alkanet together, stirring the mixture with a wooden spatula, till the pomatum is sufficiently tinged; then strain it from the roots, and set it by for use. 198. _a pomatum to remove redness, or pimples in the face._ steep in clear water a pound of a boar's cheek till it becomes tolerably white, drain it quite dry, and put it into a new-glazed earthen pan with two or three pared pippins quartered, an ounce and a half of the four cold seeds bruised, and a slice of veal about the size of the palm of one's hand. boil the whole together in a vapour-bath for four hours, then with a strong cloth squeeze out your pomatum into an earthen dish placed upon hot ashes; adding to it an ounce of white wax, and an ounce of oil of sweet almonds. stir the pomatum well with a spatula till it become cold. 199. _a pomatum for wrinkles._ take juice of white lily roots and fine honey, of each two ounces; melted white wax, an ounce; incorporate the whole together, and make a pomatum. it should be applied every night, and not be wiped off till the next morning. 200. _another for the same intention._ take six new-laid eggs, boil them hard, take out the yolks, and fill the cavities with myrrh, and powdered sugar candy, of each equal parts. join the whites together neatly, and set them on a plate before the fire; mixing the liquor that exsudes from them with an ounce of hog's lard. this pomatum must be applied in the morning, and be suffered to dry upon the skin, which is afterwards to be wiped with a clean fine napkin. 201. _or,_ take half an ounce of sallad oil, an ounce of oil of tartar, half an ounce of mucilage of quince seeds, three quarters of an ounce of ceruss, thirty grains of borax, and the same quantity of sal gem. stir the whole together for some time in a little earthen dish, with a wooden spatula, and apply it in the same manner as the former composition. 202. _pomatum for a red or pimpled face._ take two pared apples, celery, and fennel, of each a handful; and barley meal, a quarter of an ounce. simmer the whole together a quarter of an hour in a gill of rose-water; then add an ounce of fine barley meal, the whites of four new-laid eggs, and an ounce of deer's suet. strain through a canvas bag into a dish that contains a little rose-water; wash the pomatum well in the rose-water, and afterwards beat it in a mortar perfectly smooth. this pomatum is to be applied frequently through the day, to remove the redness of the face, pimples, and even freckles; but to answer the last mentioned purpose, it must be continued till they are entirely effaced. to prevent their return, the person must avoid the intense heat of the sun, and hot drying winds for some time. 203. _a pomatum for the skin._ take oil of white poppy seeds, and of the four cold seeds, of each a gill; spermaceti, three quarters of an ounce; white wax, an ounce: mix them into a pomatum according to the rules of art. a great quantity of a substance resembling butter is extracted from the cocoa tree, which is excellent to mollify and nourish the skin, and has long been used for this purpose amongst the spanish creolian women. 204. _pomatum to make the hair grow in a bald part, and thicken the hair._ take hen's fat, oil of hempseed, and honey, of each a quarter of a pound; melt them together in an earthen pipkin, and keep the mixture stirring with a wooden spatula, till cold. this pomatum, to obtain the desired effect, must be rubbed on the part eight days successively. 205. _another pomatum for the hair._ cut into small pieces a sufficient quantity of hog's cheek, steep it eight or ten days in clean water, which be careful to change three times a day, and every time the water is changed, stir it well with a spatula to make the flesh white. drain the flesh dry, and putting it into a new earthen pipkin, with a pint of rose-water, and a lemon stuck with cloves, simmer them over the fire till the skum looks reddish. skim this off, and removing the pipkin from the fire, strain the liquor. when it has cooled, take off the fat; beat it well with cold water, which change two or three times as occasion may require; the last time using rose-water instead of common water. drain the pomatum dry, and scent it with violets, tuberoses, orange flowers, jasmine, jonquils a la reine, &c. in the following manner. 206. _manner of scenting pomatums for the hair._ spread your pomatum about an inch thick upon several dishes or plates, strewing the flowers you make choice of on one dish, and covering them with another. change the flowers for fresh ones every twelve hours, and continue to pursue this method for ten or twelve days; mixing the pomatum well, and spreading it out every time that fresh flowers are added. it will soon acquire a fragrant scent, and may be used in what manner you think proper. it is good for almost every cosmetic purpose, but more particularly for the hair, which it nourishes, strengthens, preserves, and thickens. 207. _orange-flower pomatum._ take two pounds and a half of hog's lard, and three pounds of orange flowers; mix them together in a marble mortar; then put the mixture into an earthen vessel with some water, and place it in a vapour-bath, where let it stand till the lard is melted, and floats above the flowers. when it has stood till cold, pour away the water, and simmer in the usual manner, with three pounds of fresh orange flowers. repeat the same operation twice more with two pounds of orange flowers each time; and the last time, while the mixture stands in infusion, add a gill of orange-flower water. strain through a hair sieve held over an earthen dish; drain off the water thoroughly when cold, and keep the pomatum in a dry place, in a gallypot close tied over with a bladder. in the same manner are prepared jasmine, jonquil, tuberose, lavender pomatums, and all pomatums scented with flowers. 208. _sultana pomatum._ this pomatum is made of balsam of mecca, spermaceti, and oil of sweet almonds cold drawn. it clears and preserves the complexion, and is of use for red pimpled faces. 209. _a sweet smelling perfume._ take a pound of fresh-gathered orange flowers, of common roses, lavender seeds, and musk roses, each half a pound; of sweet marjoram leaves, and clove-july-flowers picked, each a quarter of a pound; of thyme, three ounces; of myrtle leaves, and melilot stalks stripped of their leaves, each two ounces; of rosemary leaves, and cloves bruised, each an ounce; of bay leaves, half an ounce. let these ingredients be mixed in a large pan covered with parchment, and be exposed to the heat of the sun during the whole summer; for the first month stirring them every other day with a stick, and taking them within doors in rainy weather. towards the end of the season, they will afford an excellent composition for a perfume; which may be rendered yet more fragrant, by adding a little scented cypress-powder, mixed with coarse violet-powder. 210. _another for the same purpose._ take orange flowers, a pound; common roses picked without the yellow pedicles, a pound; clove-july-flowers picked with the white end of their leaves cut off, half a pound; marjoram, and myrtle leaves picked, of each half a pound; musk roses, thyme, lavender, rosemary, sage, chamomile, melilot, hyssop, sweet basil, and balm, of each two ounces; fifteen or twenty bay leaves, two or three handfuls of jasmine, as many little green oranges, and half a pound of salt. put them in a proper vessel, and leave them together a whole month, carefully observing to stir the mixture well twice a day with a wooden spatula or spoon. at the month's end, add twelve ounces of florentine orrice-root in fine powder, and the same quantity of powdered benjamin; of cloves, and cinnamon finely powdered, each two ounces; mace, storax, calamus aromaticus, all in fine powder, and cypress-powder, of each an ounce; yellow sanders and cyprus or sweet flag, of each three quarters of an ounce. mix the whole thoroughly, by stirring, and you will have a very fragrant perfume. powders. 211. _orange-flower powder._ put half a pound of orange flowers into a box that contains twelve pounds and a half of powdered starch; mix them well with the starch, and stir the mixture at intervals, to prevent the flowers from heating. at the expiration of twenty-four hours, remove the old flowers, and mix with the starch the same quantity of fresh orange flowers. continue acting in this manner for three days together, and if you think the perfume not sufficiently strong, add fresh flowers once or twice more. the box must be kept close shut, as well after as during the operation. 212. _jonquil powder._ take of starch powder and jonquil flowers, in the same proportion as in the preceding article; strew the flowers among the powder, and at the expiration of twenty hours, sift it through a coarse sieve. then throw away the flowers, and add to the powder the same quantity of fresh flowers. continue this method four or five days, observing never to touch the powder while the flowers lie mixed with it; and the former will hence acquire a very agreeable perfume. in the same manner are prepared, hyacinth, musk rose, and damask rose powders, &c. 213. _coarse violet powder._ beat separately into coarse powder the following ingredients, viz. half a pound of dried orange flowers; of lemon-peel dried, yellow sanders, musk roses, and gum benjamin, each a quarter of a pound; lavender tops dried, three ounces; of rose wood, calamus aromaticus, and storax, each two ounces; an ounce of sweet marjoram, half an ounce of cloves, two pounds of florentine orrice-root, and a pound of dried provence roses; mix the whole together. when you want to fill bags with this powder, mix a drachm of musk and half a drachm of civet, with a little mucilage of gum tragacanth made with angelic water, and a little sweet-scented water, and rub the inside of the bag over with the composition, before you fill it with the violet powder. 214. _another coarse violet powder._ mix together a pound of florentine orrice-roots, half a pound of dried orange flowers, a quarter of a pound of yellow sanders; of coriander seeds, sweet flag, and of the marc or residuum left after making angelic water, each two ounces; an ounce and a half of calamus aromaticus, and an ounce of cloves; bruise the whole into a coarse powder, and keep it for use in a jar, close stopped. 215. _jasmine powder._ powder french chalk, sift it through a fine sieve, put it in a box, and strew on it a quantity of jasmine flowers; shut down the lid close, and add fresh flowers every four and twenty hours. when the powder is well impregnated with the scent of jasmine, rub together a few grains of civet, ambergrise, and a little white sugar candy, and mix them with the powder. 216. _ambrette powder._ take six ounces of bean flour, and the same quantity of worm-eaten wood, four ounces of cyprus wood, two ounces of yellow sanders, two ounces of gum benjamin, an ounce and a half of storax, a quarter of an ounce of calamus. aromaticus, and as much labdanum; beat the whole into a very fine powder, and sift it through a lawn sieve. add four grains of ambergrise, and half an ounce of mahaleb or musk seeds; mix them with the rest of the powder, and keep the whole in a bottle close stopped for use. you may put any quantity you please of this perfume into common powder, to give it an agreeable flavour. 217. _cyprus powder._ fill a linen bag with oak moss, steep it in water, which change frequently, and afterwards dry the moss in the sun. beat it to powder, and sprinkle it with rose-water; then dry it again, sift it through a fine sieve, and mix with it a small quantity of any of the preceding powders. 218. _another cyprus powder more fragrant._ wash oak moss several times in pure water and dry it thoroughly; then sprinkle over it orange flower and rose-water, and spread it thin upon a hurdle to dry. afterwards place under it a chafing-dish, in which burn some storax and benjamin. repeat this operation till the moss becomes well perfumed; then beat it to fine powder, and to every pound add a quarter of an ounce of musk, and as much civet. 219. _perfumed powder._ take a pound of florentine orrice-root, two ounces of gum benjamin, a pound of dried roses, an ounce of storax, an ounce and a half of yellow sanders, a quarter of an ounce of cloves, and a small quantity of lemon-peel; beat the whole together into fine powder, and then add twenty pounds of starch-powder. sift through a lawn sieve; and colour the powder according to your fancy. 220. _the white powder that enters into the composition of the delightful perfume._ take a pound of florentine orrice-root, twelve cuttle-fish bones, eight pounds of starch, and a handful of sheep or bullock's bones calcined to whiteness; beat the whole into a powder, and sift it through a fine hair sieve. 221. _prepared powder._ pour a quart of brandy, or an ounce of highly rectified spirit of wine, on a pound or a pound and a half of starch, mix them together; then dry the starch, beat it to powder, and sift it through a fine lawn sieve. if you please you may add a little powder of florentine orrice-root. 222. _a powder to nourish the hair._ take roots of the sweet flag, calamus aromaticus, and red roses dried, of each an ounce and a half; gum benjamin, an ounce; aloes wood, three quarters of an ounce; red coral prepared, and amber prepared, of each half an ounce; bean flour, a quarter of a pound, florentine orrice-roots, half a pound; mix the whole together, then beat into a fine powder, and add to it five grains of musk, and the same quantity of civet. this powder greatly promotes the regeneration of the hair, and strengthens and nourishes its roots. the property of enlivening the imagination, and helping the memory is also attributed to it. 223. _common powder._ the best starch dried is generally the basis of all hair-powders: as are, sometimes, worm-eaten or rotten wood, dried bones, or bones calcined to whiteness, which are sifted through a fine hair sieve after they have been beaten to powder. this kind of powder readily takes any scent, particularly that of florentine orrice, a root which naturally possesses a violet smell. of these roots, the whitest and soundest are made choice of; they are to be powdered as fine as possible, and this can only be done during the summer. 224. _white powder._ take four pounds of starch, half a pound of florentine orrice-root, six cuttle-fish bones; ox bones and sheeps bones calcined to whiteness, of each half a handful; beat the whole together, and sift the powder through a very fine sieve. 225. _grey powder._ to the residuum of the preceding add a little starch and wood-ashes in fine powder; rub them together in a mortar some time, and then sift through a fine hair sieve. 226. _another._ take the marc or residuum of the white powder, mix with it a little starch, yellow ochre, and wood-ashes or baker's coals to colour it. beat the whole well in a mortar, then sift it through a hair sieve. beat the coarser parts over again, and sift a second time; repeating these operations till all the composition has passed through the sieve. 227. _flaxen coloured powder._ add to the white powder a very little yellow ochre. the white powder may be tinged of any colour, by adding ingredients of the colour you fancy. 228. _bean flour._ grind any quantity of beans, and sift the meal through a very fine lawn sieve. it will take no other scent than that of florentine orrice. 229. _to sweeten the breath._ roll up a little ball of gum tragacanth, scent it with some odoriferous essence or oil, and hold it in the mouth. a little musk may be added to the ball while rolling up, where that perfume is not disagreeable. 230. _or,_ after having eat garlic or onions, chew a little raw parsley. it will infallibly take away their offensive smell. 231. _a remedy for scorbutic gums._ bruise cinquefoil in a marble mortar, squeeze out the juice, warm it over the fire, and rub the gums with it every night and morning. 232. _a remedy for moist feet._ take twenty pounds of lee made of the ashes of the bay tree, three handfuls of bay leaves, a handful of sweet flag, with the same quantity of calamus aromaticus, and dittany of crete; boil the whole together for some time, then strain off the liquor, and add two quarts of wine. steep your feet in this bath an hour every day, and in a short time they will no longer exhale a disagreeable smell. fleas. 233. _a certain method of destroying fleas._ sprinkle the room with a decoction of arsmart, bitter apple, briar leaves, or cabbage leaves; or smoke it with burnt thyme or pennyroyal. 234. _or,_ put tansy leaves about different parts of the bed, viz. under the matrass, or between the blankets. 235. _or,_ rub the bed-posts well with a strong decoction of elder leaves. 236. _or,_ mercurial ointment, or a fumigation of pennyroyal leaves, or of brimstone, infallibly destroys fleas; as likewise do the fresh leaves of pennyroyal, tied up in a bag, and laid upon the bed. wrinkles. 237. _a secret to take away wrinkles._ heat an iron shovel red hot, throw on it some powder of myrrh, and receive the smoke on your face, covering the head with a napkin to prevent its being dissipated. repeat this operation three times, then heat the shovel again, and when fiery hot pour on it a mouthful of white wine. receive the vapour of the wine also on your face, and repeat it three times. continue this method every night and morning as long as you find occasion. carmines. 238. _a rouge for the face._ alkanet root strikes a beautiful red when mixed with oils or pomatums. a scarlet or rose-coloured ribband wetted with water or brandy, gives the cheeks, if rubbed with it, a beautiful bloom that can hardly be distinguished from the natural colour. others only use a red sponge, which tinges the cheeks of a fine carnation colour. 239. _another._ alum, beat them together into a coarse powder, and boil in a sufficient quantity of red wine, till two thirds of the liquor are consumed. when this decoction has stood till cold, rub a little on the cheeks with a bit of cotton. 240. _the turkish method of preparing carmine._ infuse, during three or four days, in a large jar filled with white wine vinegar, a pound of brazil wood shavings of fernambuca, having first beaten them to a coarse powder; afterwards boil them together half an hour; then strain off the liquor through a coarse linen cloth, set it again upon the fire, and having dissolved half a pound of alum in white wine vinegar, mix both liquors together, and stir the mixture well with a spatula. the scum that rises is the carmine; skim it off carefully, and dry it for use. carmine may also be made with cochineal, or red sanders, instead brazil wood. 241. _a liquid rouge that exactly imitates nature._ take a pint of good brandy, and infuse in it half an ounce of gum benjamin, an ounce of red sanders, and half an ounce of brazil wood, both in coarse powder; with half an ounce of roch alum. cork the bottle tight, shake it well every day, and at the expiration of twelve days the liquor will be fit for use. touch the cheeks lightly with this tincture, and it will scarcely be possible to perceive that rouge has been laid on, it will so nearly resemble the natural bloom. 242. _an oil that possesses the same property._ take ten pounds of sweet almonds, an ounce of red sanders in powder, and an ounce of bruised cloves; pour on them a gill of white wine, and three quarters of a gill of rose-water; stir them well every day. at the end of eight or nine days, squeeze the paste in a press in the same manner as when you mean to extract oil of almonds. sweet-scented bags. 243. _a sweet-scented bag to wear in the pocket._ take thin persian, and make it into little bags about four inches wide, in the form of an oblong square. rub the inside lightly with a little civet, then fill them with coarse powder a la marechale, or any other odoriferous powder you choose; to which add a few cloves, with a little yellow sanders beaten small, and sew up the mouths of the bags. 244. _bags to scent linen._ take rose leaves dried in the shade, cloves beat to a gross powder, and mace, scraped; mix them together, and put the composition into little bags. 245. _an agreeable sweet-scented composition._ take florentine orrice, a pound and a half; rose wood, six ounces; calamus aromaticus, half a pound; yellow sanders, a quarter of a pound; gum benjamin, five ounces; cloves, half an ounce; and cinnamon, an ounce: beat the whole into powder, and fill your bags with it. 246. _ingredients for various sorts of these little bags or satchels._ for this purpose may be used different parts of the aromatic plants; as leaves of southernwood, dragon-wort, balm, mint both garden and wild, dittany, ground-ivy, bay, hyssop, lovage, sweet marjoram, origanum, pennyroyal, thyme, rosemary, savory, scordium, and wild thyme. the flowers of the orange, lemon, lime, and citron tree, saffron, lavender, roses, lily of the valley, clove-july-flower, wall-flower, jonquil, and mace. fruits, as aniseeds, &c. the rinds of lemons, oranges, &c. small green oranges, juniper-berries, nutmegs, and cloves. roots of acorus, bohemian angelica, oriental costus, sweet flag, orrice, zedoary, &c. the woods of rhodium, juniper, cassia, st. lucia, sanders, &c. gums, as frankincense, myrrh, storax, benjamin, labdanum, ambergrise, and amber. barks, as canella alba, cinnamon, &c. care must be taken that all these ingredients are perfectly dry, and kept in a dry place. to prevent their turning black, add a little common salt. when you choose to have any particular flower predominant, a greater quantity of that plant must be used in proportion to the other ingredients. wash-balls. 247. _white soap._ this soap is made with one part of the lees of spanish pot-ash and quick-lime, to two parts of oil of olives or oil of almonds. 248. _honey soap._ take four ounces of white soap, and as much honey, half an ounce of salt of tartar, and two or three drachms of the distilled water of fumitory; mix the whole together. this soap cleanses the skin well, and renders it delicately white and smooth. it is also used advantageously, to efface the marks of burns and scalds. 249. _a perfumed soap._ take four ounces of marsh-mallow roots skinned and dried in the shade, powder them, and add an ounce of starch, the same quantity of wheaten flour, six drachms of fresh pine-nut kernels, two ounces of blanched almonds, an ounce and a half of orange kernels husked, two ounces of oil of tartar, the same quantity of oil of sweet almonds, and thirty grains of musk: thoroughly incorporate the whole, and add to every ounce, half an ounce of florentine orrice-root in fine powder. then steep half a pound of fresh marsh-mallow roots bruised in the distilled water of mallows, or orange flowers, for twelve hours, and forcibly squeezing out the liquor, make, with this mucilage, and the preceding powders and oils, a stiff paste, which is to be dried in the shade, and formed into round balls. nothing exceeds this soap for smoothing the skin, or rendering the hands delicately white. 250. _fine scented wash-ball._ take of the best white soap, half a pound, and shave it into thin slices with a knife; then take two ounces and a half of florentine orrice, three quarters of an ounce of calamus aromaticus, and the same quantity of elder flowers; of cloves, and dried rose leaves, each half an ounce; coriander-seeds, lavender, and bay leaves, of each a drachm, with three drachms of storax. reduce the whole to fine powder, which knead into a paste with the soap; adding a few grains of musk or ambergrise. when you make this paste into wash-balls, soften it with a little oil of almonds to render the composition more lenient. too much cannot be said in favour of this wash-ball, with regard to its cleansing and cosmetic property. 251. _a wash-ball, an excellent cosmetic for the face and hands._ take a pound of florentine orrice, a quarter of a pound of storax, two ounces of yellow sanders, half an ounce of cloves, as much fine cinnamon, a nutmeg, and twelve grains of ambergrise; beat the whole into very fine powder and sift them through a lawn sieve, all except the ambergrise, which is to be added afterwards. then take two pounds of the finest white soap, shaved small, and infuse it in three pints of brandy, four or five days. when it is dissolved, add a little orange flower-water, and knead the whole into a very stiff paste with the best starch finely powdered. then mix the ambergrise, with a little gum tragacanth liquefied in sweet-scented water. of this paste make wash-balls; dry them in the shade, and polish them with a paste-board or lignum vitæ cup. 252. _bologna wash-balls._ take a pound of italian soap cut in small bits, and a quarter of a pound of lime; pour on them two quarts of brandy, let them ferment together twenty-four hours, then spread the mass on a sheet of filtring paper to dry. when quite dry, beat it in a marble mortar, with half an ounce of st. lucia wood, an ounce and a half of yellow sanders, half an ounce of orrice-root, and as much calamus aromaticus, all finely powdered. knead the whole into a paste with whites of eggs, and a quarter of a pound of gum tragacanth dissolved in rose-water, and then form it into wash-balls according to the usual method. 253. _an excellent wash-ball for the complexion._ take two ounces of venetian soap; dissolve it in two ounces of lemon juice, an ounce of oil of bitter almonds, and the same quantity of oil of tartar. mix the whole together, and stir the mixture till it acquires the consistence of a thick paste. 254. _seraglio wash-balls._ take a pound of florentine orrice-roots, a quarter of a pound of gum benjamin, two ounces of storax, two ounces of yellow sanders, half an ounce of cloves, a drachm of cinnamon, a little lemon-peel, an ounce of st. lucia wood, and one nutmeg. reduce the whole to fine powder; then take about two pounds or white soap shaved thin, steep it with the above powder in three pints of brandy, four or five days. afterwards kneading the mass with a sufficient quantity of starch, and adding to it the whites of eggs, with gum tragacanth dissolved in some odoriferous water, form the paste into wash-balls of what size you please. a few grains of musk or civet, or a little essential oil of lavender, bergamot, roses, cloves, clove-july-flowers, jasmine, cinnamon, in short, any that best pleases the fancy of the person who prepares these wash-balls, may be incorporated with the paste while forming into a mass. 255. _a hepatic salt, to preserve the complexion._ take roots of agrimony, two pounds; roots of succory and scorzonera, of each a pound; bitter costus and turmeric, of each half a pound; calamus aromaticus and rhapontic, of each a quarter of a pound; wormwood, southernwood, sweet maudlin, harts-tongue, fluellin, liverwort, fumitory, and dodder of thyme, of each three ounces; calcine the whole in a reverberatory furnace, and add ashes of rhubarb and cassia lignea of each an ounce and a half. make a lee with these ashes in a decoction of the flowers of liverwort, and extract the salt according to art. this salt causes the bile to flow freely, removes obstructions, cures the jaundice, takes away a sallow complexion, and imparts to the skin the ruddy vermillion bloom of health. its dose is from twenty-four to thirty-six grains, in any convenient vehicle. eye-brows. 256. _to change the eye-brows black._ rub them frequently with ripe elder-berries. some use burnt cork, or cloves burnt in the candle; others prefer the black of frankincense, rosin, and mastic. this black will not melt nor come off by sweating. marks of the skin. 257. _to efface spots or marks of the mother, on any part of the body._ steep in vinegar of roses, or strong white wine vinegar, borrage roots stripped of their small adhering fibres, and let them stand to infuse twelve or fourteen hours. bathe the part affected frequently with this infusion, and in time the marks will totally disappear. 258. _or,_ take, towards the end of the month of may, the roots and leaves of the herb bennet; distil them with a sufficient quantity of water in an alembic, and frequently foment the marks with the distilled water. 259. _to take away marks, and fill up the cavities left after the small-pox._ take oil of the four larger cold seeds, oil of eggs, and oil of sweet almonds, of each half an ounce; plantain and nightshade water, of each three quarters of an ounce; litharge and ceruss finely powdered and washed in rose-water, of each a drachm. put the litharge and ceruss into a brass pot, and incorporate them over a fire, with the oils, adding the latter gradually, and stirring the mixture all the while. then add by degrees also the nightshade and plantain water, and thus form a liniment, with which anoint the face of the patient as soon as the scabs of the small-pox begin to scale off; and repeat the application as occasion may require. complexion. 260. _certain methods to improve the complexion._ brown ladies should frequently bathe themselves, and wash their faces with a few drops of spirit of wine, sometimes with virgin's milk, and the distilled waters of pimpernel, white tansy, bean flowers, &c. these detersive penetrating applications, by degrees remove the kind of varnish that covers the skin, and thus render more free the perspiration, which is the only real cosmetic. 261. _the montpellier toilet._ for this purpose a new light-woven linen cloth must be procured, and cut of a proper size to make a toilet. the first step you take must be to wash the cloth perfectly clean in several different waters, then spread it out to dry, and afterwards steep it twenty-four hours in sweet-scented water, viz. half angelic, and half rose-water. on removing the cloth out of the water, gently squeeze it, and hang it up to dry in the open air. then lay on it the following composition. take dried orange flowers, roots of elecampane, and florentine orrice, of each half a pound; of yellow sanders, four ounces; of the marc or residuum of angelic water, two ounces; of rose-wood and sweet flag, each an ounce; of gum labdanum, calamus aromaticus, and cloves, each half an ounce; of cinnamon, two drachms; beat all these ingredients into powder, and make them into a paste with mucilage of gum tragacanth dissolved in angelic water. rub this paste hard on both sides of your cloth, leaving on it the little bits that may adhere, because they render the surface more smooth. afterwards hang up the cloth, and when half dry, again rub both sides, with a sponge wetted with angelic water, to render the cloth yet more smooth; after which dry it thoroughly, and fold it up. this cloth is generally lined with taffety, and covered with sattin, and is never enclosed within more than two pieces of some kind of thin silk, as taffety, &c. 262. _sweet-scented troches to correct a bad breath._ take frankincense, a scruple; ambergrise, fifteen grains; musk, seven grains: oil of lemons, six drops; double refined sugar, an ounce. form these ingredients into little troches with mucilage of gum arabic, made with cinnamon water. hold one or two in the mouth as often occasion requires. 263. _a curious varnish for the face._ fill into a bottle three quarters of a pint of good brandy, infusing in it an ounce of gum sandarach, and half an ounce of gum benjamin. frequently shake the bottle till the gums are wholly dissolved, and then let it stand to settle. apply this varnish after having washed the face clean, and it will give the skin the finest lustre imaginable. warts. 264. _a medicine to cure warts._ take the leaves of campanula, bruise them, and rub them upon the warts. repeat this operation three or four times, if they prove obstinate; and they will afterwards soon waste away without leaving the least mark behind. this plant perhaps is not to be met with every where, but botanists have described it by the following marks. its leaves, say they, resemble those of the blue bell flower, or ivy, are stringy, composed of five lobes, without down, are small at the end, and have a loose flabby stalk. 265. _another._ take the inner rind of a lemon, steep it four and twenty hours in distilled vinegar, and apply it to the warts. it must not be left on the part above three hours at a time, and is to be applied afresh every day. 266. _or,_ divide a red onion, and rub the warts well with it. 267. _or,_ anoint the warts with the milky juice of the herb mercury several times, and they will gradually waste away. 268. _another safe and experienced method._ rub the warts with a pared pippin, and a few days afterwards they will be found to disappear. vinegars. 269. _distilled vinegar._ fill a stone cucurbit about three parts and a half full of white wine vinegar; place the vessel in a furnace so contrived as to contain three parts of the height of the cucurbit; mould the openings that remain between the sides and the upper part of the vessel with clay tempered with water; lute the vessel, fix on a receiver, and begin your distillation with a moderate fire, which is to be increased by degrees till about five sixths of the vinegar are drawn off, which is called distilled vinegar. a small quantity of acid liquor still remains in the cucurbit of the consistence of honey, which if you think proper may be dried hard by the assistance of a vapour-bath. the vinegar distilled from this substance is infinitely more acid, than that which was drawn off by the first process. to rectify distilled vinegar, put it into a clean vessel, setting it in the same degree of fire as at first to separate more phlegm, and in every thing proceed as before, till the bottom is almost dry. neither the fire nor distillation however must be urged too far, for fear of giving an empyreumatic flavour to that which is already distilled. distilled vinegar is used externally, mixed with water, to wash the face: it is cooling, and takes away the troublesome little pimples that sometimes affect this part. 270. _distilled lavender vinegar._ put into a stone cucurbit any quantity of fresh-gathered lavender flowers picked clean from the stalks; pour on them as much distilled vinegar as is requisite to make the flowers float; distil in a vapour-bath, and draw off about three fourths of the vinegar. in the same manner are prepared the vinegars from all other vegetable substances. compound vinegars are made by mixing several aromatic substances together; observing only to bruise all hard woody ingredients, and to let them infuse a sufficient time in the vinegar before you proceed to distillation. lavender vinegar is of use for the toilet; it is cooling, and when applied to the face, braces up the relaxed fibres of the skin. 271. _vinegar of the four thieves._ take of the tops of sea and roman wormwood, rosemary, sage, mint and rue, of each an ounce and a half; lavender flowers two ounces, calamus aromaticus, cinnamon, cloves, nutmeg, and garlic, of each a quarter of an ounce; camphire, half an ounce; red wine vinegar, a gallon. choose all the foregoing ingredients dry, except the garlic and camphire; beat them into gross powder, and cut the garlic into thin slices; put the whole into a matrass; pour the vinegar on them, and digest the mixture in the sun, or in a gentle sand-heat, for three weeks or a month. then strain off the vinegar by expression, filter it through paper, and add the camphire dissolved in a little rectified spirit of wine. keep it for use in a bottle, tightly corked. the vinegar of the four thieves is antipestilential, and is used successfully as a preservative against contagious disorders. the hands and face are washed with it every day; the room fumigated with it, as are also the clothes, in order to secure the person from infection. eyes. 272. _to cure watery eyes._ prepare a decoction with the leaves of betony, fennel roots, and a little fine frankincense, which use as an eye-water. 273. _or,_ frequently bathe the eyes with a decoction of chervil. 274. _or,_ drop into the eyes now and then a little juice of rue, mixed with clarified honey. 275. _an excellent ophthalmic lotion._ take white vitriol and bay salt, of each an ounce; decrepitate them together, and when the detonation is over, pour on them, in an earthen pan, a pint of boiling water or rose-water. stir them together, and let them stand some hours. a variously coloured skin will be formed on the surface, which carefully skim off, and put the clear liquor into a bottle for use. this was communicated to the author as a great secret; and indeed he has found it by experience very safely to cool and repel those sharp humours that sometimes fall upon the eyes, and to clear the latter of beginning films and specks. if too sharp, it may be diluted with a little rose-water. 276. _an ophthalmic poultice._ take half a pint of alum curd, and mix with it a sufficient quantity of red rose leaves powdered, to give it a proper consistence. this is an excellent application for sore moist eyes, and admirably cools and represses defluxions. 277. _a poultice for inflamed eyes._ take half a pint of a decoction of linseed in water, and as much flour of linseed as is sufficient to make it of a proper consistence. this poultice is preferable to a bread and milk poultice for inflamed eyes, as it will not grow sour and acrid. 278. _sir hans sloane's eye salve._ take prepared tutty, one ounce; prepared bloodstone, two scruples; aloes in fine powder, twelve grains; mix them well together in a marble mortar, with as much viper's fat as is requisite to bring the whole to the consistence of a soft salve. it is to be applied with a hair pencil, the eyes winking or a little opened. it has cured many whose eyes were covered with opake films and scabs, left by preceding disorders of those parts. 279. _an ophthalmic fomentation._ take three quarters of an ounce of white poppy heads bruised with their seeds, and boil them in milk and water, of each half a pint, till one half is wasted away; then dissolve in the strained liquor a scruple of sugar of lead. this is an excellent application for moist, or inflamed eyes. 280. _a simple remedy to strengthen the sight._ snuff up the juice of eyebright, and drop a little into the eyes. it not only clears and strengthen the sight, but takes off all specks, films, mists, or suffusions. herb snuffs are also excellent to strengthen and preserve the sight; various receipts for making which will afterwards be given. supplement. manner of taking out all kinds of spots and stains from linen and stuffs; and various other useful receipts. 281. _to take iron mould out of linen._ hold the iron mould over the fume of boiling water for some time, then pour on the spot a little juice of sorrel and a little salt, and when the cloth has thoroughly imbibed the juice, wash it in lee. 282. _to take out stains of oil._ take windsor soap shaved thin, put it into a bottle half full of lee, throw in the size of a nut of sal armoniac, a little cabbage juice, two yolks of new-laid eggs, and ox-gall at discretion, and lastly an ounce of powdered tartar: then cork the bottle, and expose it to the heat of the noon-day sun four days, at the expiration of which time it becomes fit for use. pour this liquor on the stains, and rub it well on both sides of the cloth; then wash the stains with clear water, or rather with the following soap, and when the cloth is dry, they will no longer appear. 283. _scowering balls._ take soft soap, or fuller's earth; mix it with vine ashes sifted through a fine sieve, and with powdered chalk, alum, and tartar, of each equal parts; form the mass into balls, which dry in the shade. their use is to rub on spots and stains, washing the spotted part afterwards in clear water. 284. _to take out stains of coomb._ put butter on the stain, and rub it well with a piece of brown paper laid on a heated silver spoon; then wash the whole in the same manner as directed for spots of wax. 285. _to take out stains of urine._ wash the stained place well with boiled urine, and afterwards wash it in clear water. 286. _to take out stains on cloth of whatever colour._ take half a pound of honey, the size of a nut of sal armoniac, and the yolk of an egg; mix them together, and put a little of this mixture on the stain, letting it remain till dry. then wash the cloth with fair water, and the stains will disappear. water impregnated with mineral alkaline salt or soda, ox-gall, and black soap, is also very good to take out spots of grease. 287. _to take out spots of ink._ as soon as the accident happens, wet the place with juice of sorrel, or lemon, or with vinegar, and the best hard white soap. 288. _to take out spots of pitch and turpentine._ pour a good deal of sallad oil on the stained place, and let it dry on it four and twenty hours; then rub the inside of the cloth with the scowering ball and warm water. 289. _to take out spots of oil on sattin and other stuffs, and on paper._ if the spot be not of long standing, take the ashes of sheep's trotters calcined, and apply them hot both under and upon the spot. lay on it something heavy, letting it remain all night; and if in the morning the spot is not entirely effaced, renew the application repeatedly till it wholly disappear. 290. _to take out spots on silk._ rub the spots with spirit of turpentine; this spirit exhaling, carries off with it the oil that causes the spot. 291. _balls to take out stains._ take an ounce of quick-lime, half a pound of soap, and a quarter of a pound of white clay; moisten the whole with water, and make it into little balls, with which rub the stains, and afterwards wash them with fair water. 292. _to clean gold and silver lace._ take the gall of an ox and of a pike, mixed well together in fair water, and rub the gold or silver with this composition. 293. _to restore to tapestry its original lustre._ shake well, and thoroughly clean the tapestry; then rub it twice over with chalk, which, after remaining seven or eight hours each time, is to be brushed off with a hard brush; the tapestry being likewise well beaten with a stick, and shaked. 294. _to clean turkey carpets._ to revive the colour of a turkey carpet, beat it well with a stick, till the dust is all got out; then with lemon or sorrel juice take out the spots of ink, if the carpet be stained with any; wash it in cold water, and afterwards shake out all the water from the threads of the carpet. when it is thoroughly dry, rub it all over with the crumb of a hot wheaten loaf; and if the weather is very fine, hang it out in the open air a night or two. 295. _to refresh tapestry, carpets, hangings, or chairs._ beat the dust out of them on a dry day as clean as possible, and brush them well with a dry brush. afterwards rub them well over with a good lather of castile soap, laid on with a brush. wash off the froth with common water; then wash the tapestry, &c. with alum water. when the cloth is dry, you will find most of the colours restored. those that are yet too faint, touch up with a pencil dipped in suitable colours, and indeed you may run over the whole piece in the same manner with water colours, mixed with weak gum water, and, if well done, it will cause the tapestry, &c. to look at a distance like new. 296. _to take wax out of silk or camblet._ take soft soap, rub it well on the spots of wax, dry it in the sun till it grows very hot, then wash the spotted part with cold water, and the wax will be entirely taken out. 297. _to take wax out of velvet of all colours except crimson._ take a crummy wheaten loaf, cut it in two, toast it before the fire, and while very hot, apply it to the part spotted with wax. then apply another piece of toasted bread hot as before, and continue to repeat this application till the wax is entirely taken out. 298. _to wash gold or silver work on linen, or any other stuff, so as to look like new._ take a pound of ox-gall; honey and soap, of each three ounces; florentine orrice in fine powder, three ounces; mix the whole in a glass vessel into a paste, and expose it to the sun during ten days; then make a decoction of bran, and strain it clear. plaster over with your bitter paste, the places you want to clean, and afterwards wash off the paste with the bran-water, till the latter is no longer tinged. then wipe with a clean linen cloth the places you have washed; cover them with a clean napkin, dry them in the sun, press and glaze, and the work will look as well as when new. 299. _to take spots out of silken or woollen stuffs._ take a sufficient quantity of the finest starch, wet it in an earthen pipkin with brandy, rub a little on the spots, let it dry on them, and then brush it off; repeat this operation till the spots are wholly taken out. you must be careful to beat and brush well the place on which the starch was applied. 300. _to take stains of oil out of cloth._ take oil of tartar, pour a little on the spot, immediately wash the place with warm water, and two or three times after with cold water, and the spot will entirely disappear. 301. _to take stains out of white cloth._ boil an ounce of alum in a gallon and a half of water, for half an hour, then add a piece of white soap, and half a ounce more of alum, and after it has stood in cold infusion two days, wash with this mixture stains in any kind of white cloth. 302. _to take stains out of crimson velvet, and coloured velvets._ take a quart of strong lee made with vine ashes, dissolve in it half an ounce of alum; and when the mixture has settled, strain it through a linen cloth. then take half a drachm of soft soap, and the same quantity of castile soap, a drachm of alum, half a drachm of crude sal armoniac, a scruple of common salt, a little loaf sugar, juice of celandine, and the gall of a calf; mix the whole well, and strain off the liquor. when you want to use it, take a little brazil wood shavings with some scarlet flocks, boil them in this liquor, and when strained off, it will be very good to take spots or stains out of crimson velvet or cloth. for velvets or cloths of other colours, you dye your liquor of the proper colour, by boiling in it some flocks of the same colour as the cloth you intend to clean. 303. _a soap that takes out all manner of spots and stains._ take the yolks of six eggs, half a table spoonful of bruised salt, and a pound of venetian soap; mix the whole together with the juice of beet-roots, and form it into round balls, that are to be dried in the shade. the method of using this soap is to wet with fair water the stained part of the cloth, and rub both sides of it well with this soap; then wash the cloth in water, and the stain will no longer appear. 304. _another method to take spots or stains out of white silk or crimson velvet._ first soak the place well with brandy or spirit of wine, then rub it over with the white of a new-laid egg, and dry it in the sun. wash it briskly in cold water, rubbing the place where the spot is, hard between the fingers; and repeat this operation a second and even a third time, if it has not previously succeeded. 305. _a receipt to clean gloves without wetting._ lay the gloves upon a clean board; and mix together fuller's earth and powder of alum very dry, which lay over them on both sides with a moderately stiff brush. then sweep off the powder, sprinkle them well with bran and whiting, and dust them thoroughly. if not very greasy, this will render them as clean as when new; but if they are extremely greasy, rub them with stale crumb of bread, and powder of burnt bones, then pass them over with a woollen cloth dipped in fuller's earth or alum powder. 306. _to colour gloves._ if you want to colour them of a dark colour, take spanish brown and black earth; if lighter, yellow ochre and whiting, and so of the rest; mix the colour with size of a moderate strength, then wet the gloves over with the colour, and hang them to dry gradually. beat out the superfluous colour, smooth them over with a sleeking stick, and reduce them to a proper size. 307. _to wash point lace._ draw the lace pretty tight in a frame, then with a lather of castile soap a little warm, rub it over gently by means of a fine brush. when you perceive it clean on one side, turn it, and rub the other in the same manner; then throw over the lace some alum-water, taking off the suds, and with some thin starch go over the wrong side of the lace; iron it on the same side when dry, and raise the flowers with a bodkin. 308. _to clean point lace without washing._ fix the lace in a frame, and rub it with crumb of stale bread, which afterwards dust out. 309. _to wash black and white sarcenet._ lay the silk smooth upon a board, spread a little soap over the dirty places, make a lather with castile soap, and with a fine brush dipped in it, pass over the silk the right way, viz. lengthways, and continue so to do till that side is sufficiently scowered. then turn the silk, scower the other side in the same manner, and put the silk into boiling water, where it must lie some time; afterwards rince it in thin gum water; if white silk, add a little smalt. this being done, fold the silk, clapping or pressing out the water with your hands on a dry carpet, till it become tolerably dry; if white, dry it over the smoak of brimstone till ready for smoothing, which is to be done on the right side with an iron moderately hot. 310. _a soap to take out all kinds of stains._ boil a handful of strawberries or strawberry leaves in a quart of water and a pint of vinegar, adding two pounds of castile soap; and half a pound of chalk in fine powder; boil them together till the water has evaporated. when you use it, wet the place with the sharpest vinegar or verjuice, and rub it over with this soap; dry it afterwards before the fire or in the sun. 311. _an expeditious method to take stains out of scarlet, or velvet of any other colour._ take soapwort, when bruised strain out its juice, and add to it a small quantity of black soap. wash the stain with this liquor, suffering it to dry between whiles; and by this means, in a day or two the spots will disappear. different ways of preparing snuff. 312. _method of making snuff._ first strip off the stalks and large fibres of the tobacco, then spread the leaves on a mat or carpet to dry in the sun, afterwards rub them in a mortar, and sift the powder through a coarse or fine sieve, according to the degree of fineness you would have your snuff; or grind the tobacco leaves, prepared in the manner before directed, in a snuff-mill, either into a gross or fine powder, according as you press close or ease the mill-stone. 313. _method of cleansing snuff in order to scent it._ fix a thick linen cloth in a little tub that has a hole in the bottom, stopped with a plug that can easily be taken out, to let the water run off when wanted. this cloth must cover the whole inside of the tub, and be fastened all round the rim. put your snuff in it, and pour on the water. when it has been steeped twenty-four hours, let the water run out, and pour on fresh; repeat this operation three times, if you would have the snuff thoroughly cleansed, and every time squeeze the snuff hard in the cloth, to discharge the water entirely from it. then place your snuff on an ozier hurdle covered with a thick linen cloth, and let it dry in the sun; when it is thoroughly dry, put it again into the tub, with a sufficient quantity of angelic, orange flower, or rose-water. at the expiration of twenty-four hours take the snuff out of the water, and dry it as before, frequently stirring it about, and sprinkling it with the same sweet-scented water as was used at first. the whole of this preparation is absolutely necessary to render snuff fit to receive the scent of flowers. if the snuff is not required to be of a very excellent quality, and you are unwilling to waste more of it than can possibly be avoided, wash it only once, and slightly cleanse it. this purgation may the better suffice, if while drying in the sun, you take care to knead the snuff into a cake several times, and often sprinkle it with some sweet-scented water. 314. _method of scenting snuff._ the flowers that most readily communicate their flavour to snuff are orange flowers, jasmine, musk roses, and tuberoses. you must procure a box lined with dry white paper; in this strow your snuff on the bottom about the thickness of an inch, over which place a thin layer of flowers, then another layer of snuff, and continue to lay your flowers and snuff alternately in this manner, until the box is full. after they have lain together four and twenty hours, sift your snuff through a sieve to separate it from the flowers, which are to be thrown away, and fresh ones applied in their room in the former method. continue to do this till the snuff is sufficiently scented; then put it into a canister, which keep close stopped. 315. _or,_ put your flowers that are placed over each layer of the snuff, between two pieces of white paper pricked full of holes with a large pin, and sift through a sieve the snuff that may happen to get between the papers. to scent the snuff perfectly it is necessary to renew the flowers four or five times. this method is the least troublesome of the two. a very agreeable scented snuff may be made with roses, by taking rose-buds, stripping off the green cup, and pistil that rises in the middle, and fixing in its place a clove; being careful not to separate the leaves that are closed together. the rose-buds thus prepared, are to be exposed to the heat of the sun a whole month, inclosed in a glass well stopped, and are then fit for use. to make snuff scented with a thousand flowers, take a number of different flowers, and mix them together, proportioning the quantity of each flower, to the degree of its perfume, so that the flavour of no one particular flower may be predominant. 316. _perfumed snuff._ take some snuff, and rub it in your hands with a little civet, opening the body of the civet still more by rubbing it in your hands with fresh snuff; and when you have mixed it perfectly with the snuff, put them into a canister. snuff is flavoured with other perfumes in the same way. 317. _or,_ perfume your snuff by mixing it well with the hands, in a heated iron or brass mortar, besmeared with a few grains of ambergrise. 318. _snuff after the maltese fashion._ perfume with ambergrise, in the manner already described, some snuff previously scented with orange flowers. then grind in a mortar a little sugar with about ten grains of civet, and mix by little and little with about a pound of the foregoing snuff. 319. _the genuine maltese snuff._ take roots of liquorice, and roots of the rose-bush, peel off their outer skin, dry them, powder them, and sift the powder through a fine sieve, then scent them according to your fancy, or in the same manner as french snuff, adding a little white wine, brandy, or a very little spirit of wine, and rubbing the snuff well between your hands. 320. _italian snuff._ put into a mortar, or other convenient vessel, a quantity of snuff already scented with some flower, pour on it a little white wine, and add, if agreeable, some essence of ambergrise, musk, or any other perfume you like best; stir the snuff and rub it well between your hands. scent snuff in this manner with any particular flavour, and put the different scented snuffs in separate boxes, which are to be marked, to prevent mistakes. 321. _snuff scented after the spanish manner._ take a lump of double-refined sugar, rub it in a mortar with twenty grains of musk; add by little and little a pound of snuff, and grind the whole with ten grains of civet, rubbing it afterwards well between your hands. seville snuff is scented with twenty grains of vanilloes only. keep your snuff in canisters closely stopped, to prevent the scent from exhaling. as spanish snuff is very fine and of a reddish colour, to imitate it nicely, take the best dutch snuff, well cleansed, granulated, and coloured red; beat it fine, and sift it through a very fine lawn sieve. after it has been cleansed according to the foregoing directions, it is fit to take any scent whatever. there is no risk in using a sieve that retains the scent of any flower, to perfume your snuff with the flavour of musk, ambergrise, or any other perfume. on the contrary, the snuff receives the perfume the more readily, and preserves its flavour the longer on that account. 322. _method of dying snuff red or yellow._ take the size of a nut or two of yellow or red ochre, and to temper the colour mix with it a little white chalk. grind these colours on a marble, with a little less than half an ounce of oil of sweet almonds, and moisten with as much water as the colour will take up, till it becomes a smooth paste. then mix it with a thin mucilage of gum tragacanth to a proper consistence, and put it into an earthen dish, stirring into it about a pint more of water. afterwards take any quantity of cleansed snuff you please, throw it upon the colour, and rub it well between your hands. when the paste is thoroughly tinged with the colour, leave it till next morning to settle, then spread it thin on a cloth to dry, and place it in the sun, stirring it about every now and then that it may dry equally. when dry, gum it with a very thin mucilage of gum tragacanth made with some sweet-scented water. to gum the snuff as equally as possible, wet the palms of your hands with this gum water, and rub the snuff well between them. afterwards dry it in the sun, and sift the colour that does not adhere to it through a very fine sieve. the snuff is then properly prepared to receive any flavour you choose. 323. _herb snuff._ take sweet marjoram, marum syriacum leaves, and lavender flowers dried, of each half an ounce, asarabacca leaves, a drachm. rub them all into a powder. 324. _or,_ take betony leaves and marjoram, of each half an ounce; asarabacca leaves, a drachm. beat them together into a powder. 325. _or,_ take marjoram, rosemary flowers, betony, and flowers of lilies of the valley, of each a quarter of an ounce; nutmegs, a drachm and a half; volatile salt, forty drops. powder, and keep the mixture in a phial, close stopped. 326. _or,_ take flowers of lavender, and clove-july-flowers, of each a quarter of an ounce; lilies of the valley, tiel-tree flowers, flowers of sage, betony, rosemary, and tops of marjoram, of each half a drachm; cinnamon, aloes-wood, yellow sanders, and white helebore-root, of each a drachm; oil of nutmegs and oil of lemons, of each three drops; mix them into a powder. a pinch or two of any of these snuffs may be taken night and morning medicinally, or at any time for pleasure. used externally, they are serviceable for weak eyes and many disorders of the organs of sight and hearing. they also relieve headaches, giddiness, palsies, lethargies, besides a variety of other complaints; and are, though agreeable and simple, far superior to what is sold under the name of herb snuff. finis. transcriber's notes. there were large number of printing errors in this publication. the following words have been changed: eition is now edition to it is now it to receips is now receipts cassolete is now cassolette whitloes is now whitlows with with was repeated and amended fisrt is now first aftewards is now afterwards died is now dyed magisterail magisterial gont is now gout agrreeable is now agreeable viguor is now vigour suprisingly is now surprisingly chich is now chick squeese is now squeeze quantiiy is now quantity aud is now and cloaths is now clothes und is now and plantane is now plantain proofreading team. the jewish manual; or practical information in jewish and modern cookery, with a collection of valuable recipes & hints relating to the toilette. edited by a lady. london: 1846. editor's preface. among the numerous works on culinary science already in circulation, there have been none which afford the slightest insight to the cookery of the hebrew kitchen. replete as many of these are with information on various important points, they are completely valueless to the jewish housekeeper, not only on account of prohibited articles and combinations being assumed to be necessary ingredients of nearly every dish, but from the entire absence of all the receipts peculiar to the jewish people. this deficiency, which has been so frequently the cause of inconvenience and complaint, we have endeavoured in the present little volume to supply. and in taking upon ourselves the responsibility of introducing it to the notice of our readers, we have been actuated by the hope that it will prove of some practical utility to those for whose benefit it is more particularly designed. it has been our earnest desire to simplify as much as possible the directions given regarding the rudiments of the art, and to render the receipts which follow, clear, easy, and concise. our collection will be found to contain all the best receipts, hitherto bequeathed only by memory or manuscript, from one generation to another of the jewish nation, as well as those which come under the denomination of plain english dishes; and also such french ones as are now in general use at all refined modern tables. a careful attention has been paid to accuracy and economy in the proportions named, and the receipts may be perfectly depended upon, as we have had the chief part of them tested in our own kitchen and under our own _surveillance_. all difficult and expensive modes of cookery have been purposely omitted, as more properly belonging to the province of the confectioner, and foreign to the intention of this little work; the object of which is, to guide the young jewish housekeeper in the luxury and economy of "the table," on which so much of the pleasure of social intercourse depends. the various acquirements, which in the present day are deemed essential to female education, rarely leave much time or inclination for the humble study of household affairs; and it not unfrequently happens, that the mistress of a family understands little more concerning the dinner table over which she presides, than the graceful arrangement of the flowers which adorn it; thus she is incompetent to direct her servant, upon whose inferior judgment and taste she is obliged to depend. she is continually subjected to impositions from her ignorance of what is required for the dishes she selects, while a lavish extravagance, or parsimonious monotony betrays her utter inexperience in all the minute yet indispensible details of elegant hospitality. however, there are happily so many highly accomplished and intellectual women, whose example proves the compatability of uniting the cultivation of talents with domestic pursuits, that it would be superfluous and presumptuous were we here to urge the propriety and importance of acquiring habits of usefulness and household knowledge, further than to observe that it is the unfailing attribute of a superior mind to turn its attention occasionally to the lesser objects of life, aware how greatly they contribute to its harmony and its happiness. the _cuisine_ of a woman of refinement, like her dress or her furniture, is distinguished, not for its costliness and profusion, but for a pervading air of graceful originality. she is quite sensible of the regard due to the reigning fashion of the day, but her own tasteful discrimination is always perceptible. she instinctively avoids every thing that is hackneyed, vulgar, and common place, and uniformly succeeds in pleasing by the judicious novelties she introduces. we hope, therefore, that this unpretending little work may not prove wholly unacceptable, even to those ladies who are not of the hebrew persuasion, as it will serve as a sequel to the books on cookery previously in their possession, and be the medium of presenting them with numerous receipts for rare and exquisite compositions, which if uncommemorated by the genius of vatêl, ude, or carême, are delicious enough not only to gratify the lovers of good cheer generally, but to merit the unqualified approbation of the most fastidious epicures. we ought, perhaps, to apologize for the apparent incongruity of connecting the "toilet" with the "kitchen;" but the receipts and suggestions comprised in the second part of the work before us, will not, we trust, be considered misplaced in a volume addressed exclusively to the ladies. many of the receipts are for articles in common use, but which, with proper directions, are prepared with greater economy and in a superior manner at home; the others are all original receipts, many of them extremely ancient, and given to us by a person who can vouch for their efficacy from personal experience and observation. we must now conclude our preliminary remarks, but cannot take leave of our patient readers without availing ourselves of the opportunity our editorial capacity affords, to express our hope, that with all its faults and deficiencies "the jewish manual" may prove to them a useful assistant, and be fortunate enough to meet with their lenient, kind, and favourable consideration. contents. * * * * * part i. introduction. miscellaneous observations for the use of the cook * * * * * chapter i. soups chapter ii. sauces and forcemeat chapter iii. fish chapter iv. meats and poultry cooked in various ways chapter v. vegetables, omelettes, fondeaux, croquettes, risoles, &c. chapter vi. pastry chapter vii. sweet dishes, puddings, jellies, creams, charlottes, soufles, gateaux, trifles, custards, cakes, &c. chapter viii. preserves and bottling chapter ix. pickling chapter x. receipts for invalids appendix the toilette. * * * * * chapter i. the complexion, &c., &c. chapter ii. the hair chapter iii. the teeth chapter iv. the hands and nails chapter v. dress chapter vi. effects of diet on the complexion chapter vii. influence of the mind as regards beauty glossary. _aspie_, a term used for savoury jelly, in which cold poultry, meat, &c., is often served. _bain-marie_. this is a large pan filled with boiling water, in which several saucepans can be placed when their contents are required to be kept hot without boiling--this is a useful article in a kitchen, where the manner in which sauces are prepared is considered deserving of attention. _béchamel_, a superior kind of white sauce, used in french cookery. _blanquette_, a kind of fricassee with a white sauce. _bola-d'amour_, a very rich and expensive spanish confection. _bolas_, a kind of rich cake or pudding. _cassereet_, a sauce prepared from the cassada, a west indian plant--it must be used with moderation. _casserole_, a name given to a crust formed of rice baked, and then filled with mince, fricassee, or fruit. _chorissa_, a sausage peculiar to the jewish kitchen, of delicate and _piquante_ flavour. _consommé_, is a term now used for stock--it is a clear strong broth, forming the basis of all soups, sauces, gravies, &c. _croquettes_ and _risoles_; preparations of forcemeat, formed into fancy shapes, and fried. _croutons_, sippets of bread or toast, to garnish hashes, salmis, &c., are so called. _doce_, a mixture of sugar with almonds _or_ cocoa-nut. _entrées_. these are side-dishes, for the first course, consisting of cutlets, vol au vents, fricassees, fillets, sweetbreads, salmis, scallops, &c., &c. _entremets_. these are side-dishes for the second course; they comprise dressed vegetables, puddings, gateaux, pastries, fritters, creams, jellies, timbales, &c. _farcie_, a french term for forcemeat; it is a mixture of savoury ingredients, used for croquettes, balls, &c. meat is by no means a necessary ingredient, although the english word might seem to imply the contrary. _fondeaux_, and fondus, are savoury kinds of souflés. _fricandeaux_, a term for small well-trimmed pieces of meat, stewed in various ways. _fricassee_. this is a name used for delicate stews, when the articles are cut in pieces. _fricandelles_. these are very small fricandeaux, two or three of which are served on one dish, and they sometimes also are delicate, but highly-flavoured minces, formed into any approved shapes. flanks are large standing side-dishes. _gateaux_, is a kind of cake or pudding. _hors d'oeuvres._ these are light entrées in the first course; they are sometimes called _assiettes_ volantes; they are handed during the first course; they comprise anchovies, fish salads, patties of various kinds, croquettes, risolles, maccaroni, &c. _maigre_, made without meat. _matso_, passover cakes. _miroton_, a savoury preparation of veal or poultry, formed in a mould. _nouilles_, a kind of vermicelli paste. _piqué_, a french term used to express the process of larding. the french term is a preferable one, as it more clearly indicates what is meant. _purée_ is a term given to a preparation of meat or vegetables, reduced to a pulp, and mixed with any kind of sauce, to the consistency of thick cream. _purées_ of vegetables are much used in modern cookery, to serve with cutlets, callops, &c. _ramekin_, a savoury and delicate preparation of cheese, generally served in fringed paper cases. _releves_, or _removes_, are top and bottom dishes, which replace the soup and fish. _salmis_, a hash, only a superior kind, being more delicately seasoned, and usually made of cold poultry. _souflés_, a term applied to a very light kind of pudding, made with some farinaceous substance, and generally replaces the roast of a second course. _timbale_, a shape of maccaroni or rice made in a mould. _vol-au-vent_. this is a sort of case, made of very rich puff paste, filled with delicate fricassee of fish, meat, or poultry, or richly stewed fruits. _vélouté_, an expensive white sauce. observations for the use of the cook. the receipts we have given are capable of being varied and modified by an intelligent pains-taking cook, to suit the tastes of her employers. where _one_ receipt has been thought sufficient to convey the necessary instruction for several dishes, &c., &c., it has not been repeated for each respectively, which plan will tend to facilitate her task. we might, had we been inclined, have increased our collection considerably by so doing, but have decided, from our own experience, that it is preferable to give a limited number clearly and fully explained, as these will always serve as guides and models for others of the same kind. the cook must remember it is not enough to have ascertained the ingredients and quantities requisite, but great care and attention must be paid to the manner of mixing them, and in watching their progress when mixed and submitted to the fire. the management of the oven and the fire deserve attention, and cannot be regulated properly without practice and observation. the art of seasoning is difficult and important. great judgment is required in blending the different spices or other condiments, so that a fine flavour is produced without the undue preponderance of either. it is only in coarse cooking that the flavour of onions, pepper, garlic, nutmeg, and eschalot is permitted to prevail. as a general rule, salt should be used in moderation. sugar is an improvement in nearly all soups, sauces, and gravies; also with stewed vegetables, but of course must be used with discretion. ketchups, soy, harvey's sauce, &c., are used too indiscrimately by inferior cooks; it is better to leave them to be added at table by those who approve of their flavour. any thing that is required to be warmed up a second time, should be set in a basin placed in a _bain-marie_, or saucepan, filled with boiling water, but which must not be allowed to boil; or the article will become hardened and the sauce dried up. to remove every particle of fat from the gravies of stews, &c., a piece of white blotting-paper should be laid on the surface, and the fat will adhere to it; this should be repeated two or three times. it is important to keep saucepans well skimmed; the best prepared dish will be spoiled by neglect on this point. the difference between good and bad cookery is particularly discernible in the preparation of forcemeats. a common cook is satistified if she chops or minces the ingredients and moistens them with an egg scarcely beaten, but this is a very crude and imperfect method; they should be pounded together in a mortar until not a lump or fibre is perceptible. further directions will be given in the proper place, but this is a rule which must be strictly attended to by those who wish to attain any excellence in this branch of their art. eggs for forcemeats, and for every description of sweet dishes, should be thoroughly beaten, and for the finer kinds should be passed through a sieve. a trustworthy zealous servant must keep in mind, that waste and extravagance are no proofs of skill. on the contrary, good cookery is by no means expensive, as it makes the most of every thing, and furnishes out of simple and economical materials, dishes which are at once palatable and elegant. chapter i. soups. stock or consommé. this is the basis of all kinds of soup and sauces. shin of beef or ox-cheek make excellent stock, although good gravy-beef is sometimes preferred; the bones should always be broken, and the meat cut up, as the juices are better extracted; it is advisable to put on, at first, but very little water, and to add more when the first quantity is nearly dried up. the time required for boiling depends upon the quantity of meat; six pounds of meat will take about five hours; if bones, the same quantity will require double the time. gravy beef with a knuckle of veal makes a fine and nutritious stock; the stock for white soups should be prepared with veal or white poultry. very tolerable stock can be procured without purchasing meat expressly for the purpose, by boiling down bones and the trimmings of meat or poultry. the liquor in which beef or mutton intended for the table has been boiled, will also, with small additions and skilful flavoring, make an excellent soup at a trifling expense. to thicken soups, mix a little potatoe-flour, ground rice, or pounded vermicelli, in a little water, till perfectly smooth; add a little of the soup to it in a cup, until sufficiently thin, then pour it into the rest and boil it up, to prevent the raw taste it would otherwise have; the presence of the above ingredients should not be discovered, and judgment and care are therefore requisite. if colouring is necessary, a crust of bread stewed in the stock will give a fine brown, or the common browning may be used; it is made in the following manner: put one pound of coarse brown sugar in a stew-pan with a lump of clarified suet; when it begins to froth, pour in a wine-glass of port wine, half an ounce of black pepper, a little mace, four spoonsful of ketchup or harvey's sauce, a little salt, and the peel of a lemon grated; boil all together, let it grow cold, when it must be skimmed and bottled for use. it may also be prepared as required, by putting a small piece of clarified fat with one ounce of coarse sugar, in an iron spoon, melting them together, and stirring in a little ketchup and pepper. when good stock or consommé is prepared, it is very easy to form it into any kind of soup or sauce that may be required. * * * * * gravy soup. take about three quarts of any strong stock, seasoned with a bunch of sweet herbs, a carrot, turnip, and a head of celery, which must not be served in the soup. vermicelli, maccaroni, or thin slices of carrot and small sippets of fried bread cut in fancy shapes, are usually served in this soup. * * * * * mock turtle. half boil a well-cleaned calf's head, then cut off all the meat in small square pieces, and break the bones; return it to the stew-pan, with some good stock made of beef and veal; dredge in flour, add fried shalot, pepper, parsley, tarragon, a little mushroom ketchup, and a pint of white wine; simmer gently until the meat is perfectly soft and tender. balls of force-meat, and egg-balls, should be put in a short time before serving; the juice of a lemon is considered an improvement. * * * * * muligatawny soup. take two chickens, cut them up small, as if for fricassee, flour them well, put them in a saucepan with four onions shred, a piece of clarified fat, pepper, salt, and two table spoonsful of curry powder; let it simmer for an hour, then add three quarts of strong beef gravy, and let it continue simmering for another hour; before sent to table the juice of a lemon should be stirred in it; some persons approve of a little rice being boiled with the stock, and a pinch of saffron is also sometimes added. * * * * * english muligatawny. take a knuckle of veal, stew it till half done, then cut off the greatest part of the meat, and continue to stew down the bone in the stock, the meat must be cut into small pieces and fried with six onions thinly sliced, and a table spoonful of curry powder, a desert spoonful of cayenne pepper and salt, add the stock and let the whole gently simmer for nearly an hour, flavouring it with a little harvey's sauce and lemon pickle. * * * * * soup a la julienne. take a variety of vegetables: such as celery, carrots, turnips, leeks, cauliflower, lettuce, and onions, cut them in shreds of small size, place them in a stew-pan with a little fine salad oil, stew them gently over the fire, adding weak broth from time to time; toast a few slices of bread and cut them into pieces the size and shape of shillings and crowns, soak them in the remainder of the broth, and when the vegetables are well done add all together and let it simmer for a few minutes; a lump of white sugar, with pepper and salt are sufficient seasoning. * * * * * soupe a la turque. make a good gravy from shin of beef, and cut up very small various sorts of vegetables of whatever may be in season, add spices, pepper, and salt; when it is all stewed well down together, set it to cool and take off the fat, then place it again on the fire to boil, and add to two quarts of soup, one quarter of a pound of rice, beat two yolks of eggs with a little of the stock, and when the rice is quite tender, stir them into the soup, taking the precaution not to let the soup boil, and to stir always the same way. * * * * * pepper pot. cut small pieces of any vegetables, and add pieces of smoked or salt beef, and also of any cold poultry, roast beef or mutton, stew all these together in two or three quarts of water, according to the quantity of meat, &c. it must be seasoned highly with whole peppers, allspice, mace, jamaica pickles, and salt; it must be thoroughly stewed, and served, without straining, in a tureen. * * * * * potatoe soup. grate a pound of fine potatoes in two quarts of water, add to it the trimmings of any meat, amounting to about a pound in quantity, a cup of rice, a few sweet herbs, and a head of celery, stew well till the liquor is considerably reduced, then strain it through a sieve; if, when strained, it is too thin and watery, add a little thickening; it should be flavoured only with white pepper and salt. * * * * * soup cressy. grate six carrots, and chop some onions with a lettuce, adding a few sweet herbs, put them all into a stewpan, with enough of good broth to moisten the whole, adding occasionally the remainder; when nearly done, put in the crumb of a french roll, and when soaked, strain the whole through a sieve, and serve hot in a tureen. * * * * * carrot soup. take a dozen carrots scraped clean, rasp them, but do not use the core, two heads of celery, two onions thinly sliced, season to taste, and pour over a good stock, say about two quarts, boil it, then pass it through a sieve; it should be of the thickness of cream, return it to the saucepan, boil it up and squeeze in a little lemon juice, or add a little vinegar. * * * * * palestine soup. stew a knuckle of veal, and a calf's foot, and one pound of _chorissa_, and a large fowl, in four quarts of water, add a piece of fresh lemon peel, six jerusalem artichokes, a bunch of sweet herbs, a little salt and white pepper, and a little nutmeg, and a blade of mace; when the fowl is thoroughly done, remove the white parts to prepare for thickening, and let the rest continue stewing till the stock is sufficiently strong, the white parts of the fowl must be pounded and sprinkled with flower or ground rice, and stirred in the soup after it has been strained, until it thickens. * * * * * a simple white soup. break a knuckle of veal, place it in a stewpan, also a piece of _chorissa_, a carrot, two onions, three or four turnips, and a blade of mace, pour over two or three quarts of water or weak broth, season with salt, a sprig of parsley, and whole white pepper; when sufficiently boiled, skim and strain it, and thicken with pounded vermicelli. * * * * * vermicelli soup. make a fine strong stock from the shin of beef, or any other part preferred, and add, a short time before serving, a handful of vermicelli, which should be broken, so that it may be in pieces of convenient length, the stock should be more or less flavoured with vegetables, and herbs, according to taste. * * * * * matso soup. boil down half a shin of beef, four pounds of gravy beef, and a calf's foot may be added, if approved, in three or four quarts of water; season with celery, carrots, turnips, pepper and salt, and a bunch of sweet herbs; let the whole stew gently for eight hours, then strain and let it stand to get cold, when the fat must be removed, then return it to the saucepan to warm up. ten minutes before serving, throw in the balls, from which the soup takes its name, and which are made in the following manner: take half a pound of _matso_ flour, two ounces of chopped suet, season with a little pepper, salt, ginger, and nutmeg; mix with this, four beaten eggs, and make it into a paste, a small onion shred and browned in a desert spoonful of oil is sometimes added; the paste should be made into rather large balls, and care should be taken to make them very light. * * * * * tomata soup. take a dozen unpealed tomatas, with a bit of clarified suet, or a little sweet oil, and a small spanish onion; sprinkle with flour, and season with salt and cayenne pepper, and boil them in a little gravy or water; it must be stirred to prevent burning, then pass it through a sieve, and thin it with rich stock to the consistency of winter pea-soup; flavour it with lemon juice, according to taste, after it has been warmed up and ready for serving. * * * * * almondegos soup: a superior white soup. put a knuckle of veal and a calf's foot into two quarts of water, with a blade of mace and a bunch of sweet herbs, a turnip, a little white pepper, and salt; when sufficiently done, strain and skim it, and add balls of forced meat, and egg balls. a quarter of an hour before serving beat up the yolks of four eggs with a desert spoonful of lemon juice, and three ounces of sweet almonds blanched and beaten with a spoonful of powdered white sugar. this mixture is to be stirred into the soup till it thickens, taking care to prevent its curdling. * * * * * a fine vegetable or french soup. take two quarts of strong stock made of gravy beef, add to this, carrots, turnips, leek, celery, brocoli, peas and french beans, all cut as small as possible, add a few lumps of white sugar, pepper, and salt, let it simmer till the vegetables are perfectly soft, and throw in a few force-meat balls. * * * * * asparagus soup. take eight pounds of gravy beef, with five pints of water, a few sweet herbs, and an onion shred, with a little pepper and salt; when the strength of the meat is sufficiently extracted, strain off the soup, and add to it a bundle of asparagus, cut small, with a little chopped parsley and mint; the asparagus should be thoroughly done. a few minutes before serving, throw in some fried bread cut up the size of dice; pound a little spinach to a pulp, and squeeze it through a cloth, stir about a tea-cup full of this essence into the soup, let it boil up after to prevent a raw taste. * * * * * soup maigre. chop three lettuces, a large handful of spinach, a little chervil, a head of celery, two or three carrots, and four onions, put them on the fire with half a pound of butter, and let them fry till slightly browned, season with a little salt, sifted white sugar, and white pepper, stew all gently in five pints of boiling water for about two hours and a half, and just before serving the soup, thicken it with the beaten yolks of four eggs, mixed first with a little of the soup, and then stirred into the remainder. * * * * * summer pea soup. take a peck of peas, separate the old from the young, boil the former till they are quite tender in good stock, then pass them through a sieve, and return them to the stock, add the young peas, a little chopped lettuce, small pieces of cucumber fried to a light brown, a little bit of mint, pepper, and salt; two or three lumps of sugar give a fine flavor. * * * * * winter pea soup. soak a quart of white peas in water, boil them till soft, in as much water as will cover them, pass them through a sieve, and add them to any broth that may be ready, a little piece of _chorissa_ or smoked beef will improve the flavour; this soup should be served with mint and fried bread. * * * * * giblet soup. add to a fine strong well-seasoned beef stock, of about three quarts, two sets of giblets, which should be previously stewed separately in one quart of water (the gizzards require scalding for some time before they are put in with the rest); white pepper, salt, and the rind of lemon should season them; when they are tender, add them with their gravy to the stock, and boil for about ten minutes together, then stir in a glass of white wine, a table spoonful of mushroom ketchup, and the juice of half a lemon; it will require to be thickened with a little flour browned; the giblets are served in the soup. * * * * * barley soup. put in a stew-pan, a knuckle of mutton, or four pounds of the neck, with three quarts of water, boil it gently and keep it well skimmed; a sprig of parsley, a couple of sliced turnips, a carrot, an onion or more, if approved, with a little white pepper and salt, are sufficient seasoning, a breakfast cup full of barley should be scalded and put in the stew-pan with the meat, if when done, the soup is thin and watery, a little prepared barley, mixed smoothly, should be stirred in. * * * * * soup de poisson, or fish soup. make a good stock, by simmering a cod's-head in water, enough to cover the fish; season it with pepper and salt, mace, celery, parsley, and a few sweet herbs, with two or three onions, when sufficiently done, strain it, and add cutlets of fish prepared in the following manner: cut very small, well-trimmed cutlets from any fish, sole or brill are perhaps best suited; stew them in equal quantities of water and wine, but not more than will cover them, with a large lump of butter, and the juice of a lemon; when they have stewed gently for about fifteen or twenty minutes, add them to the soup, which thicken with cream and flour, serve the soup with the cutlets in a tureen; force-meat balls of cod's liver are sometimes added. * * * * * ox tail soup. have two well cleaned tails and a neat's foot, cut them in small joints and soak them in water, put them in a stew-pan with a large piece of clarified suet or fat, and let them simmer for ten minutes, then put to them between three and four quarts of cold water, four onions, a bunch of sweet herbs, a carrot, a turnip, a head of celery, and season with whole pepper, allspice, two or three cloves, and salt; let it stew till the meat is tender enough to leave the bones, then remove it from them, as the bones are unsightly in the soup; thicken if necessary with browned flour, and just before serving, add a glass or more of port wine, and a little mushroom ketchup. chapter ii. sauces. a rich brown gravy. take a little good beef consommé, or stock, a small piece of smoked beef, or _chorissa_, a lemon sliced, some chopped shalots, a couple of onions shred, a bay leaf, two or three cloves, and a little oil; simmer gently, and add a little minced parsley, and a few chopped mushrooms: skim and strain. * * * * * sauce piquante. the above may be rendered a sauce piquante by substituting a little vinegar, whole capers, allspice, and thyme, instead of the smoked beef and lemon; a few onions and piccalilli chopped finely, is a great addition when required to be very piquante. a sauce like the above is very good to serve with beef that has been boiled for broth. * * * * * a good gravy for roast fowls. take a little stock, squeeze in the juice of a lemon, add a little mushroom powder, cayenne pepper and salt; thicken with flour. * * * * * another excellent receipt. chop some mushrooms, young and fresh, salt them, and put them into a saucepan with a little gravy, made of the trimmings of the fowl, or of veal, a blade of mace, a little grated lemon peel, the juice of one lemon; thicken with flour, and when ready to serve, stir in a table-spoonful of white wine. * * * * * egg sauce: a fine white sauce for boiled chickens, turkeys, or white fricassees. beat up the yolks of four eggs with the juice of a fine lemon, a tea-spoonful of flour, and a little cold water, mix well together, and set it on the fire to thicken, stirring it to prevent curdling. this sauce will be found excellent, if not superior, in many cases where english cooks use melted butter. if capers are substituted for the lemon juice, this sauce will be found excellent for boiled lamb or mutton. * * * * * celery sauce. cut in small pieces from about four to five heads of celery, which if not very young must be peeled, simmer it till tender in half a pint of veal gravy, if intended for white sauce, then add a spoonful of flour, the yolks of three eggs, white pepper, salt, and the juice of one lemon, these should be previously mixed together with a little water till perfectly smooth and thin, and be stirred in with the sauce; cream, instead of eggs, is used in english kitchens. * * * * * tomato sauce. skin a dozen fine tomatos, set them on the fire in a little water or gravy, beat them up with a little vinegar, lemon juice, cayenne pepper, and salt; some persons like the yolk of an egg, well beaten added. strain or not, as may be preferred. * * * * * gravy for a fowl, when there is no stock to make it with. take the feet, wash them, cut them small, also the neck and gizzard; season them with pepper and salt, onion, and parsley, let them simmer gently for some time, in about a breakfast-cup of water, then strain, thicken with flour, and add a little browning, and if liked, a small quantity of any store sauce at hand, and it will prove an excellent sauce. * * * * * savoury jelly, for cold pies, or to garnish cold poultry. have a bare knuckle of veal, and a calf's foot or cow heel; put it into a stew-pan with a thick slice of smoked beef, a few herbs, a blade of mace, two or three onions, a little lemon peel, pepper and salt, and three or four pints of water (the french add a little tarragon vinegar). when it boils skim it, and when cold, if not clear, boil it a few minutes with the white and shell of an egg, and pass it through a jelly bag, this jelly with the juice of two or three lemons, and poured into a mould, in which are put the yolks of eggs boiled hard, forms a pretty supper dish. * * * * * a fine sauce for steaks. throw into a saucepan a piece of fat the size of an egg, with two or three onions sliced, let them brown; add a little gravy, flour, a little vinegar, a spoonful of mustard, and a little cayenne pepper, boil it and serve with the steaks. * * * * * a fish sauce without butter. put on, in a small saucepan, a cup of water, well flavored with vinegar, an onion chopped fine, a little rasped horse-radish, pepper, and two or three cloves, and a couple of anchovies cut small, when it has boiled, stir carefully in the beaten yolks of two eggs, and let it thicken, until of the consistency of melted butter. * * * * * a fine fish sauce. one teacup full of walnut pickle, the same of mushroom ditto, three anchovies pounded, one clove of garlic pounded, half a tea-spoonful of cayenne pepper, all mixed well together, and bottled for use. * * * * * a nice sauce to throw over broiled meats. beat up a little salad-oil with a table-spoonful of vinegar, mustard, pepper and salt, and then stir in the yolk of an egg; this sauce should be highly seasoned. a sauce of this description is sometimes used to baste mutton while roasting, the meat should be scored in different places to allow the sauce to penetrate. * * * * * sauce for ducks. a little good gravy, with a glass of port wine, the juice of a lemon, highly seasoned with cayenne pepper. * * * * * bread sauce. take a large onion and boil it, with a little pepper till quite soft, in milk, then take it out, and pour the milk over grated stale bread, then boil it up with a piece of butter, and dredge it with flour; it should be well beaten up with a silver fork. the above can be made without butter or milk: take a large onion, slice it thin, put it into a little veal gravy, add grated bread, pepper, &c., and the yolk and white of an egg well beaten. * * * * * apple sauce for goose. slice some apples, put them in a little water to simmer till soft, beat them to a pulp; some consider a little powdered sugar an improvement, but as the acid of the apples is reckoned a corrective to the richness of the goose, it is usually preferred without. * * * * * mint sauce. mix vinegar with brown sugar, let it stand about an hour, then add chopped mint, and stir together. * * * * * onion sauce. slice finely, and brown in a little oil, two or three onions; put them in a little beef gravy, and add cayenne pepper, salt, and the juice of a lemon. this is a nice sauce for steaks. * * * * * oiled butter. put some good butter into a cup or jar, and place it before the fire till it becomes an oil, then pour it off, so that all sediment may be avoided. * * * * * to draw good gravy. * * * * * cut some gravy beef into small pieces, put them in a jar, and set it in a saucepan of cold water to boil gently for seven or eight hours, adding, from time to time, more water as the original quantity boils away. the gravy thus made will be the essence of the meat, and in cases where nutriment is required in the smallest compass, will be of great service. soups are stronger when the meat is cut, and gravy drawn before water is added. * * * * * truffle sauce. peel and slice as many truffles as required, simmer them gently with a little butter, when they are tender, add to them good white or brown consommé, lemon juice, pepper, salt, nutmeg, and a very little white wine. * * * * * mushroom sauce. take about a pint of fine young button mushrooms, let them stew gently in a white veal gravy seasoned with salt, pepper, a blade of mace, and if approved, the grated peel of half a lemon, it should be thickened with flour and the yolk of an egg stirred in it, just before serving; english cooks add cream to this sauce. * * * * * sweet sauce. the usual way of making sauces for puddings, is by adding sugar to melted butter, or thin egg sauce, flavoring it with white wine, brandy, lemon peel, or any other flavor approved of. * * * * * melted butter. although this sauce is one of the most simple, it is very rarely that it is well made. mix with four ounces of butter, a desert spoonful of flour, when well mixed, add three table spoonsful of water, put it into a clean saucepan kept for the purpose, and stir it carefully one way till it boils; white sauce to throw over vegetables served on toast, is made in the same way, only putting milk and water, instead of water only. * * * * * sauce without butter for boiled puddings. mix a table-spoonful of flour, with two of water, add a little wine, lemon peel grated, a small bit of clarified suet, of the size of a walnut, grated nutmeg, and sugar, put on in a saucepan, stirring one way, and adding water if too thick, lemon juice, or essence of noyeau, or almonds may be substituted to vary the flavour. * * * * * sauce robert for steaks. chop up some onions, throw them into a saucepan with a bit of clarified fat, let them fry till brown, then add pepper, salt, a little gravy, mustard, lemon juice, and vinegar; boil it all, and pour over the steaks. * * * * * caper sauce. this is merely melted butter with a few pickled capers simmered in it, or they may be put into a sauce made of broth thickened with egg, and a little flour. * * * * * savory herb powder. it is useful to select a variety of herbs, so that they may always be at hand for use: the following are considered to be an excellent selection, parsley, savory, thyme, sweet majoram, shalot, chervil, and sage, in equal quantities; dry these in the oven, pound them finely and keep them in bottles well stopped. * * * * * seasoning for ducks and geese. mix chopped onion with an equal quantity of chopped sage, three times as much grated stale bread, a little shred suet, pepper, salt, and a beaten egg to bind it, this is generally used for geese and ducks, the onions are sometimes boiled first to render them less strong. * * * * * english egg sauce. boil two eggs hard, chop them finely, and warm them up in finely made melted butter, add a little white pepper, salt, a blade of mace, and a very small quantity of nutmeg. * * * * * sauce a la tartare. mix the yolk of an egg with oil, vinegar, chopped parsley, mustard, pepper, and salt; a spoonful of paté de diable or french mustard, renders the sauce more piquante. * * * * * a fine sauce for roast mutton. mix a little port wine in some gravy, two table-spoonfuls of vinegar, one of oil, a shalot minced, and a spoonful of mustard, just before the mutton is served, pour the sauce over it, then sprinkle it with fried bread crumbs, and then again baste the meat with the sauce; this is a fine addition to the mutton. * * * * * asparagus sauce, to serve with lamb chops. cut some asparagus, or sprew, into half inch lengths, wash them, and throw them into half a pint of gravy made from beef, veal, or mutton thickened, and seasoned with salt, white pepper, and a lump of white sugar, the chops should be delicately fried and the sauce served in the centre of the dish. * * * * * brown cucumber sauce. peel and cut in thick slices, one or more fresh cucumbers, fry them until brown in a little butter, or clarified fat, then add to them a little strong beef gravy, pepper, salt, and a spoonful of vinegar; some cooks add a chopped onion browned with the cucumbers. * * * * * white cucumber sauce. take out the seeds of some fresh young cucumbers, quarter them, and cut them into pieces of two inch lengths, let them lay for an hour in vinegar and water, then simmer them till thoroughly soft, in a veal broth seasoned with pepper, salt, and a little lemon juice; when ready for serving, pour off the gravy and thicken it with the yolks of a couple of eggs stirred in, add it to the saucepan; warm up, taking care that it does not curdle. * * * * * browned flour for making soups and gravies dark and thick. spread flour on a tin, and place it in a dutch oven before the fire, or in a gentle oven till it browns; it must often be turned, that the flour may be equally coloured throughout. a small quantity of this prepared and laid by for use, will be found useful. * * * * * browned bread crumbs. grate into fine crumbs, about five or six ounces of stale bread, and brown them in a gentle oven or before the fire; this is a more delicate way of browning them than by frying. * * * * * crisped parsley. wash and drain a handful of fresh young sprigs of parsley, dry them with a cloth, place them before the fire on a dish, turn them frequently, and they will be perfectly crisp in ten minutes. * * * * * fried parsley. when the parsley is prepared as above, fry it in butter or clarified suet, then drain it on a cloth placed before the fire. * * * * * bread crumbs for frying. cut slices of bread without crust, and dry them gradually in a cool oven till quite dry and crisp, then roll them into fine crumbs, and put them in a jar for use. * * * * * spinach green. pound to a pulp in a mortar a handful of spinach, and squeeze it through a hair sieve; then put it into a cup or jar, and place it in a basin of hot water for a few minutes, or it may be allowed to simmer on the fire; a little of this stirred into spring soups, improve their appearance. * * * * * velouté, bechamel. these preparations are so frequently mentioned in modern cookery, that we shall give the receipts for them, although they are not appropriate for the jewish kitchen. velouté is a fine white sauce, made by reducing a certain quantity of well-flavoured consommé or stock, over a charcoal fire, and mixing it with boiling cream, stirring it carefully till it thickens. béchamel is another sort of fine white stock, thickened with cream, there is more flavouring in this than the former, the stock is made of veal, with some of the smoked meats used in english kitchens, butter, mace, onion, mushrooms, bay leaf, nutmeg, and a little salt. an excellent substitute for these sauces can in jewish kitchens be made in the following way: take some veal broth flavored with smoked beef, and the above named seasonings, then beat up two or three yolks of eggs, with a little of the stock and a spoonful of potatoe flour, stir this into the broth, until it thickens, it will not be quite as white, but will be excellent. * * * * * forcemeat or farcie. under this head is included the various preparations used for balls, tisoles, fritters, and stuffings for poultry and veal, it is a branch of cooking which requires great care and judgment, the proportions should be so blended as to produce a delicate, yet savoury flavor, without allowing any particular herb or spice to predominate. the ingredients should always be pounded well together in a mortar, not merely chopped and moistened with egg, as is usually done by inexperienced cooks; forcemeat can be served in a variety of forms, and is so useful a resource, that it well repays the attention it requires. * * * * * a superior forcemeat for risolles, fritters, and savory meat balls. scrape half a pound of the fat of smoked beef, and a pound of lean veal, free from skin, vein, or sinew, pound it finely in a mortar with chopped mushrooms, a little minced parsley, salt and pepper, and grated lemon peel, then have ready the crumb of two french rolls soaked in good gravy, press out the moisture, and add the crumb to the meat with three beaten eggs; if the forcemeat is required to be very highly flavored, the gravy in which the rolls are soaked should be seasoned with mushroom powder; a spoonful of ketchup, a bay leaf, an onion, pepper, salt, and lemon juice, add this panada to the pounded meat and eggs, form the mixture into any form required, and either fry or warm in gravy, according to the dish for which it is intended. any cold meats pounded, seasoned, and made according to the above method are excellent; the seasoning can be varied, or rendered simpler if required. * * * * * common veal, stuffing. have equal quantities of finely shred suet and grated crumbs of bread, add chopped sweet herbs, grated lemon peel, pepper, and salt, pound it in a mortar; this is also used for white poultry, with the addition of a little grated smoked beef, or a piece of the root of a tongue pounded and mixed with the above ingredients. * * * * * fish forcemeat. chop finely any kind of fish, that which has been already dressed will answer the purpose, then pound it in a mortar with a couple of anchovies, or a little anchovy essence, the yolk of a hard boiled egg, a little butter, parsley or any other herb which may be approved, grated lemon peel, and a little of the juice, then add a little bread previously soaked, and mix the whole into a paste, and form into balls, or use for stuffing, &c. the liver or roe of fish is well suited to add to the fish, as it is rich and delicate. * * * * * forcemeat for dressing fish fillets. pound finely anchovies, grated bread, chopped parsley, and the yolk of a hard boiled egg, add grated lemon peel, a little lemon juice, pepper and salt, and make into a paste with two eggs. * * * * * forcemeat for dressing cutlets, etc. add to grated stale bread, an equal quantity of chopped parsley, season it well, and mix it with clarified suet, then brush the cutlets with beaten yolks of eggs, lay on the mixture thickly with a knife, and sprinkle over with dry and fine bread crumbs. * * * * * egg balls. beat the hard yolks of eggs in a mortar, make it into a paste with the yolk of a raw egg, form the paste into very small balls, and throw them into boiling water for a minute or so, to harden them. * * * * * preparation for cutlets of fowl or veal. make a smooth batter of flour, and a little salad oil, and two eggs, a little white pepper, salt, and nutmeg, turn the cutlets well in this mixture, and fry a light brown, garnish with slices of lemon, and crisped parsley, this is done by putting in the parsley after the cutlets have been fried, it will speedily crisp; it should then be drained, to prevent its being greasy. chapter iii. fish. preliminary remarks. when fish is to be boiled, it should be rubbed lightly over with salt, and set on the fire in a saucepan or fish-kettle sufficiently large, in hard cold water, with a little salt, a spoonful or two of vinegar is sometimes added, which has the effect of increasing its firmness. fish for broiling should be rubbed over with vinegar, well dried in a cloth and floured. the fire must be clear and free from smoke, the gridiron made quite hot, and the bars buttered before the fish is put on it. fish to be fried should be rubbed in with salt, dried, rolled in a cloth, and placed for a few minutes before the fire previous to being put in the pan. * * * * * fish fried in oil. soles, plaice, or salmon, are the best kinds of fish to dress in this manner, although various other sorts are frequently used. when prepared by salting or drying, as above directed, have a dish ready with beaten eggs, turn the fish well over in them, and sprinkle it freely with flour, so that the fish may be covered entirely with it, then place it in a pan with a good quantity of the best frying oil at boiling heat; fry the fish in it gently, till of a fine equal brown colour, when done, it should be placed on a cloth before the fire for the oil to drain off; great care should be observed that the oil should have ceased to bubble when the fish is put in, otherwise it will be greasy; the oil will serve for two or three times if strained off and poured into a jar. fish prepared in this way is usually served cold. * * * * * fried soles in the english way. prepare the soles as directed in the last receipt, brush them over with egg, dredge them with stale bread crumbs, and fry in boiling butter; this method is preferable when required to be served hot. * * * * * escobeche. take some cold fried fish, place it in a deep pan, then boil half a pint of vinegar with two table spoonsful of water, and one of oil, a little grated ginger, allspice, cayenne pepper, two bay leaves, a little salt, and a table spoonful of lemon juice, with sliced onions; when boiling, pour it over the fish, cover the pan, and let it stand twenty-four hours before serving. * * * * * fish stewed white. put an onion, finely chopped, into a stew-pan, with a little oil, till the onion becomes brown, then add half a pint of water, and place the fish in the stew-pan, seasoning with pepper, salt, mace, ground allspice, nutmeg, and ginger; let it stew gently till the fish is done, then prepare the beaten yolks of four eggs, with the juice of two lemons, and a tea spoonful of flour, a table spoonful of cold water, and a little saffron, mix well in a cup, and pour it into the stew-pan, stirring it carefully one way until it thickens. balls should be thrown in about twenty minutes before serving; they are made in the following way: take a little of the fish, the liver, and roe, if there is any, beat it up finely with chopped parsley, and spread warmed butter, crumbs of bread, and seasoning according to taste; form this into a paste with eggs, and make it into balls of a moderate size; this is a very nice dish when cold; garnish with sliced lemon and parsley. * * * * * an excellent receipt for stewed fish in the dutch fashion. take three or four parsley roots, cut them into pieces, slice several onions and boil in a pint of water till tender, season with lemon juice, vinegar, saffron, pepper, salt, and mace, then add the fish, and let it stew till nearly finished, when remove it, and thicken the gravy with a little flour and butter, and the yolk of one egg, then return the fish to the stew-pan, with balls made as directed in the preceding receipt, and boil up. * * * * * fish stewed brown. fry some fish of a light brown, either soles, slices of salmon, halibut, or plaice, let an onion brown in a little oil, add to it a cup of water, a little mushroom ketchup or powder, cayenne pepper, salt, nutmeg, and lemon juice, put the fish into a stew-pan with the above mixture, and simmer gently till done, then take out the fish and thicken the gravy with a little browned flour, and stir in a glass of port wine; a few truffles, or mushrooms, are an improvement. * * * * * water souchy. take a portion of the fish intended to be dressed, and stew it down with three pints of water, parsley roots, and chopped parsley, and then pulp them through a sieve, then add the rest of the fish, with pepper, salt, and seasoning; and serve in a deep dish. * * * * * a superior receipt for stewed carp. clean the fish thoroughly, put it into a saucepan, with a strong rich gravy, season with onion, parsley roots, allspice, nutmegs, beaten cloves, and ginger, let it stew very gently till nearly done, then mix port wine and vinegar in equal quantities, coarse brown sugar and lemon juice, a little flour, with some of the gravy from the saucepan, mix well and pour over the fish, let it boil till the gravy thickens. pike is excellent stewed in this manner. * * * * * fillets of fish. fillets of salmon, soles, &c., fried of a delicate brown according to the receipt already given, and served with a fine gravy is a very nice dish. if required to be very savory, make a fish force-meat, and lay it thickly on the fish before frying; fillets dressed in this way are usually arranged round the dish, and served with a sauce made of good stock, thickened and seasoned with cayenne pepper, lemon juice, and mushroom essence; piccalilli are sometimes added cut small. * * * * * baked haddock. carefully clean a fresh haddock, and fill it with a fine forcemeat, and sew it in securely; give the fish a dredging of flour, and pour on warmed butter, sprinkle it with pepper and salt, and set it to bake in a dutch-oven before the fire, basting it, from time to time, with butter warmed, and capers; it should be of a rich dark brown, and it is as well to dredge two or three times with flour while at the fire, the continual bastings will produce sufficient sauce to serve with it without any other being added. mackarel and whiting prepared in this manner are excellent, the latter should be covered with a layer of bread crumbs, and arranged in a ring, and the forcemeat, instead of stuffing them, should be formed into small balls, and served in the dish as a garnish. the forcemeat must be made as for veal stuffing, with the addition of a couple of minced anchovies, cayenne pepper, and butter instead of suet. * * * * * a nice way of dressing red herrings. open them, cut off the tails and heads, soak them in hot water for an hour, then wipe them dry; mix with warmed butter one beaten egg, pour this over the herrings, sprinkle with bread crumbs, flour, and white pepper, broil them and serve them very hot. * * * * * baked mackarel with vinegar. cut off the heads and tails, open and clean them, lay them in a deep pan with a few bay leaves, whole pepper, half a tea-spoonful of cloves, and a whole spoonful of allspice, pour over equal quantities of vinegar and water, and bake for an hour and a half, in a gentle oven; herrings and sprats are also dressed according to this receipt. * * * * * fish salad. cut in small pieces any cold dressed fish, turbot or salmon are the best suited; mix it with half a pint of small salad, and a lettuce cut small, two onions boiled till tender and mild, and a few truffles thinly sliced; pour over a fine salad mixture, and arrange it into a shape, high in the centre, and garnish with hard eggs cut in slices; a little cucumber mixed with the salad is an improvement. the mixture may either be a common salad mixture, or made as follows: take the yolks of three hard boiled eggs, with a spoonful of mustard, and a little salt, mix these with a cup of cream, and four table-spoonsful of vinegar, the different ingredients should be added carefully and worked together smoothly, the whites of the eggs may be trimmed and placed in small heaps round the dish as a garnish. * * * * * impanada. cut in small pieces halibut, plaice, or soles, place them in a deep dish in alternate layers, with slices of potatoes and dumplings made of short-crust paste, sweetened with brown sugar, season well with small pickles, peppers, gerkins, or west india pickles; throw over a little water and butter warmed, and bake it thoroughly. * * * * * white bait. this is such a delicate fish that there are few cooks who attempt to dress it without spoiling it; they should not be touched but thrown from the dish into a cloth with a handful of flour; shake them lightly, but enough to cover them well with the flour, then turn them into a sieve expressly for bait to free them from too great a quantity of the flour, then throw the fish into a pan with plenty of boiling butter, they must remain but an instant, for they are considered spoilt if they become the least brown; they should be placed lightly on the dish piled up high in the centre, brown bread and butter is always served with them; when devilled they are also excellent, and are permitted to become brown; they are then sprinkled with cayenne pepper, and a little salt, and served with lemon juice. this receipt was given by a cook who dressed white bait to perfection. * * * * * a dutch fricandelle. take two pounds of dressed fish, remove the skin and bones, cut in small pieces with two or three anchovies, and season well, soak the crumb of a french roll in milk, beat it up with the fish and three eggs: butter a mould, sprinkle it with raspings, place in the fish and bake it; when done, turn out and serve either dry or with anchovy sauce; if served dry, finely grated crumbs of bread should be sprinkled thickly over it, and it should be placed for a few minutes before the fire to brown. * * * * * fish fritters. make a force-meat of any cold fish, form it into thin cakes, and fry of a light brown, or enclose them first in thin paste and then fry them. the roes of fish or the livers are particularly nice prepared in this way. * * * * * fish omelet. shred finely any cold fish, season it, and mix with beaten eggs; make it into a paste, fry in thin cakes like pancakes, and serve hot on a napkin; there should be plenty of boiling butter in the pan, as they should be moist and rich; there should be more eggs in the preparation for omelets than for fritters. * * * * * scalloped fish. take any dressed fish, break it in small pieces, put it into tin scallops, with a few crumbs of bread, a good piece of butter, a little cream if approved, white pepper, salt, and nutmeg; bake in an oven for ten minutes, or brown before the fire; two or three mushrooms mixed, or an anchovy will be found an improvement. * * * * * another way. break the fish into pieces, pour over the beaten yolk of an egg, sprinkle with pepper and salt, strew with bread crumbs, chopped parsley, and grated lemon peel, and squeeze in the juice of lemon, drop over a little warmed butter, and brown before the fire. chapter iv. directions for various ways of dressing meat and poultry. introductory remarks. boiling is the most simple manner of cooking, the great art in this process is to boil the article sufficiently, without its being overdone, the necessity of slow boiling cannot be too strongly impressed upon the cook, as the contrary, renders it hard and of a bad color; the average time of boiling for fresh meat is half an hour to every pound, salt meat requires half as long again, and smoked meat still longer; the lid of the saucepan should only be removed for skimming, which is an essential process. roasting chiefly depends on the skilful management of the fire, it is considered that a joint of eight pounds requires two hours roasting; when first put down it should be basted with fresh dripping, and afterwards with its own dripping, it should be sprinkled with salt, and repeatedly dredged with flour, which browns and makes it look rich and frothy. broiling requires a steady clear fire, free from flame and smoke, the gridiron should be quite hot before the article is placed on it, and the bars should be rubbed with fat, or if the article is thin-skinned and delicate, with chalk; the gridiron should be held aslant to prevent the fat dripping into the fire; the bars of a gridiron should be close and fine. frying is easier than broiling, the fat, oil or butter in which the article is fried must be boiling, but have ceased to bubble before it is put in the pan, or it will be greasy and black: there is now a new description of fryingpan, called a sauté pan, and which will be found extremely convenient for frying small cutlets or collops. stewing is a more elaborate mode of boiling; a gentle heat with frequent skimmings, are the points to be observed. glazing is done by brushing melted jelly over the article to be glazed and letting it cool, and then adding another coat, or in some cases two or three, this makes any cold meats or poultry have an elegant appearance. blanching makes the article plump and white. it should be set on the fire in cold water, boil up and then be immersed in cold water, where it should remain some little time. larding (the french term is _piqué_, which the inexperienced jewish cook may not be acquainted with, we therefore use the term in common use) is a term given to a certain mode of garnishing the surface of meat or poultry: it is inserting small pieces of the fat of smoked meats, truffles, or tongue, which are trimmed into slips of equal length and size, into the flesh of the article at regular distances, and is effected by means of larding pins. poelée and blanc, are terms used in modern cookery for a very expensive mode of stewing: it is done by stewing the article with meat, vegetables, and fat of smoked meats, all well seasoned; instead of placing it to stew in water it is placed on slices of meat covered with slices of fat and the vegetables and seasoning added, then water enough to cover the whole is added. blanc differs from poelée, in having a quantity of suet added, and being boiled down before the article is placed to stew in it. braising is a similar process to poelée, but less meat and vegetable is used. * * * * * to clarify suet. melt down with care fine fresh suet, either beef or veal, put it into a jar, and set it in a stew-pan of water to boil, putting in a sprig of rosemary, or a little orange flower water while melting, this is a very useful preparation and will be found, if adopted in english kitchens, to answer the purpose of lard and is far more delicate and wholesome: it should be well beaten till quite light with a wooden fork. * * * * * olio. put eight pounds of beef in sufficient water to cover it, when the water boils take out the meat, skim off the fat, and then return the meat to the stew-pan, adding at the same time two fine white cabbages without any of the stalk or hard parts; season with pepper, salt, and a tea-spoonful of white sugar, let it simmer on a slow fire for about five hours, about an hour before serving, add half a pound of _chorisa_, which greatly improves the flavor. * * * * * an excellent receipt for stewing a rump of beef. chop fine a large onion, four bay leaves, and a little parsley, add to these half an ounce of ground ginger, a tea-spoonful of salt, a blade of mace, a little ground allspice, some lemon sliced, and some of the peel grated; rub all these ingredients well into the meat, then place it into a stew-pan with three parts of a cup of vinegar, a calf's-foot cut in small pieces and a pint of water, stew gently till tender, when the fat must be carefully skimmed off the gravy, which must be strained and poured over the meat. * * * * * alamode beef, or sour meat. cover a piece of the ribs of beef boned and filletted, or a piece of the round with vinegar diluted with water, season with onions, pepper, salt, whole allspice, and three or four bay leaves, add a cup full of raspings, and let the whole stew gently for three or four hours, according to the weight of the meat; this dish is excellent when cold. a rump steak stewed in the same way will be found exceedingly fine. * * * * * kimmel meat. place a small piece of the rump of beef, or the under cut of a sirloin in a deep pan with three pints of vinegar, two ounces of carraway seeds tied in a muslin bag, salt, pepper, and spices, cover it down tight, and bake thoroughly in a slow oven. this is a fine relish for luncheons. * * * * * beef and beans. take a piece of brisket of beef, cover it with water, when boiling skim off the fat, add one quarter of french beans cut small, two onions cut in quarters, season with pepper and salt, and when nearly done take a dessert-spoonful of flour, one of coarse brown sugar, and a large tea-cup full of vinegar, mix them together and stir in with the beans, and continue stewing for about half an hour longer. * * * * * kugel and commean. soak one pint of spanish peas and one pint of spanish beans all night in three pints of water; take two marrow bones, a calf's-foot, and three pounds of fine gravy-beef, crack the bones and tie them to prevent the marrow escaping, and put all together into a pan; then take one pound of flour, half a pound of shred suet, a little grated nutmeg and ground ginger, cloves and allspice, one pound of coarse brown sugar, and the crumb of a slice of bread, first soaked in water and pressed dry, mix all these ingredients together into a paste, grease a quart basin and put it in, covering the basin with a plate set in the middle of the pan with the beans, meat, &c. cover the pan lightly down with coarse brown paper, and let it remain all the night and the next day, (until required) in a baker's oven, when done, take out the basin containing the pudding, and skim the fat from the gravy which must be served as soup; the meat, &c., is extremely savory and nutritious, but is not a very seemly dish for table. the pudding must be turned out of the basin, and a sweet sauce flavored with lemon and brandy is a fine addition. * * * * * sauer kraut. boil about seven or eight pounds of beef, either brisket or a fillet off the shoulder, in enough water to cover it, when it has boiled for one hour, add as much sauer kraut, which is a german preparation, as may be approved, it should then stew gently for four hours and be served in a deep dish. the germans are not very particular in removing the fat, but it is more delicate by so doing. * * * * * beef with celery, and white beans and peas. soak for twelve hours one pint of dried white peas, and half a pint of the same kind of beans, they must be well soaked, and if very dry, may require longer than twelve hours, put a nice piece of brisket of about eight pounds weight in a stew-pan with the peas and beans, and three heads of celery cut in small pieces, put water enough to cover, and season with pepper and salt only, let it all stew slowly till the meat is extremely tender and the peas and beans quite soft, then add four large lumps of sugar and nearly a tea-cup of vinegar; this is a very fine stew. * * * * * beef collops. cut thin slices off from any tender part, divide them into pieces of the size of a wine biscuit, flatten and flour them, and lightly fry in clarified fat, lay them in a stew-pan with good stock, season to taste, have pickled gherkins chopped small, and add to the gravy a few minutes before serving. * * * * * to warm cold roast beef when not sufficiently done. cut it in slices, also slice some beetroot or cucumber and put them in a saucepan with a little gravy which need not be strong, two table-spoonsful of vinegar, one of oil, pepper, salt, a little chopped lettuce and a few peas, simmer till the vegetables and meat are sufficiently dressed. * * * * * to hash beef. the meat should be put on the fire in a little broth or gravy, with a little fried onion, pepper, salt, and a spoonful of ketchup, or any other sauce at hand, let it simmer for about ten minutes, then mix in a cup a little flour with a little of the gravy, and pour it into the stewpan to thicken the rest; sippets of toast should be served with hashes, a little port wine, a pinch of saffron, or a piece _chorisa_ may be considered great improvements. * * * * * steaks with chesnuts. take a fine thick steak, half fry it, then flour and place it in a stewpan with a little good beef gravy, season with cayenne pepper and salt, when it has simmered for about ten minutes, add a quarter of a hundred good chesnuts, peeled and the inner skin scraped off, let them stew with the steak till well done, this is a very nice dish, a little espagnole sauce heightens the flavor. * * * * * a simple stewed steak. put a fine steak in a stewpan with a large piece of clarified suet or fat, and a couple of onions sliced, let the steak fry for a few minutes, turning it several times; then cover the steak with gravy, or even water will answer the purpose, with a tea-cup full of button onions, or a spanish onion sliced, a little lemon peel, pepper, salt, and a little allspice; simmer till the steak is done, when the steak must be removed and the gravy be carefully skimmed, then add to it a little browning and a spoonful of mushroom ketchup; the steak must be kept on a hot stove or returned to the stewpan to warm up. if the gravy is not thick enough, stir in a little flour. * * * * * brisket stewed with onions and raisins. stew about five pounds of brisket of beef in sufficient water to cover, season with allspice, pepper, salt, and nutmeg, and when nearly done, add four large onions cut in pieces and half a pound of raisins stoned, let them remain simmering till well done; and just before serving, stir in a tea-spoonful of brown sugar and a table spoonful of flour. * * * * * brisket stewed. take about six or seven pounds of brisket of beef, place it in a stewpan with only enough water to cover it, season with a little spice tied in a bag; when the meat is tender and the spices sufficiently extracted to make the gravy rich and strong, part of it must be removed to another saucepan; have ready a variety of vegetables cut into small shapes, such as turnips, carrots, mushrooms, cauliflowers, or whatever may be in season; stew them gently till tender in the gravy, the meat must then be glazed and the gravy poured in the dish, and the vegetables arranged round. * * * * * beef ragout. take a small well cut piece of lean beef, lard it with the fat of smoked beef, and stew it with good gravy, highly seasoned with allspice, cloves, pepper and salt; when the meat is well done remove it from the gravy, which skim carefully and free from every particle of fat, and add to it a glass of port wine, the juice of a lemon, half a tea-spoonful of cayenne pepper, and a little mushroom ketchup; the beef should be glazed when required to have an elegant appearance. a few very small forcemeat balls must be poached in the gravy, which must be poured over the meat, and the balls arranged round the dish; this is a very savoury and pretty dish. * * * * * to salt beef. this may be done by mixing a pound of common salt, half an ounce of saltpetre and one ounce of coarse brown sugar, and rubbing the meat well with it, daily for a fortnight or less, according to the weather, and the degree of salt that the meat is required to have. or by boiling eight ounces of salt, eight ounces of sugar, and half an ounce of saltpetre in two quarts of water, and pouring it over the meat, and letting it stand in it for eight or ten days. * * * * * spiced beef. take a fine thick piece of brisket of beef not fat, let it lay three days in a pickle, as above, take it out and rub in a mixture of spices consisting of equal quantities of ground all-spice, black pepper, cloves, ginger and nutmegs, and a little brown sugar, repeat this daily for a week, then cover it with pounded dried sweet herbs, roll or tie it tightly, put it into a pan with very little water, and bake slowly for eight hours, then take it out, untie it and put a heavy weight upon it; this it a fine relish when eaten cold. * * * * * smoked beef. as there are seldom conveniences in private kitchens for smoking meats, it will generally be the best and cheapest plan to have them ready prepared for cooking. all kinds of meats smoked and salted, are to be met with in great perfection at all the hebrew butchers. _chorisa_, that most refined and savoury of all sausages, is to be also procured at the same places. it is not only excellent fried in slices with poached eggs or stewed with rice, but imparts a delicious flavor to stews, soups, and sauces, and is one of the most useful resources of the jewish kitchen. * * * * * a white fricandeau of veal. take four or five pounds of breast of veal, or fillet from the shoulder; stuff it with a finely flavoured veal stuffing and put it into a stewpan with water sufficient to cover it, a calf's-foot cut in pieces is sometimes added, season with one onion, a blade of mace, white pepper and salt, and a sprig of parsley, stew the whole gently until the meat is quite tender, then skim and strain the gravy and stir in the beaten yolks of four eggs, and the juice of two lemons previously mixed smoothly with a portion of the gravy, button mushrooms, or pieces of celery stewed with the veal are sometimes added by way of varying the flavor, egg and forcemeat balls garnish the dish. when required to look elegant it should be piqué. * * * * * a brown fricassee. cut a breast of veal in pieces, fry them lightly and put them into a stewpan with a good beef gravy, seasoned with white pepper, salt, a couple of sliced onions (previously browned in a little oil), and a piece of whole ginger, let it simmer very slowly for two hours taking care to remove the scum or fat, have ready some rich forcemeat and spread it about an inch thick over three cold hard boiled eggs, fry these for a few moments and put them in the saucepan with the veal; before serving, these balls should be cut in quarters, and the gravy rendered more savory by the addition of lemon juice and half a glass of white wine, or a table-spoonful of walnut liquor, if the gravy is not sufficiently thick by long stewing, a little browned flour may be stirred in. * * * * * calf's head stewed. clean and soak the head till the cheek-bone can be easily removed, then parboil it and cut it into pieces of moderate size, and place them in about a quart of stock made from shin of beef, the gravy must be seasoned highly with eschalots, a small head of celery, a small bunch of sweet herbs, an onion, a carrot, a little mace, a dozen cloves, a piece of lemon peel, and a sprig of parsley, salt and pepper; it must be strained before the head is added, fine forcemeat balls rolled in egg and fried are served in the dish, as well as small fritters made with the brains; when ready for serving, a glass and half of white wine and the juice of a lemon are added to the gravy. * * * * * calves-feet with spanish sauce. having cleaned, boiled and split two fine feet, dip them into egg and bread crumbs mixed with chopped parsley and chalot, a few ground cloves, a little nutmeg, pepper and salt, fry them a fine brown, arrange them in the dish and pour the sauce over. make the sauce in the following manner: slice two fine spanish onions, put them in a saucepan, with some chopped truffles or mushrooms, a little suet, cayenne and white pepper, salt, one or two small lumps of white sugar, and let all simmer in some good strong stock till the gravy has nearly boiled away, then stir in a wine glass of madeira wine, and a little lemon juice; it should then be returned to the saucepan, to be made thoroughly hot before serving. * * * * * calf's feet au fritur. simmer them for four hours in water till the meat can be taken easily from the bone, then cut them in handsome pieces, season with pepper and salt, dip them in egg, and sprinkle thickly with grated bread crumbs, and fry of a fine even brown; they may be served dry or with any sauce that may be approved. the liquor should continue to stew with the bones, and can be used for jelly. * * * * * calf's feet stewed for invalids. clean and soak a fine foot, put it on in very little water, let it simmer till tender, then cut it in pieces, without removing the bone, and continue stewing for three hours, till they become perfectly soft; if the liquor boils away, add a little more water, but there should not be more liquor than can be served in the dish with the foot; the only seasoning requisite is a little salt and white pepper, and a sprig of parsley, or a pinch of saffron to improve the appearance; a little delicately-made thin egg sauce, with a flavor of lemon juice, may be served in a sauce-tureen if approved; sippets of toast or well boiled rice to garnish the dish, may also be added, and will not be an unacceptable addition. * * * * * tendons of veal. this is a very fine and nutritious dish; cut from the bones of a breast of veal the tendons which are round the front, trim and blanch them, put them with slices of smoked beef into a stewpan with some shavings of veal, a few herbs, a little sliced lemon, two or three onions, and a little broth; they must simmer for seven or eight hours; when done, thicken the gravy and add white wine and mushrooms and egg-balls; a few peas with the tendons will be found excellent, a piece of mint and a little white sugar will then be requisite. * * * * * fricandeau of veal. take a piece from the shoulder, about three to four pounds, trim it and form it into a well shaped even piece, the surface of which should be quite smooth; _piqué_ it thickly, put it into a stewpan with a couple of onions, a carrot sliced, sweet herbs, two or three bay leaves, a large piece of _chorissa_ or a slice of the root of a tongue smoked, a little whole pepper and salt; cover it with a gravy made from the trimmings of the veal, and stew till extremely tender, which can be proved by probing it with a fine skewer, then reduce part of the gravy to a glaze, glaze the meat with it and serve on a _pureé_ of vegetables. * * * * * collared veal. remove the bones, gristle, &c., from a nice piece of veal, the breast is the best part for the purpose; season the meat well with chopped herbs, mace, pepper, and salt, then lay between the veal slices of smoked tongue variegated with beetroot, chopped parsley, and hard yolks of eggs, roll it up tightly in a cloth, simmer for some hours till tender; when done, it should have a weight laid on it to press out the liquor. * * * * * curried veal. cut a breast of veal into pieces, fry lightly with a chopped onion, then rub the veal over with currie powder, put it into a good gravy of veal and beef, season simply with pepper, salt, and lemon juice. fowls curried are prepared in the same way. * * * * * cutlets. cut them into proper shape and beat them with a roller until the fibre of the meat is entirely broken; if this is not done, they will be hard; they must then be covered with egg and sprinkled with flour, or a preparation for cutlets may be spread over them, and then fry them of a fine brown, remove the cutlets to a hot dish, and add to the fat in which the cutlets have been fried, a spoonful of flour, a small cup of gravy, salt, pepper, and a little lemon juice or lemon pickle. * * * * * cutlets a la française. french cooks cut them thinner than the english, and trim them into rounds of the size of a tea-cup; they must be brushed over with egg, and sprinkled with salt, white pepper, mushroom powder, and grated lemon peel; put them into a _sauté_ pan and fry of a very light brown; pieces of bread, smoked meat or tongue cut of the same size as the cutlets, and prepared in the same manner, are laid alternately in the dish with them; they should be served without sauce and with a _purée_ of mushrooms or spinach in the centre of the dish. * * * * * cutlets in white fricassee. cut them in proper shapes, put them in a veal gravy made with the trimmings enough to cover them; season delicately, and let them simmer till quite tender, but not long enough to lose their shape; fresh button mushrooms and a piece of lemon peel are essential to this dish; when the meat is done remove it, take all fat from the gravy, and thicken it with the yolks of two beaten eggs; small balls of forcemeat in which mushrooms must be minced should be poached in the gravy when about to be served; the meat must be returned to the saucepan to be made hot, and when placed in the dish, garnish with thin slices of lemon. * * * * * cutlets in brown fricassee. they must be trimmed as above, fried slightly and stewed in beef gravy, and seasoned according to the directions given for a brown fricassee of veal; balls or fritters are always an improvement to the appearance of this dish. * * * * * blanquette of veal. cut into thin pieces of the size of shillings and half crowns, cold veal or poultry, lay it in a small saucepan with a handful of fresh well cleaned button mushrooms, pour over a little veal gravy, only enough to cover them, with a piece of clarified veal fat about the size of the yolk of a hard boiled egg; flavor with a piece of lemon peel, very little white pepper and salt, one small lump of white sugar, and a little nutmeg, stew all together for fifteen minutes, then pour over a sauce prepared in a separate saucepan, made with veal gravy, a little lemon juice, but not much, and the beaten yolks of two eggs, let it simmer for an instant and then serve it up in the centre of a dish prepared with a wall of mashed potatoes, delicately browned; a few truffles renders this dish more elegant. * * * * * minced veal. cut in small square pieces about the size of dice, cold dressed veal, put it into a saucepan with a little water or gravy, season simply with salt, pepper, and grated or minced lemon peel, the mince should be garnished with sippets of toast. * * * * * miroton of veal. mince finely some cold veal or poultry, add a little grated tongue, or smoked beef, a few crumbs of bread, sweet herbs, pepper, salt, parsley, and if approved, essence of lemon, mix all well with two or three eggs, and a very small quantity of good gravy; grease a mould, put in the above ingredients and bake for three-quarters of an hour; turn out with care, and serve with mushroom sauce. * * * * * fricondelles. prepare cold veal or poultry as in the last receipt, add instead of crumbs of bread, a french roll soaked in white gravy, mix with it the same ingredients, and form it into two shapes to imitate small chickens or sweetbreads; sprinkle with crumbs of bread, and place in a frying-pan as deep as a shallow saucepan; when they have fried enough to become set, pour enough weak gravy in the pan to cover the fricondelles, and let them stew in it gently, place them both in the same dish, and pour over any well thickened sauce that may be selected. * * * * * another sort. prepare four small pieces of veal to serve in one dish, according to the directions given for fricandeau of veal; these form a very pretty _entrée_; the pieces of veal should be about the size of pigeons. * * * * * smoked veal. take a fine fat thick breast of veal, bone it, lay it in pickle, according to the receipt to salt meat, hang it for three or four weeks in wood-smoke, and it will prove a very fine savoury relish, either boiled and eaten cold, or fried as required. * * * * * sweetbreads roasted. first soak them in warm water, and then blanch them; in whatever manner they are to be dressed, this is essential; they may be prepared in a variety of ways, the simplest is to roast them; for this they have only to be covered with egg and bread crumbs, seasoned with salt and pepper, and finished in a dutch oven or cradle spit, frequently basting with clarified veal suet; they may be served either dry with a _purée_ of vegetables, or with a brown gravy. * * * * * sweetbreads stewed white. after soaking and blanching, stew them in veal gravy, and season with celery, pepper, salt, nutmeg, a little mace, and a piece of lemon peel, they should be served with a fine white sauce, the gravy in which they are stewed will form the basis for it, with the addition of yolks of eggs and mushroom essence; french cooks would adopt the _velouté_ or _bechamél_ sauce; jerusalem artichokes cut the size of button mushrooms, are a suitable accompaniment as a garnish. * * * * * sweetbreads stewed brown. after soaking and blanching, fry them till brown, then simmer gently in beef gravy seasoned highly with smoked meat, nutmeg, pepper, salt, a small onion stuck with cloves, and a very little whole allspice; the gravy must be slightly thickened, and morels and truffles are generally added; small balls of delicate forcemeat are also an improvement. the above receipts are adapted for sweetbreads fricasseed, except that they must be cut in pieces for fricassees, and pieces of meat or poultry are added to them; sweetbreads when dressed whole look better _piqués_. * * * * * a delicate receipt for roast mutton. put the joint in a saucepan, cover it with cold water, let it boil for half an hour, have the spit and fire quite ready, and remove the meat from the saucepan, and place it immediately down to roast, baste it well, dredge it repeatedly with flour, and sprinkle with salt; this mode of roasting mutton removes the strong flavor that is so disagreeable to some tastes. * * * * * mutton stewed with celery. take the best end of a neck of mutton, or a fillet taken from the leg or shoulder, place it in a stewpan with just enough water to cover it, throw in a carrot and turnip, and season, but not too highly; when nearly done remove the meat and strain off the gravy, then return both to the stewpan with forcemeat balls and some fine celery cut in small pieces; let all stew gently till perfectly done, then stir in the yolks of two eggs, a little flour, and the juice of half a lemon, which must be mixed with a little of the gravy before pouring in the stewpan, and care must be taken to prevent curdling. * * * * * a simple way of dressing mutton. take the fillet off a small leg or shoulder of mutton, rub it well over with egg and seasoning, and partly roast it, then place it in a stewpan with a little strong gravy, and stew gently till thoroughly done; this dish is simple, but exceedingly nice; a few balls or fritters to garnish will improve it. * * * * * maintenon cutlets. this is merely broiling or frying cutlets in a greased paper, after having spread on them a seasoning prepared as follows: make a paste of bread crumbs, chopped parsley, nutmeg, pepper, salt, grated lemon peel, and thyme, with a couple of beaten eggs; a piquante sauce should be served in a tureen. * * * * * a harricot. cut off the best end of a neck of mutton into chops, flour and partly fry them, then lay them in a stewpan with carrots, sliced turnips cut in small round balls, some button onions, and cover with water; skim frequently, season with pepper and salt to taste, color the gravy with a little browning and a spoonful of mushroom powder. * * * * * irish stew. is the same as above, excepting that the meat is not previously fried, and that potatoes are used instead of turnips and carrots. * * * * * mutton a l'hispaniola. take a small piece of mutton, either part of a shoulder or a fillet of the leg, partly roast it, then put it in a stewpan with beef gravy enough to cover it, previously seasoned with herbs, a carrot and turnip; cut in quarters three large spanish onions, and place in the stewpan round the meat; a stuffing will improve it, and care must be taken to free the gravy from every particle of fat. * * * * * mutton collops. take from a fine knuckle a couple of slices, cut and trim them in collops the size of a tea cup, flatten them and spread over each side a forcemeat for cutlets, and fry them; potatoe or jerusalem artichokes cut in slices of the same size and thickness, or pieces of bread cut with a fluted cutter, prepared as the collops and fried, must be placed alternately in the dish with them; they may be served with a pure simple gravy, or very hot and dry on a napkin, garnished with fried parsley and slices of lemon. the knuckle may be used in the following manner: put it on with sufficient water to cover it, season it and simmer till thoroughly done, thicken the gravy with prepared barley, and flavor it with lemon pickle, or capers; it should be slightly colored with saffron, and celery sauce may be served as an accompaniment, or the mutton may be served on a fine _purée_ of turnips. * * * * * mutton cutlets. have a neck of mutton, cut the bones short, and remove the chine bone completely; cut chops off so thin that every other one shall be without bone, trim them carefully, that all the chops shall bear the same appearance, then flatten them well; cover them with a cutlet preparation, and fry of a delicate brown; a fine _purée_ of any vegetable that may be approved, or any sauce that may be selected, should be served with them; they may be arranged in various ways in the dish, either round the dish or in a circle in the centre, so that the small part of the cutlets shall almost meet; if the latter, the _purée_ should garnish round them instead of being in the centre of the dish. * * * * * mutton ham. choose a fine leg of mutton, rub it in daily with a mixture of three ounces of brown sugar, two ounces of common salt, and half an ounce of saltpetre, continue this process for a fortnight, then hang it to dry in wood smoke for ten days longer. * * * * * lamb and sprew. take a fine neck or breast of lamb, put it in stewpan with as much water as will cover it, add to it a bundle of sprew cut in pieces of two inches in length, a small head of celery cut small, and one onion, pepper, salt, and a sprig of parsley, let it simmer gently till the meat and sprew are tender; a couple of lumps of sugar improves the flavor; there should not be too much liquor, and all fat must be removed; the sprew should surround the meat when served, and also be thickly laid over it. * * * * * lamb and peas. take the best end of a neck of lamb, either keep it whole or divide it into chops as may be preferred, put it into a saucepan with a little chopped onion, pepper, salt, and a small quantity of water; when half done add half a peck of peas, half a lettuce cut fine, a little mint, and a few lumps of sugar, and let it stew thoroughly; when done, there must not be too much liquor; cutlets of veal or beef are also excellent dressed as above. although this is a spring dish it may be almost equally well dressed in winter, by substituting small mutton cutlets and preserved peas, which may be met with at any of the best italian warehouses; a breast or neck of lamb may also be stewed whole in the same manner. * * * * * lamb cutlets with cucumbers. take two fine cucumbers, peel and cut them lengthways, lay them in vinegar for an hour, then stew them in good stock till tender, when stir in the yolks of two or three eggs, a little flour and essence of lemon, which must all be first mixed up together with a little of the stock, have ready some cutlets trimmed and fried a light brown, arrange them round the dish and pour the cucumbers in the centre. * * * * * a nice receipt for shoulder of lamb. half boil it, score it and squeeze over lemon juice, and cover with grated bread crumbs, egg and parsley, broil it over a clear fire and put it to brown in a dutch oven, or grill and serve with a sauce seasoned with lemon pickle and chopped mint. * * * * * a cassereet, an east india dish. take two pounds of lamb chops, or mutton may be substituted, place them in a stewpan, cover with water or gravy, season only with pepper and salt, when the chops are half done, carefully skim off the fat and add two table spoonsful of cassereet, stir it in the gravy which should not be thickened, and finish stewing gently till done enough; rice should accompany this dish. * * * * * turkey boned and forced. a turkey thus prepared may be either boiled or roasted; there are directions for boning poultry which might be given, but it is always better to let the poulterer do it; when boned it must be filled with a fine forcemeat, which may be varied in several ways, the basis should be according to the receipt given for veal stuffings, forcemeats, sausage meat, tongue, and mushrooms added as approved. when boiled it is served with any fine white sauce, french cooks use the velouté or béchamel. when roasted, a cradle spit is very convenient, but if there is not one the turkey must be carefully tied to the spit. * * * * * fowls boned and forced. the above directions serve also for fowls. * * * * * a savoury way of roasting a fowl. fill it with a fine seasoning, and just before it is ready for serving, baste it well with clarified veal suet, and sprinkle it thickly with very dry crumbs of bread, repeat this two or three times; then place it in the dish, and serve with a fine brown gravy well flavored with lemon juice; delicate forcemeat fritters should be also served in the dish. * * * * * boiled fowls. are served with a fine white sauce, and are often garnished with pieces of white cauliflower, or vegetable marrow, the chief object is to keep them white; it is best to select white legged poultry for boiling, as they prove whiter when dressed. * * * * * amnastich. stew gently one pint of rice in one quart of strong gravy till it begins to swell, then add an onion stuck with cloves, a bunch of sweet herbs, and a chicken stuffed with forcemeat, let it stew with the rice till thoroughly done, then take it up and stir in the rice, the yolks of four eggs, and the juice of a lemon; serve the fowl in the same dish with the rice, which should be colored to a fine yellow with saffron. * * * * * fowls stewed with rice and chorisa. boil a fowl in sufficient water or gravy to cover it, when boiling for ten minutes, skim off the fat and add half a pound of rice, and one pound of _chorisa_ cut in about four pieces, season with a little white pepper, salt, and a pinch of saffron to color it, and then stew till the rice is thoroughly tender; there should be no gravy when served, but the rice ought to be perfectly moist. * * * * * curried chicken. see curried veal. undressed chicken is considered best for a curry, it must be cut in small joints, the directions for curried veal are equally adapted for fowls. * * * * * a nice method of dressing fowl and sweetbread. take a fowl and blanch it, also a fine sweet bread, parboil them, then cut off in smooth well shaped slices, all the white part of the fowl, and slice the sweetbread in similar pieces, place them together in a fine well-flavoured veal gravy; when done, serve neatly in the dish, and pour over a fine white sauce, any that may be approved, the remainder of the fowl must be cut up in small joints or pieces, not separated from the bone, and fried to become brown, then place them in a stew-pan with forcemeat balls, truffles, and morels; pour over half or three quarters of a pint of beef gravy, and simmer till finished; a little mushroom ketchup, or lemon-pickle may be added; in this manner two very nice _entrées_ may be formed. * * * * * blankette of fowl. see blankette of veal. * * * * * to stew duck with green peas. stuff and half roast a duck, then put it into a stew-pan with an onion sliced, a little mint and about one pint of beef gravy, add after it has simmered half an hour, a quart of green peas, and simmer another half hour; a little lump sugar is requisite. * * * * * to warm cold poultry. cut up the pieces required to be dressed, spread over them a seasoning as for cutlets, and fry them; pour over a little good gravy, and garnish with sippets of toast and sliced lemon, or place them in an edging of rice or mashed potatoes. * * * * * broiled fowl and mushrooms. truss a fine fowl as if for boiling, split it down the back, and broil gently; when nearly done, put it in a stewpan with a good gravy, add a pint of fresh button mushrooms, season to taste; a little mushroom powder and lemon juice improve the flavour. * * * * * pigeons. to have a good appearance they should be larded and stuffed; glazing is also an improvement, they form a nice _entrée_; they may be stewed in a strong gravy; when done enough, remove the pigeons, thicken the gravy, add a few forcemeat and egg balls, and serve in the dish with the pigeons. or they may be split down the back, broiled, and then finished in the stew-pan. * * * * * stewed giblets. scald one or more sets of giblets, set them on the fire with a little veal or chicken, or both, in a good gravy; season to taste, thicken the gravy, and color it with browning, flavor with mushroom powder and lemon-juice and one glass of white wine; forcemeat balls should be added a few minutes before serving, and garnish with thin slices of hard boiled eggs. * * * * * dutch toast. take the remains of any cold poultry or meat, mince it and season highly; add to it any cold dressed vegetable, mix it up with one or more eggs, and let it simmer till hot in a little gravy; have ready a square of toast, and serve it on it; squeeze over a little lemon-juice, and sprinkle with white pepper. vegetables prepared in this way are excellent; cauliflower simmered in chicken broth, seasoned delicately and minced on toast, is a nutritive good luncheon for an invalid. * * * * * timbale de maccaroni. this is a very pretty dish. the maccaroni must be boiled in water till it slightly swells, and is soft enough to cut; it must be cut into short pieces about two inches in length. grease a mould, and stick the maccaroni closely together all over the mould; when this is done, and which will require some patience, fill up the space with friccassee of chicken, sweetbreads, or whatever may be liked; close the mould carefully, and boil. rich white sauce is usually served with it, but not poured over the timbale, as it would spoil the effect of the honeycomb appearance, which is very pretty. * * * * * a savoury pie for persons of delicate digestion. cut up fowl and sweetbread, lay in the dish in alternate layers with meat, jelly, and the yolks of hard-boiled eggs without the whites, and flavor with lemon-juice, white pepper, and salt; cover with rice prepared as follows: boil half a pound of rice in sufficient water to permit it to swell; when tender beat it up to a thick paste with the yolk of one or two eggs, season with a little salt, and spread it over the dish thickly. the fowl and sweetbread should have been previously simmered till half done in a little weak broth; the pie must be baked in a gentle oven, and if the rice will not brown sufficiently, finish with a salamander. * * * * * descaides. take the livers of chickens or any other poultry; stew it gently in a little good gravy seasoned with a little onion, mushroom essence, pepper, and salt; when tender, remove the livers, place them on a paste board, and mince them; return them to the saucepan, and stir in the yolks of one or two eggs, according to the quantity of liver, until the gravy becomes thick; have a round of toast ready on a hot plate, and serve it on the toast; this is a very nice luncheon or supper dish. chapter v. vegetables and sundries. directions for cleaning and boiling vegetables. vegetables are extremely nutritious when sufficiently boiled, but are unwholesome and indigestible when not thoroughly dressed; still they should not be over boiled, or they will lose their flavor. vegetables should be shaken to get out any insects, and laid in water with a little salt. soft water is best suited for boiling vegetables, and they require plenty of water; a little salt should be put in the saucepan with them, and the water should almost invariably be boiling when they are put in. potatoes are much better when steamed. peas and several other vegetables are also improved by this mode of cooking them, although it is seldom adopted in england. * * * * * mashed potatoes. boil till perfectly tender; let them be quite dry, and press them through a cullender, or mash and beat them well with a fork; add a piece of butter, and milk, or cream, and continue beating till they are perfectly smooth; return them to the saucepan to warm, or they may be browned before the fire. the chief art is to beat them sufficiently long, which renders them light. potatoe balls are mashed potatoes formed into balls glazed with the yolk of egg, and browned with a salamander. * * * * * potato wall, or edging. raise a wall of finely-mashed potatoes, of two or three inches high, round the dish; form it with a spoon to the shape required, brush it over with egg, and put it in the oven to become hot and brown; if it does not brown nicely, use the salamander. rice is arranged the same way to edge curries or fricassees; it must be first boiled till tender. * * * * * potatoe shavings. take four fine large potatoes, and having peeled them, continue to cut them up as if peeling them in ribbons of equal width; then throw the shavings into a frying-pan, and fry of a fine brown; they must be constantly moved with a silver fork to keep the pieces separate. they should be laid on a cloth to drain, and placed in the dish lightly. * * * * * the french way of dressing spinach. wash and boil till tender, then squeeze and strain it; press it in a towel till almost dry; put it on a board, and chop it as finely as possible; then return it to the saucepan, with butter, pepper, and salt; stir it all the time, and let it boil fast. * * * * * stewed spinach. scald and chop some spinach small; cut up an onion; add pepper and salt and brown sugar, with a little vinegar, stew all together gently; serve with poached eggs or small forcemeat fritters. this forms a pretty side-dish, and is also a nice way of dressing spinach to serve in the same dish with cutlets. * * * * * to stew spanish beans and peas. soak the beans over night in cold water; they must be stewed in only sufficient water to cover them, with two table spoonsful of oil, a little pepper and salt, and white sugar. when done they should be perfectly soft and tender. * * * * * peas stewed with oil. put half a peck of peas into a stew-pan, half a lettuce chopped small, a little mint, a small onion cut up, two table-spoonsful of oil, and a dessert-spoonful of powdered sugar, with water sufficient to cover the peas, watching, from time to time, that they do not become too dry; let them stew gently, taking care that they do not burn, till perfectly soft. when done they should look of a yellowish brown. french beans, brocoli, and greens, stewed in the above manner will be found excellent. * * * * * cucumber mango. cut a large cucumber in half, length ways, scoop out the seedy part, and lay it in vinegar that has been boiled with mustard-seed, a little garlic, and spices, for twenty-four hours, then fill the cucumber with highly-seasoned forcemeat, and stew it in a rich gravy, the cucumber must be tied to keep it together. * * * * * cabbage and rice. scald till tender a fine summer white cabbage, then chop it up small, and put it into a stewpan, with a large cup of rice, also previously scalded, add a little water, a large piece of butter, salt and pepper; let it stew gently till thoroughly done, stirring from time to time, and adding water and butter to prevent its getting too thick; there should be no gravy in the dish when served. * * * * * palestine salad. take a dozen fine jerusalem artichokes, boil till tender, let the water strain off, and when cold cut them in quarters, and pour over a fine salad mixture; the artichokes should lay in the sauce half an hour before serving. this salad is a very refreshing one, and has the advantage of being extremely wholesome. * * * * * a spring dish. take one quart of young peas, a little mint, a few lumps of sugar, a little salt and white pepper, simmer them gently in one pint of water, when the peas are half done, throw in small dumplings made of paste, as if for short crust, and sweetened with a little brown sugar, beat up two eggs, and drop in a spoonful at a time, just before serving; it will require a deep dish, as the liquor is not to be strained off. some prefer the eggs poached. * * * * * carrots au beurre. boil them enough to be perfectly tender, then cut them in quarters, and again in lengths of three inches, drain them from the water, and put to them a piece of butter, salt and pepper, and simmer them for a few minutes without boiling; a large piece of butter must be used. french beans are good dressed in the same way. * * * * * puree of vegetables. take any vegetable that may be approved, boil till well done, drain away all water, reduce the vegetable to a pulp, and add to it any fine sauce, to make it of the consistency of a very thick custard. * * * * * jerusalem artichokes fried. cut in slices after parboiling them, dip in batter, and fry. * * * * * stewed red cabbage. clean and remove the outer leaves, slice it as thinly as possible, put it in a saucepan with a large piece of butter, and a tea cup full of water, salt and pepper; let it stew slowly till very tender. * * * * * mushrooms au naturel. clean some fine fresh mushrooms, put them in a saucepan with a large piece of butter, pepper and salt; let them simmer until tender, and serve them with no other sauce than that in which they have been dressed. also stewed in a veal gravy, and served with white sauce on a toast, they form a nice and pretty dish. the large flap mushrooms may be stewed in gravy, or simply broiled, seasoned with cayenne pepper, salt, and lemon juice. * * * * * dry tomato soup. brown a couple of onions in a little oil, about two table-spoonsful or more, according to the number of tomatos; when hot, add about six tomatos cut and peeled, season with cayenne pepper and salt, and let the whole simmer for a short time, then cut thin slices of bread, and put as much with the tomatos as will bring them to the consistency of a pudding; it must be well beaten up, stir in the yolks of two or three eggs, and two ounces of butter warmed; turn the whole into a deep dish and bake it very brown. crumbs of bread should be strewed over the top, and a little warmed butter poured over. * * * * * devilled biscuits. butter some biscuits on both sides, and pepper them well, make a paste of either chopped anchovies, or fine cheese, and spread it on the biscuit, with mustard and cayenne pepper, and grill them. * * * * * savoury eggs. boil some eggs hard, put them into cold water, cut them into halves, take out the yolks, beat them up in a mortar with grated hung beef, fill the halves with this mixture, fry lightly, and serve with brown gravy. * * * * * savoury cheese cakes. grate finely an equal quantity of stale bread and good cheese, season with a little pepper and salt, mix into a batter with eggs, form into thin cakes and fry. * * * * * scalloped eggs. poach lightly three or four eggs, place them in a dish, pour upon them a little warm butter; sprinkle with pepper, salt, and nutmeg, strew over with crumbs of bread, and brown before the fire. * * * * * maccaroni and cheese. boil some maccaroni in milk or water until tender, then drain them and place on a dish with bits of butter and grated parmesan cheese; when the dish is filled grate more cheese over it and brown before the fire. * * * * * a fine receipt for a savoury omelette. break four eggs, beat them up till thin enough to pass through a hair sieve, then beat them up till perfectly smooth and thin; a small omelette frying-pan is necessary for cooking it well. dissolve in it a piece of butter, about an ounce and a half, pour in the egg, and as soon as it rises and is firm, slide it on to a warm plate and fold it over; it should only be fried on one side, and finely minced herbs should be sprinkled over the unfried side with pepper and salt. a salamander is frequently held over the unfried side of the omelette to take off the rawness it may otherwise have. * * * * * chorisa omelette. add to the eggs, after they are well beaten as directed in the last receipt, half a tea-cup full of finely minced _chorisa_; this omelette must be lightly fried on both sides, or the salamander held over long enough to dress the _chorisa_. * * * * * ramakins. mix together three eggs, one ounce of warmed butter, and two of fine cheese grated, and bake in small patty pans. * * * * * rissoles. make a fine forcemeat of any cold meat, poultry, or fish, enclose it in a very rich puff paste, rolled out extremely thin. they may be made into balls or small triangular turnovers, or into long narrow ribbons; the edges must be pressed together, that they may not burst in frying. they form a pretty dish. * * * * * croquettes. pound any cold poultry, meat, or fish, make it into a delicate forcemeat; the flavor can be varied according to taste; minced mushrooms, herbs, parsley, grated lemon peel, are suitable for poultry and veal; minced anchovies should be used instead of mushrooms when the croquettes are made of fish. form the mixture into balls or oval shapes the size of small eggs; dip them into beaten eggs, thickly sprinkle with bread crumbs or pounded vermicelli, and fry of a handsome brown. * * * * * casserole au riz. boil some rice till quite tender, make it into a firm paste with one egg and a couple of tablespoons of strong gravy; then line the inside of a mould with the paste of sufficient thickness to turn out without breaking. some cooks fill the mould instead of lining it only, and scoop away the centre. after it is turned out the rice must stand till cold, before it is removed from the mould; then fill the rice with friccassee of fowl and sweetbread, with a rich white sauce, and place it in the oven to become hot and brown. the mould used for a casserole is oval and fluted, and resembles a cake mould. it is as well to observe, it cannot be made in a jelly mould. * * * * * a fondu. make into a batter one ounce and a half of potatoe flour, with the same quantity of grated cheese and of butter, and a quarter of a pint of milk or cream; add a little salt, very little pepper, and the well-beaten yolks of four fine fresh eggs; when all this is well mixed together, pour in the whites of the eggs, well whisked to a froth; pour the mixture into a deep soup plate or dish, used expressly for the purpose, and bake in a moderate oven. the dish should be only half filled with the _fondu_, as it will rise very high. it must be served the moment it is ready, or it will fall. it is a good plan to hold a salamander over it while being brought to table. * * * * * petits fondeaus. make a batter as for a fondu, but use rice flour or arrow root instead of potatoe flour; add the egg in the same manner as for a fondu, and pour the mixture into small paper trays fringed round the top. the mixture should only half fill the trays or cases. chapter vi. pastry. directions for making paste. to make good light paste requires much practice; as it is not only from the proportions, but from the manner of mixing the various ingredients, that paste acquires its good or bad qualities. paste should be worked up very lightly, and no strength or pressure used; it should be rolled out _from you_, as lightly as possible. a marble slab is better than a board to make paste on. the flour should be dried for some time before the fire previously to being used. in forming it into paste it should be wetted as little as possible, to prevent its being tough. it is a great mistake to imagine _lard_ is better adapted for pastry than butter or clarified fat; it may make the paste lighter, but neither the color nor the flavor will be nearly so good, and the saving is extremely trifling. to ensure lightness, paste should be set in the oven directly it is made. puff paste requires a brisk oven. butter should be added to the paste in small pieces. the more times the paste is folded and rolled, if done with a light hand and the butter added with skill, the richer and lighter it will prove. it is no longer customary to line the dish for pies and fruit tarts. * * * * * plain puff paste. mix a pound of flour into a stiff paste with a little water, first having rubbed into it about two ounces of butter, then roll it out; add by degrees the remainder of the butter (there should be altogether half a pound of butter), fold the paste and roll about two or three times. * * * * * very rich puff paste. mix in the same manner equal quantities of butter and flour, taking care to have the flour dried for a short time before the fire; it may be folded and rolled five or six times. this paste is well suited to vol-au-vents and tartlets; an egg well beaten and mixed with the paste is sometimes added. * * * * * plain short crust. put half a pound of fresh butter to a pound of flour, add the yolks of two eggs and a little powdered sugar, mix into a paste with water, and roll out once. * * * * * egg paste, called in modern cookery nouilles. this is formed by making a paste of flour and beaten eggs, without either butter or water; it must be rolled out extremely thin and left to dry; it may then be cut into narrow strips or stamped with paste cutters. it is more fashionable in soups than vermicelli. * * * * * beef dripping paste. mix half a pound of clarified dripping into one pound of flour; work it into a paste with water, and roll out twice. this is a good paste for a common meat pie. * * * * * glaze for pastry. when the pastry is nearly baked, brush it over with white of egg, cover it thickly with sifted sugar, and brown it in the oven, or it may be browned with a salamander. for savory pies beat the yolk of an egg, dip a paste-brush into it, and lay it on the crust before baking. * * * * * fruit tarts or pies. a fruit tart is so common a sweet that it is scarcely necessary to give any directions concerning it. acid fruits are best stewed before putting into a pie: the usual proportions are half a pound of sugar to a quart of fruit--not quite so much if the fruit is ripe; the fruit should be laid high in the middle of the dish, to make the pie a good shape. it is the fashion to lay over the crust, when nearly baked, an icing of the whites of eggs whisked with sugar; the tart or pie is then replaced in the oven. * * * * * a very fine savoury pie. lay a fine veal cutlet, cut in pieces and seasoned, at the bottom of the dish; lay over it a layer of smoked beef fat, then a layer of fine cold jelly made from gravy-beef and veal, then hard boiled eggs in slices, then chicken or sweetbread, and then again the jelly, and so on till the dish is filled; put no water, and season highly with lemon-juice, essence of mushroom, pepper, salt, and nutmeg; also, if approved, a blade of mace: small cakes of fine forcemeat are an improvement; cover with a fine puff paste, and brush over with egg, and bake. * * * * * tartlets. make a very rich light puff paste, and roll it out to half an inch of thickness; it should be cut with fluted paste-cutters, lightly baked, and the centre scooped out afterwards, and the sweetmeat or jam inserted; a pretty dish of pastry may be made by cutting the paste in ribbons of three inches in length, and one and a half in width; bake them lightly, and pile them one upon another, with jam between each, in the form of a cone. * * * * * cheesecakes. warm four ounces of butter, mix it with the same quantity of loaf-sugar sifted, grate in the rind of three lemons, squeeze in the juice of one, add three well-beaten eggs, a little nutmeg, and a spoonful of brandy; put this mixture into small tins lined with a light puff paste, and bake. cheesecakes can be varied by putting almonds beaten instead of the lemon, or by substituting seville oranges, and adding a few slices of candied orange and lemon peel. * * * * * giblet pie. prepare the giblets as for "_stewed giblets_" they should then be laid in a deep dish, covered with a puff paste, and baked. * * * * * molina pie. mince finely cold veal or chicken, with smoked beef or tongue; season well, add lemon-juice and a little nutmeg, let it simmer in a small quantity of good beef or veal gravy; while on the fire, stir in the yolks of four eggs, put it in a dish to cool, and then cover with a rich pastry, and bake it. * * * * * vol au vent. this requires the greatest lightness in the pastry, as all depends upon its rising when baked; it should be rolled out about an inch and a half in thickness, cut it with a fluted tin of the size of the dish in which it is to be served. also cut a smaller piece, which must be rolled out considerably thinner than an inch, to serve as a lid for the other part; bake both pieces, and when done, scoop out the crumb of the largest, and fill it with a white fricassee of chicken, sweetbread, or whatever may be selected; the sauce should be well thickened, or it would soften, and run through the crust. * * * * * a vol-au-vent of fruit. it is now the fashion to fill _vol-au-vents_ with fruits richly stewed with sugar until the syrup is almost a jelly; it forms a very pretty entremêt. * * * * * petits vol-au-vents. these are made in the same way, but cut in small rounds, the crumb of the larger is scooped out, and the hollow filled with any of the varieties of patty preparations or preserved fruits. * * * * * mince pies. grease and line tin patty-pans with a fine puff paste rolled out thin; fill them with mince-meat, cover them with another piece of paste, moisten the edges, close them carefully, cut them evenly round, and bake them about half an hour in a well-heated oven. * * * * * patty meats may be prepared from any dressed materials, such as cold dressed veal, beef and mutton, poultry, sweetbreads, and fish; the chief art is to mince them properly, and give them the appropriate flavor and sauce; for veal, sweetbreads, and poultry, which may be used together or separately, the usual seasonings are mace, nutmeg, white pepper, salt, mushrooms minced, or in powder, lemon-peel, and sometimes the juice also; the mince is warmed in a small quantity of white sauce, not too thin, and the patty crusts, when ready baked, are filled with it. for beef and mutton the seasonings are salt, pepper, allspice, a few sweet herbs powdered, with the addition, if approved, of a little ketchup; the mince must be warmed in strong well-thickened beef gravy. if the mince is of fish, season with anchovy sauce, nutmeg, lemon-peel, pepper and salt; warm it, in a sauce prepared with butter, flour, and milk or cream, worked together smoothly and stirred till it thickens; the mince is then simmered in it for a few minutes, till hot; the seasonings may be put with the sauces, instead of with the mince. chapter vii. sweet dishes, puddings, cakes, &c. general remarks. the freshness of all ingredients for puddings is of great importance. dried fruits should be carefully picked, and sometimes washed and should then be dried. rice, sago, and all kinds of seed should be soaked and well washed before they are mixed into puddings. half an hour should be allowed for boiling a bread pudding in a half pint basin, and so on in proportion. all puddings of the custard kind require gentle boiling, and when baked must be set in a moderate oven. by whisking to a solid froth the whites of the eggs used for any pudding, and stirring them into it at the moment of placing it in the oven, it will become exceedingly light and rise high in the dish. all baked puddings should be baked in tin moulds in the form of a deep pie dish, but slightly fluted, it should be well greased by pouring into it a little warmed butter, and then turned upside down for a second, to drain away the superfluous butter; then sprinkle, equally all over, sifted white sugar, or dried crumbs of bread, then pour the pudding mixture into the mould; it should, when served, be turned out of the mould, when it will look rich and brown, and have the appearance of a cake. to ensure the lightness of cakes, it is necessary to have all the ingredients placed for an hour or more before the fire, that they may all be warm and of equal temperature; without this precaution, cakes will be heavy even when the best ingredients are employed. great care and experience are required in the management of the oven; to ascertain when a cake is sufficiently baked, plunge a knife into it, draw it instantly away, when, if the blade is sticky, return the cake to the oven; if, on the contrary, it appears unsoiled the cake is ready. the lightness of cakes depends upon the ingredients being beaten well together. all stiff cakes may be beaten with the hand, but pound cakes, sponge, &c., should be beaten with a whisk or spoon. * * * * * bola d'amor. the recipe for this much celebrated and exquisite confection is simpler than may be supposed from its elaborate appearance, it requires chiefly care, precision, and attention. clarify two pounds of white sugar; to ascertain when it is of a proper consistency, drop a spoonful in cold water, form it into a ball, and try if it sounds when struck against a glass; when it is thus tested, take the yolks of twenty eggs, mix them up gently and pass them through a sieve, then have ready a funnel, the hole of which must be about the size of vermicelli; hold the funnel over the sugar, while it is boiling over a charcoal fire; pour the eggs through, stirring the sugar all the time, and taking care to hold the funnel at such a distance from the sugar, as to admit of the egg dropping into it. when the egg has been a few minutes in the sugar, it will be hard enough to take out with a silver fork, and must then be placed on a drainer; continue adding egg to the boiling sugar till enough is obtained; there should be previously prepared one pound of sweet almonds, finely pounded and boiled in sugar, clarified with orange flower-water only; place in a dish a layer of this paste, over which spread a layer of citron cut in thin slices, and then a thick layer of the egg prepared as above; continue working thus in alternate layers till high enough to look handsome. it should be piled in the form of a cone, and the egg should form the last layer. it must then be placed in a gentle oven till it becomes a little set, and the last layer slightly crisp; a few minutes will effect this. it must be served in the dish in which it is baked, and is generally ornamented with myrtle and gold and silver leaf. * * * * * bola toliedo. take one pound of butter, and warm it over the fire with a little milk, then put it into a pan with one pound of flour, six beaten eggs, a quarter of a pound of beaten sweet almonds, and two table-spoonsful of yeast; make these ingredients into a light paste, and set it before the fire to rise; then grease a deep dish, and place in a layer of the paste, then some egg prepared as for bola d'amor, then slices of citron, and a layer of egg marmalade, sprinkle each layer with cinnamon, and fill the dish with alternate layers. a rich puff paste should line the dish, which ought to be deep; bake in a brisk oven, after which, sugar clarified with orange flour-water must be poured over till the syrup has thoroughly penetrated the bola. * * * * * a bola d'hispaniola. take one pound and a half of flour, with three spoonsful of yeast, two ounces of fresh butter, one table spoonful of essence of lemon, eight eggs, and half a tea-cup full of water, and make it into a light dough, set it to rise for about an hour, then roll it out and cut it into three pieces; have previously ready, a quarter of a pound of citron, and three quarters of a pound of orange and lemon peel, cut in thin slices, mixed with powdered sugar and cinnamon; the bola should be formed with the pieces of dough, layers of the fruit being placed between; it should not be baked in a tin. powdered sweet almonds and sugar, should be strewed over it before baking. * * * * * superior receipt for almond pudding. beat up the yolks of ten eggs, and the whites of seven; add half a pound of sweet almonds pounded finely, half a pound of white sugar, half an ounce of bitter almonds, and a table-spoonful of orange flower water, when thoroughly mixed, grease a dish, put in the pudding and bake in a brisk oven; when done, strew powdered sugar over the top, or, which is exceedingly fine, pour over clarified sugar with orange flower water. * * * * * german or spanish puffs. put a quarter of a pound of fresh butter, and a tea-cup full of cold water into a saucepan, when the butter is melted, stir in, while on the fire, four table spoonsful of flour; when thoroughly mixed, put it in a dish to cool, and then add four well beaten eggs; butter some cups, half fill them with the batter, bake in a quick oven and serve with clarified sugar. * * * * * a luction, or a rachael. make a thin nouilles paste, cut into strips of about two inches wide, leave it to dry, then boil the strips in a little water, and drain through a cullender; when the water is strained off, mix it with beaten eggs, white sugar, a little fresh butter, and grated lemon peel; bake or boil in a shape lined with preserved cherries, when turned out pour over a fine custard, or cream, flavored with brandy, and sweetened to taste. * * * * * prenesas. take one pint of milk, stir in as much flour as will bring it to the consistency of hasty pudding; boil it till it becomes thick, let it cool, and beat it up with ten eggs; when smooth, take a spoonful at a time, and drop it into a frying-pan, in which there is a good quantity of boiling clarified butter, fry of a light brown, and serve with clarified sugar, flavored with lemon essence. * * * * * sopa d'oro: or golden soup. clarify a pound of sugar in a quarter of a pint of water, and the same quantity of orange flower-water; cut into pieces the size of dice a thin slice of toasted bread, or cut it into shapes with a paste cutter, throw it, while hot, into the sugar, with an ounce of sweet almonds pounded very finely, then take the beaten yolks of four eggs. pour over the sugar and bread, stir gently, and let it simmer a few minutes. serve in a deep glass dish, sprinkled over with pounded cinnamon. * * * * * pommes frites. this is a simple but very nice way of preparing apples. peel and cut five fine apples in half, dip them in egg and white powdered sugar, and fry in butter; when done, strew a little white sugar over them. * * * * * chejados. clarify a pound of sugar in half a pint of water; peel and grate a moderately sized cocoa nut, add it to the syrup, and let it simmer till perfectly soft, putting rose water occasionally to prevent its becoming too dry; stir it continually to prevent burning. let it cool, and mix it with the beaten yolks of six eggs; make a thin nouilles pastry, cut it into rounds of the size of a tea-cup; pinch up the edges deep enough to form a shape, fill them with the sweet meat, and bake of a light brown. a rich puff paste may be substituted for the nouilles pastry if preferred. * * * * * cocoa nut doce. this is merely the cocoa nut and sugar prepared as above, without egg, and served in small glasses, or baked. * * * * * cocoa nut pudding. take about half a pound of finely grated cocoa nut; beat up to a cream half a pound of fresh butter, add it to the cocoa nut, with half a pound of white sugar, and six whites of eggs beaten to a froth; mix the whole well together, and bake in a dish lined with a rich puff paste. * * * * * egg marmalade. clarify one pound of sugar in half a pint of water till it becomes a thick syrup. while clarifying, add one ounce of sweet almonds blanched and pounded; let it cool, and stir in gently the yolks of twenty eggs which have been previously beaten and passed through a sieve; great care must be taken to stir it continually the same way; when well mixed, place it over a slow fire till it thickens, stirring all the time to prevent burning. some cooks add vanilla, considering the flavor an improvement. * * * * * macrotes. take one pound of french roll dough, six ounces of fresh butter, two eggs, and as much flour as will be requisite to knead it together; roll in into the form of a long french roll, and cut it in thin round slices; set them at a short distance from the fire to rise, and then fry in the best florence oil; when nearly cold, dip them in clarified sugar, flavored with essence of lemon. * * * * * tart de moy. soak three-quarters of a pound of savoy biscuits in a quart of milk; add six ounces of fresh butter, four eggs, one ounce of candid orange peel, the same quantity of lemon peel, and one ounce of citron, mix all well together; sweeten with white sugar, and bake in a quick oven; when nearly done, spread over the top the whites of the eggs well whisked, and return it to the oven. * * * * * grimstich. make into a stiff paste one pint of biscuit powder, a little brown sugar, grated lemon peel, six eggs, and three-quarters of a pound of warmed fresh butter; then prepare four apples chopped finely, a quarter of a pound of sweet almonds blanched and chopped, half a pound of stoned raisins, a little nutmeg grated, half a pound of coarse brown sugar, and a glass of white wine, or a little brandy; mix the above ingredients together, and put them on a slow fire to simmer for half an hour, and place in a dish to cool; make the paste into the form of small dumplings, fill them with the fruit, and bake them; when put in the oven, pour over a syrup of brown sugar and water, flavored with lemon juice. * * * * * french roll fritters. take off the crust of a long round french roll; cut the crumb in thin slices, soak them in boiling milk, taking care they do not break; have a dish ready with several eggs beaten up, and with a fish slice remove the bread from the milk, letting the milk drain off, dip them into the dish of eggs, and half fry them in fine salad oil, they must then be again soaked in the milk and dipped the egg, and then fried of a handsome light brown; while hot, pour over clarified sugar, flavored with cinnamon and orange flower water. * * * * * haman's fritters. take two spoonful of the best florence oil, scald it, and when hot, mix with it one pound of flour, add four beaten eggs and make it into a paste, roll it out thin and cut it into pieces about four inches square, let them dry and fry them in oil; the moment the pieces are put in the frying pan, they must be drawn up with two silver skewers into different forms according to fancy; a few minutes is sufficient to fry them, they should be crisp when done. * * * * * waflers. mix a cup and a half of thick yeast with a little warm milk, and set it with two pounds of flour before the fire to rise, then mix with them one pound of fresh butter, ten eggs, a grated nutmeg, a quarter of a pint of orange flower-water, a little powdered cinnamon, and three pints of warm milk; when the batter is perfectly smooth, butter the irons, fill them with it, close them down tightly, and put them between the bars of a bright clear fire; when sufficiently done, they will slip easily out of the irons. wafler irons are required and can be obtained at any good ironmongers of the hebrew persuasion. * * * * * lamplich. take half a pound of currants, the same quantity of raisins and sugar, a little citron, ground cloves and cinnamon, with eight apples finely chopped; mix all together, then have ready a rich puff paste cut into small triangles, fill them with the fruit like puffs, and lay them in a deep dish, let the pieces be placed closely, and when the dish is full, pour over one ounce of fresh butter melted in a tea-cup full of clarified sugar, flavoured with essence of lemon, and bake in an oven not too brisk. * * * * * staffin. this is composed of the fruit, &c., prepared as above, but the dish is lined with the paste, and the fruit laid in alternate layers with paste till the dish is filled; the paste must form the top layer, clarified sugar is poured over before it is put into the oven. * * * * * rice fritters. boil half a pound of rice, in a small quantity of water, to a jelly; let it cool, and beat it up with six eggs, three spoonsful of flour, a little grated lemon peel, fry like fritters, either in butter or oil, and serve with white sugar sifted over them. * * * * * lemon tart. grate the peel of six lemons, add the juice of one, with a quarter of a pound of pounded almonds, a quarter of a pound of preserved lemon and orange peel, half a pound of powdered white sugar, and six eggs well beaten, mix all together, and bake in a dish lined with a fine pastry. * * * * * another way. slice six lemons and lay them in sugar all night, then mix with them two savoy biscuits, three ounces of orange and lemon peel, three ounces of ground almonds, one ounce of whole almonds blanched, and bake in a dish lined with pastry. orange tarts are prepared in the same way, substituting oranges for the lemons. * * * * * almond rice. boil half a pound of whole rice in milk until soft, beat it through a sieve, set it on the fire, with sugar according to taste, a few pounded sweet almonds and a few slices of citron; when it has simmered a short time, let it cool; place it in a mould, and when sufficiently firm turn it out, stick it with blanched almonds, and pour over a fine custard. this may be made without milk, and by increasing the quantity of almonds will be found exceedingly good. * * * * * almond paste. blanch half a pound of fine almonds, pound them to a paste, a few drops of water are necessary to be added, from time to time, or they become oily; then mix thoroughly with it half a pound of white sifted sugar, put it into a preserving pan, and let them simmer very gently until they become dry enough not to stick to a clean spoon when touched; it must be constantly stirred. * * * * * rice fruit tarts. for persons who dislike pastry, the following is an excellent way of preparing fruit. boil in milk some whole rice till perfectly soft, sweeten with white sugar, and when nearly cold, line a dish with it, have ready some currants, raspberries, cherries, or any other fruit, which must have been previously stewed and sweetened, fill the dish with it; beat up the whites of three eggs to a froth, mixed with a little white sugar, and lay over the top, and place it in the oven for half an hour. * * * * * bread fruit tarts. line a dish with thin slices of bread, then lay the fruit with brown sugar in alternate layers, with slices of bread; when the dish is filled, pour over half a tea-cup full of water, and let the top be formed of thin pieces of bread thickly strewed over with brown sugar, bake until thoroughly done. * * * * * rice custard. this is a very innocent and nutritive custard. take two ounces of whole rice and boil it in three pints of milk until it thickens, then add half a pound of pounded sweet almonds, and sweeten to taste; a stick of cinnamon and a piece of lemon peel should be boiled in it, and then taken out. * * * * * creme brun. boil a large cup of cream, flavor with essence of almonds and cinnamon, and then mix with it the yolk of three eggs, carefully beaten and strained, stirring one way to keep it smooth; place it on a dish in small heaps, strew over powdered sugar and beaten almonds, and brown with a salamander. * * * * * pancakes. mix a light batter of eggs with flour and milk or water, fry in boiling butter or clarified suet; they may be fried without butter or fat, by putting more eggs and a little cream, the pan must be very dry and clean; those fried without butter are very delicate and fashionable, they should be fried of the very lightest colour; they are good also made of rice, which must be boiled in milk till quite tender; then beat up with eggs, and flavoured according to taste, and fried like other pancakes. * * * * * pancakes for children. take a pint of finely grated bread crumbs, simmer in a little milk and water, flavour with cinnamon or lemon peel grated, add a couple of beaten eggs, and sweeten to taste, drop a small quantity into the pan and fry like pancakes. * * * * * a nice rice pudding for children. boil till tender half a pound of well picked rice in one quart of fresh milk, sweeten with white sugar, and flavour with whole cinnamon, lemon peel, and a bay leaf; when the rice is tender, place it in a deep dish, pour over a very little butter warmed in a little milk, and bake until brown; a slow oven is requisite unless the rice is extremely soft before it is put in the oven. * * * * * a rich bread and butter pudding. lay in a deep dish alternate layers of bread and butter cut from a french roll, and the following mixture: the yolks of four eggs beaten, four ounces of moist sugar, a few soaked ratafias, a table-spoonful of brandy and a few currants; fill up the dish with these layers, and pour over a little milk, the last layer should be of bread and butter, the whites of the eggs beaten to a froth may, if an elegant appearance is wished for, be laid over the top when the pudding is nearly baked. * * * * * a cherry batter pudding. stone and pick some fine cherries, put them into a buttered mould, and pour over them a fine batter well sweetened, tie over the mould closely, and boil one hour and a half; serve with sweet sauce. this is a delicious pudding; plums or damsons are sometimes used instead of cherries. * * * * * cumberland pudding. take equal quantities of bread crumbs, apples finely chopped, currants and shred suet, sweeten with brown sugar, and mix all together with three eggs, a little brandy, grated nutmeg, and lemon peel; boil in a round mould from one to two hours, according to the size of the pudding. * * * * * college pudding. these are made in a similar way to cumberland pudding, with the omission of the apples, they are made in balls, and fried or baked in cups. a sweet sauce is served with them. * * * * * plum pudding. to one pound of currants add one pound of raisins, one pound of shred suet, one pound flour (or half a pound bread crumbs and half a pound of flour), a quarter of a pound of candied orange and lemon peel, a little citron cut thin, half a pound of moist sugar; mix all well together as each article is added, then stir in six beaten eggs and a glass of brandy, beat the pudding well for half an hour, let it stand some time, then put it into a basin and boil six or seven hours in plenty of water; it should be seasoned according to taste with ginger, nutmeg, cloves, &c. serve with sifted sugar or whites of eggs beaten to a froth. * * * * * ratafia pudding. soak the crumb of a french roll and half a pound of ratafia cakes in milk or cream, then mix with them three ounces of warmed fresh butter, the yolks of five and the whites of two eggs, sweeten to taste; add one ounce of pounded almonds, and a few bitter almonds, boil in a shape lined with dried cherries, or bake in a cake-tin first well buttered, and sprinkled with bread crumbs. * * * * * passover pudding. mix equal quantities of biscuit powder and shred suet, half the quantity of currants and raisins, a little spice and sugar, with an ounce of candied peels, and fine well beaten eggs; make these into a stiff batter, and boil well, and serve with a sweet sauce. this pudding is excellent baked in a pudding tin, it must be turned out when served. * * * * * another sort. mix the various ingredients above-named, substituting for the raisins, apples minced finely, add a larger proportion of sugar, and either boil or bake. * * * * * another sort. mix into a batter a cup full of biscuit powder, with a little milk and a couple of eggs, to which add three ounces of sugar, two of warmed butter, a little shred of lemon peel, and a table-spoonful of rum; pour the mixture into a mould, and boil or bake. * * * * * passover fritters. mix into a smooth batter a tea-cup of biscuit powder with beaten eggs, and sweeten with white sifted sugar; add grated lemon peel, and a spoonful of orange flower-water, and fry of a light brown; the flavor may be varied by substituting a few beaten almonds, with one or two bitter, instead of the orange flower-water. * * * * * a superior receipt for passover fritters. make a thin batter as already described in the former receipt; drop it into a souflé pan, fry lightly, and strew over pounded cinnamon, sifted sugar, and finely chopped almonds; hold over a salamander to brown the upper side. slide the fritter on to a hot dish, and fold; pour over, when in the dish, clarified sugar. * * * * * passover currant fritters. mix a thick batter, as before, add some well-washed and dried currants, and fry of a rich brown; serve with a sweet sauce, flavored with wine or shrub, and sweetened with moist sugar; these are often made in the shape of small balls, and fried and served in the same sauce. * * * * * batter pudding. stir in three ounces of flour, four beaten eggs, and one pint of milk, sweeten to taste, and mix to a smooth batter about the thickness of good cream, and boil in a buttered basin. * * * * * custard pudding. to one desert spoonful of flour, add one pint of fresh milk and the yolks of five eggs; flavor according to fancy, with sugar, nutmeg, or lemon-peel; beat to a froth two whites of eggs and pour to the rest; boil rather more than half an hour. * * * * * bread pudding. grate stale bread, or soak the crumb of a french roll in milk, which must be warmed; beat with it two or three eggs, flavor and sweeten to taste, sometimes with a little wine or essence of lemon, or beaten almonds; it will require to be boiled about half an hour. this pudding is excellent made as above, with the addition of the peel of one whole lemon grated, with its juice, and baked. * * * * * vermicelli and maccaroni pudding. boil till tender four ounces of either of the above articles, in a pint of milk; flavor as directed in the preceding receipt, and boil in a mould, which may be lined with raisins. it should be served with any sweet pudding sauce. * * * * * millet, arrowroot, ground rice, rice, tapioca, and sago puddings. puddings of this sort are so similar and simple, that it is only necessary to give one receipt, which will serve as a guide for all;--they are all made with milk, all require to be thoroughly done, all require to be mixed with eggs and sweetened with sugar, and are good either boiled or baked. the cook must use her judgment in adopting the quantities to the size of the pudding required, and the taste of the family she serves. * * * * * minced meat. take one pound of tender roasted meat, two pounds of shred suet, three pounds of currants, six chopped apples, a quarter of a loaf grated, nutmegs, cloves, pepper, salt, one pound of sugar, grated lemon and orange peel, lemon juice, and two wine glasses of brandy, the same of white wine, and two ounces of citron, and the same of candied lemon peel; mix all well together; the ingredients ought to be added separately. minced meat should be kept a day or two before using. the same proportions, as above, without meat, will be very good; a little port wine is sometimes substituted for the brandy. * * * * * baked suet pudding. mix one pint of water, six ounces of flour, three of shred suet, and two or three beaten eggs; sweeten to taste. add raisins or currants if approved, and bake in a brick oven. * * * * * yorkshire pudding. mix into a smooth batter half a pound of flour, four eggs, if intended to be rich, otherwise two, a pint of milk, and a little salt, it should be about an inch thick; it can be made with or without milk by using a greater proportion of eggs, but it is not so good. * * * * * gateau de tours. take a pound-cake, cut it in slices about half an inch in thickness, spread each slice with jam or preserve, then replace them to the original form; cover the cake with whites of eggs and sugar, whisked to a froth, and set it in a cool oven to dry. * * * * * jaumange. simmer half a pound of white sugar in three-quarters of a pint of water, with the thinly cut peel of two lemons; when the sugar is melted, add an ounce of dissolved isinglass, and the juice of three lemons, a glass of brandy and three of sherry, beat up with this the yolks of five or six eggs. place the basin in which it is mixed into a pan of boiling water to thicken it, then pour it into a mould and set it to cool; if it does not thicken by being put in a pan of boiling water, set the pan on the fire and stir it for a few minutes. * * * * * gateau de pomme. take ten or twelve fine baking apples, peel and take out the cores, and let them simmer in milk and water; when soft drain them, and beat them up with a wooden fork, with half an ounce of dissolved isinglass, white sifted sugar, sufficient to sweeten, and grated lemon peel. put the mixture, when perfectly smooth, into a mould, set it in ice or a very cool place, when it is turned out it should be covered with a fine custard. * * * * * apple charlotte. prepare the apples as in the last receipt; but instead of using a jelly mould, put the apples into an oval cake tin about the size of a small side dish, four or five inches high; when cold, turn it out and cover the apple-shape with savoy cakes placed closely together perpendicularly; all round the top of the charlotte should be covered with whites of eggs and sugar, beaten to a stiff froth, and placed in small balls; a salamander should be used to crisp them and to give a slight peach-like colour; a tasteful cook will, after crisping the first layer of these balls, add others over them to form a sort of cone high in the centre, that will have a pretty effect if well done. this is an easy and elegant _entremêt_, and by no means an expensive one. * * * * * a soufle. take half a pint of cream and the same quantity of new milk, and warm them together in a clean saucepan, meanwhile make a smooth batter with four ounces of rice-flour or potatoe-flour, and stir into the milk, let it simmer, stirring all the time till it thickens; then add two to three ounces of fresh butter, and white sifted sugar enough to sweeten, and a little grated lemon peel; then take it off the fire and stir quickly to it the well-beaten yolks of six to eight eggs, butter the pan and pour the mixture into it, when on the point of being placed into the oven, add the whites of the eggs thoroughly whisked; the pan must be only half filled, as it will rise very high; it must be served immediately it is taken from the oven, even in passing to the dinner table a salamander should be held over it, to prevent its falling and becoming heavy and unsightly. the french flavour a souflé with orange flour-water or vanilla, and the rind of a seville orange is sometimes substituted for the rind of a lemon; there are dishes made expressly for souflés. * * * * * a plain soufle. mix well together six ounces of rice-flour, arrowroot, or _tous les mois_, with half a pint of milk flavoured with essence of almond and lemon peel, or orange-flour water, let it thicken over the fire, stirring to keep it smooth, sweeten with white sugar, add the beaten yolks of five eggs, proceed as in the last receipt, adding the whisked whites at the moment of placing the souflé into the oven; if there happen to be no souflé dish, a cake-tin may make a tolerable substitute, a paper fringed should then line the tin and a napkin should be twisted round it when brought to table. * * * * * a sweet omelet. beat up three or four eggs, pour them into an omelet pan, and sprinkle a little white sugar over them while frying, hold a salamander or hot shovel over the uppermost side of the omelet, as it must only be fried on one side. as soon as it is set, slide it on to a hot dish, double it, and sprinkle sugar over it and serve quickly. * * * * * omlette souflee. fry the eggs as directed for sweet omelet, using about five yolks and two whites, all of which require being finely beaten and strained. soften a little preserve by holding it over the fire, or mixing a little warm water with it, spread it slightly over the omelette, have the remainder of the whites whisked to a froth with white sugar, and lay it on the preserve; slide the omelette on to a hot dish, double it, and serve directly. * * * * * fancy creams. put into a basin a pint of cream, to which add four ounces of powdered white sugar, and the rind of a lemon rubbed on a lump of sugar, and a glass of sherry wine; whisk them well and mix with it half an ounce of dissolved isinglass, beat it all thoroughly together, and fill the mould, which should be set in ice till wanted. a table spoonful of marasquino added to the above, will make _italian cream_. a table spoonful of fresh or preserved pine-apple will make _pine-apple cream_; this will require the addition of a little lemon syrup. a table spoonful of ratafia, will make it _ratifia cream_. the juice of strawberries or raspberries make fine fruit creams; _mille fruit cream_ is made by mixing with the cream any kind of small preserved fruit. * * * * * rice soufles. boil well some fine picked rice, in pure fresh milk, sweeten and flavour with a bay leaf, lemon peel, and a stick of cinnamon, all which must be taken out when the rice is done, then line with it a round dish, or souflé dish, have ready apples previously boiled, sweetened, and beat up smoothly, place the apple lightly in the centre rather higher in the middle than at the sides, beat up the whites of eggs to a froth, sweeten and flavour with lemon, or noyau essence; place it in small heaps tastefully on the apple and rice, and brown delicately with a salamander. this souflé may have stewed cherries or any _other_ kind of fruit, instead of the apples if preferred. * * * * * boiled custard. take a pint of milk, let it simmer in a very clean saucepan, flavor it with lemon-peel and a bay leaf, and sweeten to taste; while gently boiling, add the beaten yolks of four eggs, and the whites of two, continue stirring until the custard thickens, when it must be removed from the fire, but it is requisite to stir it until it cools. it is necessary to strain the milk before the eggs are added, and also to pass the eggs through a sieve. custards are flavoured sometimes with essence of almonds; a little cream added to the milk is a great improvement. the above mixture may be baked in small cups; they require a quarter of an hour to bake. * * * * * calf's feet jelly. boil two feet in two quarts, or five pints of water, till the water has half wasted; strain, and when cold, take off the fat, then put it in the saucepan with lump sugar, lemon juice, and white wine to taste, also a little lemon peel; when simmered a few minutes, throw in the whites of two eggs, and their shells broken, which will have the effect of clarifying the jelly; let it boil about ten minutes after the scum rises, then pour it through a flannel bag or thick cloth, dipping the bag or cloth first into hot water; pass the jelly through it until clear, then pour it into moulds and put them in a cool place to set. one calf's foot and one cow heel will be more economical than two calfs feet. if fruit is desired to be in the jelly, it must be put in when the jelly begins to stiffen in the mould. * * * * * orange jelly. this can be made with calf's feet or without. one quart of water will require one ounce of isinglass, simmer the isinglass in the water, and add the peel of one lemon and one orange; when the isinglass is dissolved, add the juice of a lemon and six fine oranges; although the quantity must vary according to the season for them, sweeten with half a pound of white sugar; a seville orange is added if there should not be much flavor in the others. lemon jelly is made in the same way; the peel of a seville orange and of a lemon is used, with the juice of five lemons; rather more sugar will be required with this jelly than with the former. punch jelly is made in the same way. an equal quantity of brandy and rum, with the juice of two or three lemons is mixed with the isinglass, which is dissolved in one pint of water, the other pint of liquid being made up by the lemon juice and spirits. the essence of noyeau is reckoned to give an exquisite flavor, in this case it requires to be coloured with a few drops of cochineal. * * * * * an easy trifle. soak three sponge cakes and half a pound of macaroons and ratafias in one wine glass of brandy and three of white wine, lay them at the bottom of the trifle dish, and pour over nearly a pint of thick rich custard, made of equal portions of milk and cream, with seven eggs, according to directions for "custards;" before the custard is added, jam and sweetmeats are sometimes spread over the cakes; a fine light froth is prepared with cream and the whites of two eggs, flavored with wine and sugar, heap it over the trifle lightly. * * * * * a still more simple one, and quickly made. soak ratafia cakes in wine, with a little brandy; pour over a thick custard, and cover with a froth of the white of eggs, flavored with wine and sweetened with white sugar. * * * * * blancmange. to a quart of milk add half an ounce of fine isinglass, a handful of beaten almonds, and two or three bitter almonds, a couple of bay leaves, and a piece of lemon peel; when the isinglass is dissolved, strain the milk into a basin; sweeten with four ounces of white sugar, and pour into a mould. the juice of fresh strawberries is a fine addition to blancmange. * * * * * a juditha. put some gooseberries into a saucepan with very little water, when they are soft, pulp them through a sieve, and add several well-beaten yolks of eggs, and sweeten with white sugar; have ready a shape of biscuit ice, or any other cream ice that may be preferred, take off a thick slice of the ice from the top carefully, and without breaking, so that it may be replaced on the ice. scoop out a large portion of the ice which may be mixed with the gooseberry cream, and fill the hollow with it. cover the shape with the piece that was removed and serve. this is an elegant dish, the ice should be prepared in a round mould--brown-bread ice is particularly well adapted to a juditha. * * * * * tourte a la crême. this is a fashionable and delicate description of tart. a couple of round cutters about the size of a pie plate are required for it, one of the cutters must be about two inches smaller than the other, if they are fluted the tourte will have a better appearance. roll out some very rich puff paste to the thickness of one inch, and cut two pieces with the larger tin cutter, then press the smaller cutter through one of these pieces, and remove the border which will be formed round it; this must be laid very evenly upon the other piece of paste, and slightly pressed to make it adhere; place the tourte in an oven to bake for about twenty minutes, then let it become cool, but not cold, and fill it with a fine custard or with any rich preserves; if the latter, a well whipped cream may be laid lightly over; the pastry may be glazed if approved. * * * * * the grosvenor pudding. beat half a pound of butter with the same quantity of white sugar until it is like cream, then beat up five eggs and add them with half a pound of flour, a quarter of a pound of currants, two ounces of candied orange and lemon peel cut in thin slices, and a few drops of lemon essence; when these ingredients are well mixed and beaten, butter a pudding tin, pour in the mixture, and bake in a moderately quick oven. * * * * * citron pudding. cut in slices two ounces of citron, the same quantity of candied orange and lemon peel, add to them four ounces of loaf sugar, and four of fresh butter; line a dish with fine puff paste, and beat up to a froth the yolks of four eggs and the whites of two, fill the dish with these ingredients and bake half an hour. the dish should be shallow. * * * * * stewed pears. peel, core, and quarter a dozen fine large baking pears, put them into a stewpan with half a pound of white sugar and sufficient cold water to cover them; with a small quantity of the peelings, a few cloves, and a little cochineal tied up in a muslin bag, let them stew gently, and closely covered until tender. * * * * * baked pears. peel them and stick a couple of cloves in each pear, place them in a deep dish, with half a pound of brown sugar and a little water, let them bake till quite tender. * * * * * stewed pippins. peel the pippins and stew them gently with a little water, white sugar, and a little lemon peel; preserve is usually used to ornament the top of each apple; they should, when done, look white and rather transparent. * * * * * siesta cake. take one pound of butter, warm it over the fire with a little milk, put it into a pan with a pound of flour, six eggs, a quarter of a pound of sweet almonds finely pounded, and two table-spoonsful of yeast; beat these ingredients well together into a light paste, and set it before the fire to rise, butter the inside of a pan, and fill it with alternate layers of the paste, and of pounded almonds, sugar, citron, and cinnamon; when baked, and while hot, make holes through the siesta with a small silver skewer, taking care not to break it, and pour over clarified sugar till it is perfectly soaked through. * * * * * a plain bola. take three quarters of a pound of white sugar, three quarters of a pound of fresh butter, two eggs, one pound and a half of flour, three spoonsful of yeast, a little milk, and two ounces of citron cut thin, and mix into a light paste; bake in a tin, and strew powdered sugar and cinnamon over it before baking. the above ingredients are often baked in small tins or cups. * * * * * almond tea-cakes. take half-a-pound of flour, three ounces of which are to be put aside for rolling out the cakes, the other five ounces, with a quarter of a pound of fresh butter, are to be set before the fire for a few minutes; after which mix with it half a pound of sugar, a quarter of a pound of sweet almonds, chopped fine, and a couple of eggs; make these ingredients into thin cakes, and strew over them ground almonds and white sugar, and bake in a brisk oven. * * * * * oil twist. take half a quartern of dough, one gill of the best florence oil, half a pound of currants, half a pound of moist sugar, and a little cinnamon; mix all well together, make it up in the form of a twist, and bake it. * * * * * cinnamon cakes. rub half a pound of fresh butter into a pound of flour; work it well together, then add half a pound of sifted sugar, and a tea-spoonful of pounded cinnamon, and make it into a paste, with three eggs; roll it, and cut into small cakes, with tin cutters. * * * * * rich plum cake. beat to a cream one pound of butter, to which add the same quantity of sifted loaf sugar and of fine flour, the whites of ten eggs beaten to a froth, and the yolks of the same also beaten till quite smooth and thin, and half a nutmeg grated; lastly, work in one pound of well-washed currants, half a pound of mixed candied peels, cut small, and a glass of brandy; bake for two hours. * * * * * diet-bread cake. beat together five eggs and half a pound of white sugar, then add six ounces of flour well dried and sifted, a little lemon-juice and grated lemon-peel; bake in a moderate oven. * * * * * drop cakes. mix one pound of flour with the same quantity of butter, sugar, and currants; make these into a paste with a couple of eggs, add a little orange flower-water and a little white wine; if the paste is likely to be too thin when two eggs are used, omit the white of one; drop the mixture when ready on a tin plate, and bake. * * * * * a common cake. rub in with one pound of flour six ounces of butter, and two tea-spoonsful of yeast, to a paste; set it to rise, then mix in five eggs, half a pound of sugar, and a quarter of a pint of milk; add currants or carraways, and beat well together. if required to be richer, put more butter and eggs, and add candied citron and lemon-peel. * * * * * a soda cake. mix with the above ingredients one drachm of soda, which should be rubbed in with the flour. this is reckoned a wholesome cake, and half the quantity of eggs are required, or it may be rendered a fine rich cake by increasing the quantity of eggs, butter, and fruit. * * * * * a plain cake. work into two pounds of dough a quarter of a pound of sugar, the same of butter; add a couple of eggs, and bake in a tin. * * * * * a pound cake. beat to cream a pound of butter and a pound of sifted loaf sugar; add eight beaten eggs, stir in lightly three quarters of a pound of flour, beat well together, and bake for one hour in a brisk oven; currants may be added if, approved. * * * * * butter cakes. take equal quantities of butter and sugar, say half a pound of each, grate the rind of a lemon, add a little cinnamon, and as much flour as will form it into a paste, with spice and eggs; roll it out, cut it into two small cakes, and bake. a piece of candied orange or lemon-peel may be put on the top of each cake. * * * * * little short cakes. rub into a pound of flour four ounces of butter, four ounces of white powdered sugar, and two eggs; make it into a paste, roll it thin, and cut into small cakes with tin cutters. a little orange flower-water or sweet wine improve the flavour of these cakes. * * * * * matso cakes. make a stiff paste with biscuit powder and milk and water; add a little butter, the yolk of an egg, and a little white sugar; cut into pieces, and mould with the hand, and bake in a brisk oven. these cakes should not be too thin. * * * * * another sort. warm a quarter of a pint of water flavoured with a little salt, in which mix four beaten eggs; then mix half a pound of matso flour, and a couple of lumps of white sugar, and half a teacup of milk; mix all well together, and bake in a tin. * * * * * fried matsos. soak some of the thickest matsos in milk, taking care they do not break; then fry in boiling fresh butter. this is a very nice method of preparing them for breakfast or tea. * * * * * matso diet bread. simmer one pound of white sugar in a quarter of a pint of water, which pour hot upon eight well-beaten eggs; beat till cold, when add one pound of matso flour, a little grated lemon-peel, and bake in a papered tin, or in small tins; the cake must be removed while hot. * * * * * a cake without butter. beat well five eggs, to which add six ounces of flour; flavour with beaten almonds, and add, if liked, thin slices of citron; bake in a mould in a moderate oven. * * * * * sponge cakes. mix six eggs, half the whites, half a pound of lump sugar, half a pound of flour, and a quarter of a pint of water, which should be strongly flavoured by lemon peel having been in it for some hours; the sugar and water should boil up together, and poured over the eggs after they have been well whisked, which must be continued while the liquid is being poured over them, and until they become quite thick and white, then stir in the flour, which must be warm and dry. pour the mixture into a couple of cake tins, and bake in a gentle oven. * * * * * a nice breakfast cake. make a paste of half a pound of flour, one ounce of butter, a very little salt, two eggs, and a table-spoonful of milk, roll it out, but first set it to rise before the fire; cut it into cakes the size of small cheese plates, sprinkle with flour, and bake on a tin in a brisk oven, or they may be fried in a clean frying pan; they should be cut in half, buttered hot, and served quickly. * * * * * icing for cakes. whisk half a pound of sifted white sugar, with one wine glass of orange flower-water, and the whites of two eggs, well beaten and strained; it must be whisked until it is quite thick and white; and when the cake is almost cold, dip a soft camel's hair brush into it, and cover the cake well, and set it in a cool oven to harden. * * * * * to clarify sugar. take the proportion of one pound of sugar to half a pint of water, with the whites of a couple of eggs; boil it up twice, then set it by for the impurities to rise to the top, and skim it carefully. chapter viii. preserving and bottling. attention and a little practice will ensure excellence in such preserves as are in general use in private families; and it will always be found a more economical plan to purchase the more rare and uncommon articles of preserved fruits than to have them made at home. the more sugar that is added to fruit the less boiling it requires. if jellies be over-boiled, much of the sugar will become candied, and leave the jelly thin. every thing used for the purpose of preserving should be clean and very dry, particularly bottles for bottled fruit. fruit should boil rapidly _before_ the sugar is added, and quietly afterwards--when preserves seem likely to become mouldy, it is generally a sign they have not been sufficiently boiled, and it will be requisite to boil them up again--fruit for bottling should not be too ripe, and should be perfectly fresh; there are various methods adopted by different cooks: the fruit may be placed in the bottles, and set in a moderate oven until considerably shrunken, when the bottles should be removed and closely corked; or the bottles may be set in a pan with cold water up to the necks, placed over the fire; when the fruit begins to sink remove them, and when cold fill up each bottle with cold spring water, cork the bottles, and lay them on their sides in a dry place. to bottle red currants--pick them carefully from the stalk, and add, as the currants are put in, sifted white sugar; let the bottles be well filled and rosin the corks, and keep them with their necks downwards. * * * * * brandied cherries. put into a large wide mouthed bottle very ripe black cherries, add to them two pounds of loaf sugar, a quart of brandy, and a few cloves, then bruise a few more cherries, and simmer with sugar, strain and add the juice to the cherries in the bottle, cork closely, and keep in a warm dry place. * * * * * quince marmalade. peel, cut into quarters, and core two pounds of sharp apples, and the same quantity of quinces; put them into a jar, with one pound of white sugar powdered and sprinkled over them; cover them with half a pint of water, and put in also a little bruised cochineal tied in a muslin. set them in a slack oven till tender, take out the cochineal, and pulp the fruit to a marmalade. some cooks prefer boiling the sugar and water first and scalding the fruit till tender, and then adding them to the syrup. * * * * * damson marmalade. is made in the same manner as quince, as also apricot marmalade, which is very fine; the fruit must be stoned, and some of the kernels put in with the fruit, which are peeled, and apricots are cut in pieces; they should be carefully pulped through a clean sieve. * * * * * preserved apricots. halve and pare ripe apricots, or if not quite ripe, boil them till the skin can easily be removed. lay them in a dish hollow downwards, sift over them their own weight of white sugar, let them lay for some hours, then put the fruit, with the sugar and juice into a preserving pan, and simmer till the fruit is clear, take it out, put it carefully into pots, and pour over the syrup. this receipt will serve as a guide for preserved nectarines, peaches, plums, gages, &c. a few of the kernels should always be put in with the fruit, as they improve the flavor of the preserve. * * * * * strawberries preserved whole. weigh an equal quantity of fruit and white sugar powdered, sift all the sugar over the fruit, so that half of it shall equally be covered, let it lay till the next day, when boil the remainder with red currant juice, in which simmer the strawberries until the jelly hangs about them. put the strawberries into pots, taking care not to break them, and pour over the syrup. this receipt will serve for raspberries and cherries, which make a fine preserve. * * * * * strawberry jam. bruise gently, with the back of a wooden spoon, six pounds of fine fresh fruit, and boil them with very little water for twenty minutes, stirring until the fruit and juice are well mixed; then put in powdered loaf sugar of equal weight to the fruit, and simmer half an hour longer. if the preserve is not required to be very rich, half the weight of sugar in proportion to the quantity of fruit may be used; but more boiling will be requisite. by this recipe also are made raspberry, currant, gooseberry, apricot, and other jams. * * * * * red currant jelly. strip carefully from the stems some quite ripe currants, put them into a preserving pan, stir them gently over a clear fire until the juice flows freely from them, then squeeze the currants and strain the juice through a folded muslin or jelly bag; pour it into a preserving pan, adding, as it boils, white sugar, in the proportion of one pound of sugar to one pint of juice. if made with less sugar, more boiling will be required, by which much juice and flavour are lost. a little dissolved isinglass is used by confectioners, but it is much better without. jams and jellies should be poured into pots when in a boiling state. jellies should be continually skimmed till the scum ceases to rise, so that they may be clear and fine. white currant jelly and black are made in the same manner as red. by this receipt can be made raspberry jelly, strawberry jelly, and all other kinds. * * * * * apple jelly. pare, core, and cut small any kind of fine baking apples--say six pounds in weight; put them in a preserving pan with one quart of water; boil gently till the apples are very soft and broken, then pass the juice through a jelly bag; when, to each pint, add half a pound of loaf sugar, set it on the fire to boil twenty minutes, skimming it as the scum rises; it must not be over boiled, or the colour will be too dark. * * * * * pear-syrup or jelly. this preparation, although little known in england, forms an important article of economy in many parts of the continent. the pears are first heated in a saucepan over the fire until the pulp, skins, &c., have separated from the juice, which is then strained, and boiled with coarse brown sugar to the thickness of treacle; but it has a far more agreeable flavour. it is cheaper than butter or treacle, and is excellent spread upon bread for children. * * * * * plum jam. this is a useful and cheap preserve. choose the large long black plum; to each gallon of which add three pounds of good moist sugar; bake them till they begin to crack, when, put them in pots, of a size for once using, as the air is apt to spoil the jam. chapter ix. pickling. the best vinegar should always be used for pickling; in all cases it should be boiled and strained. the articles to be pickled should first be parboiled or soaked in brine, which should have about six ounces of salt to one quart of water. the spices used for pickling are whole pepper, long peppers, allspice, mace, mustard-seed, and ginger, the last being first bruised. the following is a good proportion of spice: to one quart of vinegar put half an ounce of ginger, the same quantity of whole-pepper and allspice, and one ounce of mustard-seed; four shalots, and one clove of garlic. pickles should be kept secure from the air, or they soon become soft; the least quantity of water, or a wet spoon, put into a jar of pickles, will spoil the contents. * * * * * to pickle gherkins and french beans. these are, of all vegetables, the most difficult to pickle, so that their green colour and freshness may be preserved. choose some fine fresh gherkins, and set them to soak in brine for a week; then drain them, and pour over boiling vinegar, prepared with the usual spices, first having covered them with fresh vine leaves. if they do not appear to be of a fine green, pour off the vinegar, boil it up again, cover the gherkins with fresh green vine leaves, and pour over the vinegar again. french beans are pickled exactly the same. * * * * * to pickle cauliflowers. remove the stalks and leaves, break the flower into pieces, parboil them in brine, then drain them, and lay them in a jar, and pour over boiling spiced vinegar. * * * * * to pickle melon mangoes. cut the melons in half, remove the pulpy part and the seeds, soak the halves for a week in strong brine, then fill them with the usual spices, mustard-seed and garlic, and tie them together with packthread; put them in jars, and pour over boiling spiced vinegar. large cucumbers may be pickled in the same way. * * * * * piccalili. pickle gherkins, french beans, and cauliflower, separately, as already directed; the other vegetables used are carrots, onions, capsicums, white cabbage, celery, and, indeed almost any kind may be put into this pickle, except walnuts and red cabbage. they must be cut in small pieces, and soaked in brine, the carrots only, requiring to be boiled in it to make them tender; then prepare a liquor as follows: into half a gallon of vinegar put two ounces of ginger, one of whole black pepper, one of whole allspice, and one of bruised chillies, three ounces of shalots, and one ounce of garlic; boil together nearly twenty minutes; mix a little of it in a basin, with two ounces of flour of mustard and one ounce of turmeric, and stir it in gradually with the rest; then pour the liquor over the vegetables. * * * * * to pickle mushrooms. choose small button mushrooms, clean and wipe them, and throw them into cold water, then put into a stewpan with a little salt, and cover them with distilled vinegar, and simmer a few minutes. put them in bottles with a couple of blades or so of mace, and when cold, cork them closely. * * * * * to pickle onions. choose all of a size and soak in boiling brine, when cold, drain them and put them in bottles, and fill up with hot distilled vinegar; if they are to be _white_, use white wine vinegar; if they are to be _brown_, use the best distilled vinegar, adding, in both cases, a little mace, ginger, and whole pepper. * * * * * to pickle white and red cabbage. take off the outside leaves, cut out the stalk, and shred the cabbage into a cullender, sprinkle with salt, let it remain for twenty-four hours, then drain it. put it into jars, and fill up with boiling vinegar, prepared with the usual spices; if the cabbage is red, a little cochineal powdered, or a slice or two of beet-root is necessary to make the pickle a fine colour; if it is white cabbage, add instead, a little turmeric powder. * * * * * to pickle walnuts. soak in brine for a week, prick them, and simmer in brine, then let them lay on a sieve to drain, and to turn black, after which place them in jars, and pour over boiling spiced vinegar. * * * * * an old way of pickling cucumbers. cut the cucumbers in small pieces, length ways, with the peel left on; lay them in salt for twenty-four hours, then dry the pieces with a cloth, lay them in a deep dish, and pour over the following mixture: some vinegar boiled with cayenne pepper, whole ginger, a little whole pepper, and mustard seed, a few west india pickles are by some considered an improvement. this mixture should stand till nearly cold before covering the cucumbers, which should then be bottled. this pickle is fit for eating a few days after it is made, and will also keep good in a dry place as long as may be required. chapter x. receipts for invalids. beef tea. cut one pound of fleshy beef in dice, or thin slices, simmer for a short time without water, to extract the juices, then add, by degrees, one quart of water, a little salt, a piece of lemon peel, and a sprig of parsley, are the only necessary seasonings; if the broth is required to be stronger put less water. * * * * * chicken panada. boil a chicken till rather more than half done in a quart of water, take of the skin, cut off the white parts when cold, and pound it to a paste in a mortar, with a small quantity of the liquor it was boiled in, season with salt, a little nutmeg, and the least piece of lemon peel; boil it gently, and make it with the liquor in which the fowl has been boiled of the required consistency. it should be rather thicker than cream. * * * * * chicken broth. after the white parts have been removed for the panada, return the rest of the chicken to the saucepan, with the liquid, add one blade of mace, one slice only of onion, a little salt, and a piece of lemon peel; carefully remove every particle of fat. vermicelli is very well adapted for this broth. * * * * * restorative jellies. there are various kinds of simple restorative jellies suited to an invalid, among the best are the following:- * * * * * hartshorn jelly. boil half a pound of hartshorn shavings in two quarts of water over a gentle fire until it becomes thick enough to hang about a spoon, then strain it into a clean saucepan and add half a pint of sherry wine, and a quarter of a pound of white sugar, clear it by stirring in the whites of a couple of eggs, whisked to a froth; boil it for about four or five minutes, add the juice of three lemons, and stir all together, when it is well curdled, strain it and pour into the mould, if the color is required to be deeper than the wine will make it, a little saffron may be boiled in it. * * * * * barley jelly. boil in an iron saucepan, one tea-cup full of pearl barley, with one quart of cold water, pour off the water when it boils, and add another quart, let it simmer very gently for three hours over or near a slow fire, stirring it frequently with a wooden spoon, strain it, and sweeten with white sugar, add the juice of a lemon, a little white wine, and a quarter of an ounce of isinglass dissolved in a little water, and pour it into a mould. this is a very nourishing jelly. * * * * * caudle. make a fine smooth gruel of grits, with a few spices boiled in it, strain it carefully and warm as required, adding white wine and a little brandy, nutmeg, lemon peel, and sugar, according to taste, some persons put the yolk of an egg. * * * * * rice caudle. boil half a pint of milk, add a spoonful of ground rice mixed with a little milk till quite smooth, stir it into the boiling milk, let it simmer till it thickens, carefully straining it, and sweeten with white sugar. * * * * * barley milk. boil half a pound of pearl barley in one quart of new milk, taking care to parboil it first in water, which must be poured off, sweeten with white sugar. this is better made with pearl barley than the prepared barley. * * * * * restorative milk. boil a quarter of an ounce of isinglass in a pint of new milk till reduced to half, and sweeten with sugar candy. * * * * * milk porridge. make a fine gruel with new milk without adding any water, strain it when sufficiently thick, and sweeten with white sugar. this is extremely nutritive and fattening. * * * * * wine whey. set on the fire in a saucepan a pint of milk, when it boils, pour in as much white wine as will turn it into curds, boil it up, let the curds settle, strain off, and add a little boiling water, and sweeten to taste. * * * * * tamarind whey. boil three ounces of tamarinds in two pints of milk, strain off the curds, and let it cool. this is a very refreshing drink. * * * * * plain whey. put into boiling milk as much lemon juice or vinegar as will turn it, and make the milk clear, strain, add hot water, and sweeten. * * * * * orgeat. beat three ounces of almonds with a table-spoonful of orange-flour water, and one bitter almond; then pour one pint of new milk, and one pint of water to the paste, and sweeten with sifted white sugar; half an ounce of gum-arabic is a good addition for those who have a tender chest. * * * * * irish moss. boil half an ounce of carrageen or irish moss, in a pint and a half of water or milk till it is reduced to a pint; it is a most excellent drink for delicate persons or weakly children. * * * * * a fine soft drink for a cough. add to a quarter of a pint of new milk warmed, a beaten new laid egg, with a spoonful of capillaire, and the same of rose water. * * * * * a refreshing drink. cut four large apples in slices, and pour over a quart of boiling water, let them stand till cold, strain the liquor, and sweeten with white sugar; a little lemon peel put with the apples improves the flavour. * * * * * a very fine emmolient drink. wash and rinse extremely well one ounce of pearl barley, then put to it one ounce of sweet almonds beaten fine, and a piece of lemon peel, boil together till the liquor is of the thickness of cream and perfectly smooth, then put in a little syrup of lemon and capillaire. * * * * * a cooling drink in fever. put a little tea-sage, and a couple of sprigs of balm into a jug, with a lemon thinly sliced, and the peel cut into strips, pour over a quart of boiling water, sweeten and let it cool. appendix. french method of making coffee. take in the proportion of one ounce of the berries to half a pint of water, and grind them at the instant of using them. put the powder into a coffee biggin, press it down closely, and pour over a little water sufficient to moisten it, and then add the remainder by degrees; the water must be perfectly boiling all the time; let it run quite through before the top of the percolator is taken off, it must be served with an equal quantity of boiling milk. coffee made in this manner is much clearer and better flavored than when boiled, and it is a much more economical method than boiling it. * * * * * a french receipt for making chocolate. take one ounce of chocolate, cut it in small pieces, and boil it about six or seven minutes with a small teacup full of water; stir it till smooth, then add nearly a pint of good milk, give it another boil, stirring or milling it well, and serve directly. if required very thick, a larger proportion of chocolate must be used. * * * * * egg wine. beat a fresh egg, and add it to a tumbler of white wine and water, sweetened and spiced; set it on the fire, stir it gently one way until it thickens; this, with toast, forms a light nutritive supper. * * * * * mulled wine. boil a little spice, cinnamon, ginger, and cloves, in water, till the flavor is gained, then add wine, as much as may be approved, sugar and nutmeg; a strip or two of orange rind cut thin will be found a great improvement. * * * * * to make punch. to make one quart, provide two fine fresh lemons, and rub off the outer peel upon a few lumps of sugar; put the sugar into a bowl with four ounces of powdered sugar, upon which press the juice of the lemons, and pour over one pint and a half of very hot water that _has not boiled_, then add a quarter of a pint of rum, and the same quantity of brandy; stir well together and strain it, and let it stand a few minutes before it is drank. whiskey punch is made after the same method; the juice and thin peel of a seville orange add variety of flavor to punch, particularly of whiskey punch. * * * * * milk punch. put into a quart of new milk the thinly pared rind of a lemon, and four ounces of lump sugar; let it boil slowly, remove the peel, and stir in the yolks of two eggs, previously mixed with a little cold milk; add by degrees a tea-cup full of rum, the same of brandy; mill the punch to a fine froth, and serve immediately in quite warm glasses. the punch must not be allowed to boil after the eggs have been added. * * * * * a french plum pie. stew one pound of fine dried french plums until tender, in water, rather more than enough to cover, with one glass of port wine, and four ounces of white sugar, which must however not be added until the plums are quite tender, then pour them with the liquor into a pie-dish, and cover with a rich puff paste, and bake. * * * * * roasted chestnuts for desserts. chestnuts are so frequently sent to table uneatable, that we will give the french receipt for them. they should be first boiled for five minutes, and then finish them in a pan over the fire; they will after the boiling require exactly fifteen minutes roasting; the skin must be slightly cut before they are cooked. * * * * * to roast partridges and pheasants. they may be either _piqué_ or not; partridges require roasting rather more than half an hour, pheasants three-quarters, if small, otherwise an hour; they are served with bread sauce. partridges may be stewed as pigeons. * * * * * to roast venison. wipe the venison dry, sprinkle with salt, and cover with writing paper rubbed with clarified fat; cover this with a thick paste made of flour and water, round which, tie with packthread white kitchen paper, so as to prevent the paste coming off; set the venison before a strong fire, and baste it directly and continue until it is nearly done, then remove the paper, paste, &c.; draw the venison nearer the fire, dredge it with flour, and continue basting; it should only take a light brown, and should be rather under than over-done; a large haunch requires from three to four hours roasting, a small one not above three. serve with the knuckle, garnished with a fringe of white paper, and with gravy and red currant jelly, either cold or melted, in port wine, and served hot. * * * * * a venison pasty. having baked or boiled two hours in broth, with a little seasoning, any part selected, cut the meat in pieces, season with cayenne pepper, salt, pounded mace, and a little allspice, place it into a deep dish; lay over thin slices of mutton fat, and pour a little strong beef gravy flavored with port wine into the dish; cover with a thick puff paste, and bake. * * * * * salmon pie. cut two pounds of fine fresh salmon in slices about three quarters of an inch thick, and set them aside on a dish, clean and scrape five or six anchovies and halve them, then chop a small pottle of mushrooms, a handful of fresh parsley, a couple of shalots, and a little green thyme. put these together into a saucepan, with three ounces of butter, a little pepper, salt, nutmeg, and tarragon; add the juice of a lemon, and half a pint of good brown gravy, and let the whole simmer, gently stirring it all the time; also slice six eggs boiled hard, then line a pie-dish with good short paste, and fill it with alternate layers of the slices of salmon, hard eggs, and fillets of anchovies, spreading between each layer the herb sauce, then cover the dish with the paste, and bake in a moderately heated oven. * * * * * chicken pudding. line a basin with a good beef-suet paste, and fill it with chicken, prepared in the following way: cut up a small chicken, lightly fry the pieces, then place them in a stew-pan, with thin slices of _chorissa_, or, if at hand, slices of smoked veal, add enough good beef gravy to cover them; season with mushroom essence or powder, pepper, salt, and a very small quantity of nutmeg, and mace; simmer gently for a quarter of an hour, and fill the pudding; pour over part of the gravy and keep the rest to be poured over the pudding when served in the dish. the pudding, when filled, must be covered closely with the paste, the ends of which should be wetted with a paste brush to make it adhere closely. * * * * * a fine beefsteak pie. cut two pounds of beef steaks into large collops, fry them quickly over a brisk fire, then place them in a dish in two or three layers, strewing between each, salt, pepper, and mushroom powder; pour over a pint of strong broth, and a couple of table-spoonsful of harvey-sauce; cover with a good beef suet paste, and bake for a couple of hours. the most delicate manner of preparing suet for pastry is to clarify it, and use it as butter; this will be found a very superior method for meat pastry. * * * * * an easy receipt for a charlotte russe. trim straitly about six ounces of savoy biscuits, so that they may fit closely to each other; line the bottom and sides of a plain mould with them, then fill it with a fine cream made in the following manner: put into a stewpan three ounces of ratafias, six of sugar, the grated rind of half an orange, the same quantity of the rind of a lemon, a small piece of cinnamon, a wine-glass full of good maraschino, or fine noyeau, one pint of cream, and the well beaten yolks of six eggs; stir this mixture for a few minutes over a stove fire, and then strain it, and add half a pint more cream, whipped, and one ounce of dissolved isinglass. mix the whole well together, and set it in a basin imbedded in rough ice; when it has remained a short time in the ice fill the mould with it, and then place the mould in ice, or in a cool place, till ready to serve. * * * * * another excellent receipt for a fruit charlotte. line a jelly mould with fine picked strawberries, which must first be just dipped into some liquid jelly, to make them adhere closely, then fill the mould with some strawberry cream, prepared as follows: take a pottle of scarlet strawberries, mix them with half a pound of white sugar, rub this through a sieve, and add to it a pint of whipped cream, and one ounce and a half of dissolved isinglass; pour it into the mould, which must be immersed in ice until ready to serve, and then carefully turned out on the dish, and garnished according to fancy. * * * * * iced pudding. parboil three quarters of a pound of jordan almonds, and one quarter of bitter almonds, remove the skins and beat them up to a paste, with three quarters of a pound of white pounded sugar, add to this six yolks of beaten eggs, and one quart of boiled cream, stir the whole for a few minutes over a stove fire, strain it, and pour it into a freezing pot, used for making ices; it should be worked with a scraper, as it becomes set by freezing; when frozen sufficiently firm, fill a mould with it, cover it with the lid, and let it remain immersed in rough ice until the time for serving. * * * * * italian salad. cut up the white parts of a cold fowl, and mix it with mustard and cress, and a lettuce chopped finely, and pour over a fine salad mixture, composed of equal quantities of vinegar and the finest salad oil, salt, mustard, and the yolks of hard boiled eggs, and the yolk of one raw egg, mixed smoothly together; a little tarragon vinegar is then added, and the mixture is poured over the salad; the whites of the eggs are mixed, and serve to garnish the dish, arranged in small heaps alternately with heaps of grated smoked beef; two or three hard boiled eggs are cut up with the chicken in small pieces and mixed with the salad; this is a delicate and refreshing _entrée_; the appearance of this salad may be varied by piling the fowl in the centre of the dish, then pour over the salad mixture, and make a wall of any dressed salad, laying the whites of the eggs (after the yolks have been removed for the mixture), cut in rings on the top like a chain. the toilette. chapter i. the complexion. the various cosmetics sold by perfumers, assuming such miraculous powers of beautifying the complexion, all contain, in different proportions, preparations of mercury, alcohol, acids, and other deleterious substances, which are highly injurious to the skin; and their continual application will be found to tarnish it, and produce furrows and wrinkles far more unsightly than those of age, beside which they are frequently absorbed by the vessels of the skin, enter the system, and seriously disturb the general health. a fine fresh complexion is best ensured by the habitual use of soft water, a careful avoidance of all irritants, such as harsh winds, dust, smoke, a scorching sun, and fire heat; a strict attention to diet, regular ablutions, followed by friction, frequent bathing, and daily exercise, active enough to promote perspiration, which, by carrying off the vicious secretions, purifies the system, and perceptibly heightens the brilliancy of the skin. these are the simple and rational means pursued by the females of the east to obtain a smooth and perfect skin, which is there made an object of great care and consideration. and it is a plan attended, invariably, with the most complete success. cosmetic baths, composed of milk, combined with various emollient substances are also in frequent use among the higher classes in the east; and we have been informed that they are gradually gaining favour in france and england. we shall give the receipt for one, as we received it from the confidential attendant of an english lady, who is in the habit of using it every week, and we can confidently recommend it to the notice of our readers. the luxurious ladies of ancient rome, who sacrificed so much time and attention to the adornment of their persons, always superintended the preparation of their cosmetics, which were of the most innocent and simple description--the first receipt we subjoin was one in general use with them, and will be found efficacious in removing roughness, or coarseness, arising from accidental causes, and imparting that polished smoothness so essential to beauty. * * * * * an old roman receipt for improving the skin. boil a dessert spoonful of the best wheaten flour with half a pint of fresh asses milk; when boiling, stir in a table-spoonful of the best honey, and a tea-spoonful of rose water, then mix smoothly, place in small pots, and use a little of it after washing; it is better not to make much at a time, as when stale it is liable to irritate the skin. * * * * * a valuable receipt for the skin. boil in half a pint of new milk a thick slice of stale bread, and a tea-spoonful of gum arabic; when boiled, set it at a little distance from the fire to simmer almost to a jelly, then pass it through a folded muslin, and stir in a spoonful of oil of almonds, and the same quantity of honey, with a pinch of common salt; when cold it will be a stiff jelly. a little of this mixture warmed and spread upon the skin, about the thickness of a crown piece, and left on till it cools, will remove, like magic, all appearance of the dry scurf to which some of the finest skins are subject. * * * * * an emollient paste. blanch half a pound of sweet almonds, and two ounces of bitter almonds, and pound them in a mortar, then make them into a paste with rose water; this paste is a fine emollient. * * * * * a superior ointment for chaps, roughness, etc. mix with a gill of fresh cream a spoonful of beaten almonds; when perfectly smooth put it in toilette pots, and use as ointment for chaps, &c.; it will keep for a week if a little spirit of camphor is added to it. * * * * * wash for pimples. dissolve half a dram of salt of tartar in three ounces of spirit of wine, and apply with soft linen; this is an excellent wash for pimples, but, as these are in general the result of some derangement of the system, it will be wiser to discover and remedy the cause, than merely attending to the result. * * * * * lotion for removing freckles. mix one dram of spirit of salts, half a pint of rain water, and half a tea-spoonful of spirit of lavender, and bottle for use. this lotion will often be efficacious in removing freckles. * * * * * cold cream. warm gently together four ounces of oil of almonds, and one ounce of white wax, gradually adding four ounces of rose water; this is one of the best receipts for making cold cream. * * * * * a fine soap. blanch and beat to a paste two ounces of bitter almonds, with a small piece of camphor, and one ounce and a half of tincture of benjamin; add one pound of curd soap in shavings, and beat and melt well together, and pour into moulds to get cool; the above is a very fine soap. * * * * * lip salve. mix together one ounce of white wax, the same of beef marrow, with a small piece of alkanet root tied up in muslin; perfume it according to fancy, strain, and pot while hot; the above is a fine salve for chapped lips. * * * * * chesnut paste for rendering the hands white and soft. boil a dozen fine large chesnuts, peeled and skinned, in milk; when soft beat them till perfectly smooth with rose water; a tea-spoonful of this mixture thrown into the water before washing the hands renders them beautifully white and soft. * * * * * superior milk of roses. boil fresh rose leaves in asses milk, and bottle it off for immediate use; it will be found far more efficacious than the milk of roses sold by perfumers. * * * * * an excellent receipt for lip salve. melt one ounce of spermacetti, soften sufficiently with oil of almonds, color it with two or three grains of powdered cochineal, and pour while warm into small toilet pots. we mention the cochineal to colour the salve, it being usual to make lip salve of a pale rose colour, but we should consider it far more healing in its effects without it. * * * * * a cosmetic bath. boil slowly one pound of starwort in two quarts of water, with half a pound of linseed, six ounces of the roots of the water lily, and one pound of bean meal; when these have boiled for two hours, strain the liquor, and add to it two quarts of milk, one pint of rose water, and a wine glass of spirits of camphor; stir this mixture into a bath of about ninety-eight degrees. * * * * * superior cold cream. melt together one drachm of spermacetti, the same quantity of white wax, and two fluid ounces of oil of almond; while these are still warm, beat up with them as much rose water as they will absorb. this is a very healing kind of cold cream. the usual cold cream sold by perfumers is nothing more than lard, beat up with rose-water, which is heating and irritating to the skin. * * * * * paste for rendering the skin supple and smooth (an english receipt). mix half a pound of mutton or goose fat well boiled down and beaten up well with two eggs, previously whisked with a glass of rose-water; add a table-spoonful of honey, and as much oatmeal as will make it into a paste. constant use of this paste will keep the skin delicately soft and smooth. * * * * * to remove tan. cut a cucumber into pieces after having peeled it, and let the juice drain from it for twelve hours, pour it off, and add to it an equal quantity of orange flower-water, with a small piece of camphor dissolved in a wine-glass of soft water, bottle the mixture, and wash the parts that have been exposed to the sun two or three times in the twenty-four hours. * * * * * eau de cologne. mix together one ounce of essence of bergamot, the same quantity of essence of lemon, lavender, and orange flower-water, two ounces of rosemary and honey-water, with one pint of spirits of wine; let the mixture stand a fortnight, after which put it into a glass retort, the body of which immerse in boiling water contained in a vessel placed over a lamp (a coffee lamp will answer the purpose), while the beak of the retort is introduced into a large decanter; keep the water boiling while the mixture distils into the decanter, which should be covered with cold wet cloths, in this manner excellent eau de cologne may be obtained at a very small expense. * * * * * transparent soap. put into a bottle, windsor soap in shavings, half fill it with spirits of wine, set it near the fire till the soap is dissolved, when, pour it into moulds to cool. * * * * * milk of roses. put into a bottle one pint of rose-water, one ounce of oil of almonds; shake well together, then add fifty drops of oil of tartar. * * * * * hungary water. put into a bottle one pint of spirits of wine, one gill of water, and half an ounce of oil of rosemary; shake well together. * * * * * lavender water. take three drachms of english oil of lavender, spirits of wine one pint; shake in a quart bottle, then add one ounce of orange flower-water, one ounce of rose-water, and four ounces of distilled water; those who approve of the musky odour which lavender water sometimes has, may add three drachms of essence of ambergris or musk. * * * * * essence of roses. put into a bottle the petals of the common rose, and pour upon them spirits of wine, cork the bottle closely, and let it stand for three months, it will then be little inferior to otto of roses. * * * * * essence of lavender. is prepared according to the above recipe, the lavender being substituted for the roses. * * * * * scent bags. small bags filled with iris root diffuses a delicate perfume over drawers, &c. a good receipt for a scent-bag is as follows: two pounds of roses, half a pound of cyprus powder, and half a drachm of essence of roses; the roses must be pounded, and with the powder put into silk bags, the essence may be dropped on the outside. * * * * * essence of musk. mix one dram of musk with the same quantity of pounded loaf sugar; add six ounces of spirits of wine; shake together and pour off for use. * * * * * oil of roses. a few drops of otto of roses dissolved in spirits of wine forms the _esprit de rose_ of the perfumers--the same quantity dropped in sweet oil forms their _huile antique a la rose_. chapter ii. the hair. all stimulating lotions are injurious to the hair; it should be cut every two months: to clean it, there is nothing better than an egg beaten up to a froth, to be rubbed in the hair, and afterwards washed off with elder flower-water; but clear soft water answers every purpose of cleanliness, and is far better for the hair than is usually imagined. one tea-spoonful of honey, one of spirits of wine, one of rosemary, mixed in half a pint of rose-water, or elder flower-water, and the same quantity of soft water, forms an excellent lotion for keeping the hair clean and glossy. a fine pomatum is made by melting down equal quantities of mutton suet and marrow, uncooked, and adding a little sweet oil to make it of a proper consistency, to which any perfume may be added. if essence of rosemary is the perfume used, it will be found to promote the growth of the hair. rum and oil of almonds will be of use for the same purpose. a warm cloth to rub the hair after brushing imparts a fine shiny smoothness. as a bandoline to make the hair set close, the following will be found useful and cheap: take a cupful of linseed, pour over it sufficient boiling water to over, let it stand some hours, and then pour over three table spoonsful of rose-water; stir the seeds well about, and strain it off into a bottle and it will be ready for use; or take a tea-spoonful of gum arabic with a little irish moss, boil them in half a pint of water till half is boiled away; strain and perfume. to remove superfluous hairs, the following receipt will be found effectual, although requiring time and perseverance: mix one ounce of finely powdered pumice-stone with one ounce of powdered quick-lime, and rub the mixture on the part from which the hair is to be removed, twice in twenty-four hours; this will destroy the hair, and is an innocent application. in the east, a depilatory is in use, which we subjoin, but which requires great care in employing, as the ingredients are likely to injure the skin if applied too frequently, or suffered to remain on too long: mix with one ounce of quick-lime, one ounce of orpiment; put the powder in a bottle with a glass stopper; when required for use, mix it into a paste with barley-water; apply this over the part, and let it remain some minutes, then gently take it off with a silver knife, and the hairs will be found perfectly removed; the part should then be fomented to prevent any of the powder being absorbed by the skin, and a little sweet oil or cold cream should be wiped over the surface with a feather. chapter iii. teeth. water is not always sufficient to clean the teeth, but great caution should be used as to the dentifrices employed. charcoal, reduced to an impalpable powder, and mixed with an equal quantity of magnesia, renders the teeth white, and stops putrefaction. also two ounces of prepared chalk, mixed with half the quantity of powdered myrrh, may be used with confidence. or, one ounce of finely powdered charcoal, one ounce of red kino, and a table spoonful of the leaves of sage, dried and powdered. a most excellent dentifrice, which cleans and preserves the teeth, is made by mixing together two ounces of brown rappee snuff, one of powder of bark, and one ounce and a half of powder of myrrh. when the gums are inclined to shrink from the teeth, cold water should be used frequently to rinse the mouth; a little alum, dissolved in a pint of water, a tea-cup full of sherry wine, and a little tincture of myrrh or bark, will be found extremely beneficial in restoring the gums to a firm and healthy state. this receipt was given verbally by one of our first dentists. every precaution should be used to prevent the accumulation of tartar upon the teeth; this is best done by a regular attention to cleanliness, especially during and after illness. "prevention is always better than cure," and the operation of scaling often leaves the teeth weak and liable to decay. acids of all sorts are injurious to the teeth, and very hot or cold liquids discolour them. the best toothpick is a finely-pointed stick of cedar. toothbrushes should not be too hard, and should be used, not only to the teeth, but to the gums, as friction is highly salutary to them. to polish the front teeth, it is better to use a piece of flannel than a brush. toothache is a very painful malady, and the sufferer often flies to the most powerful spirits to obtain relief; but they afford only temporary ease, and lay the foundation for increased pain. a poultice laid on the gum not too hot takes off inflammation, or laudanum and spirits of camphor applied to the cheek externally; or mix with spirits of camphor an equal quantity of myrrh, dilute it with warm water, and hold it in the mouth; also a few drops of laudanum and oil of cloves applied to decayed teeth often affords instantaneous relief. powdered cloves and powdered alum, rubbed on the gum and put in the diseased tooth will sometimes lessen the pain. toothache often proceeds from some irritation in the digestive organs or the nervous system: in such cases pain can only be removed by proper medical treatment. chapter iv. hands. nothing contributes more to the elegance and refinement of a lady's appearance than delicate hands; and it is surprising how much it is in the power of all, by proper care and attention, to improve them. gloves should be worn at every opportunity, and these should invariably be of kid; silk gloves and mittens, although pretty and tasteful, are far from fulfilling the same object. the hands should be regularly washed in tepid water, as cold water hardens, and renders them liable to chap, while hot water wrinkles them. all stains of ink, &c., should be immediately removed with lemon-juice and salt: every lady should have a bottle of this mixture on her toilette ready prepared for the purpose. the receipts which we have already given as emollients for the skin are suitable for softening the hands and rendering them smooth and delicate. the nails require daily attention: they should be cut every two or three days in an oval form. a piece of flannel is better than a nail-brush to clean them with, as it does not separate the nail from the finger. when dried, a little pummice-stone, finely powdered, with powdered orris-root, in the proportion of a quarter of a tea-spoonful to a tea-spoonful of the former, mixed together, and rubbed on the nails gently, gives them a fine polish, and removes all inequalities. a piece of sponge, dipped in oil of roses and emery, may be used for the same purpose. when the nails are disposed to break, a little oil or cold cream should be applied at night. sand-balls are excellent for removing hardness of the hands. palm soap, castille soap, and those which are the least perfumed, should always be preferred. night-gloves are considered to make the hands white and soft, but they are attended with inconvenience, besides being very unwholesome; and the hands may be rendered as white as the nature of the complexion will allow, by constantly wearing gloves in the day-time, and using any of the emollients we have recommended for softening and improving the skin. chapter v. dress. in dress, simplicity should be preferred to magnificence: it is surely more gratifying to be admired for a refined taste, than for an elaborate and dazzling splendour;--the former always produces pleasing impressions, while the latter generally only provokes criticism. too costly an attire forms a sort of fortification around a woman which wards off the admiration she might otherwise attract. the true art of dress is to make it harmonize so perfectly with the style of countenance and figure as to identify it, as it were, with the character of the wearer. all ornaments and trimmings should be adopted sparingly; trinkets and jewellery should seldom appear to be worn merely for display; they should be so selected and arranged as to seem necessary, either for the proper adjustment of some part of the dress, or worn for the sake of pleasing associations. fashion should never be followed too closely, still less should a singularity of style be affected; the prevailing mode should be modified and adapted to suit individual peculiarity. the different effect of colours and the various forms of dress should be duly considered by every lady, as a refined taste in dress indicates a correct judgment. a short stout figure should avoid the loose flowing robes and ample drapery suitable for tall slight women; while these again should be cautious of adopting fashions which compress the figure, give formality, or display angles. the close-fitting corsage and tight sleeve, becoming to the short, plump female, should be modified with simple trimmings, to give fullness and width across the shoulders and bust, and a rounded contour to the arms. flounces and tucks, which rise high in the skirt, are not suitable to short persons; they cut the figure and destroy symetry. to tall women, on the contrary, they add grace and dignity. dresses made half high are extremely unbecoming; they should either be cut close up to the throat or low. it is, however, in bad taste to wear them very low on the shoulders and bosom: in youth, it gives evidence of the absence of that modesty which is one of its greatest attractions; and in maturer years it is the indication of a depraved coquetry, which checks the admiration it invites. it is always requisite for a lady to exert her own taste in the choice of form, colour, and style, and not leave it to the fancy of her dress-maker, as although the person she employs may be eminently qualified for her profession, a lady who possesses any discernment can best judge of what is suitable to her style of countenance and figure. in dress there should be but one prevailing colour, to which all others should be adapted, either by harmonising with it, or by contrast; in the latter case the relieving color should be in small quantity, or it would overpower the other in effect, as a general rule, sombre negative colours show off a woman to the greatest advantage, just as the beauties of a painting are enhanced by being set in a dull frame; still, there are some occasions with which the gayer tints accord better, and as propriety and fitness are matters of high consideration, the woman of taste must be guided in the selection of her apparel by the knowledge of the purport for which it is intended, always endeavouring to fix on that shade of colour which best becomes her complexion. chapter vi. effect of diet on complexion. as the color of the skin depends upon the secretions of the _rete mucuosum_, or skin, which lies immediately beneath the _epedirmis_, or scarf skin, and as diet is capable of greatly influencing the nature of these secretions, a few words respecting it may not be here entirely misplaced. all that is likely to produce acrid humours, and an inflamatory or impoverished state of the blood, engenders vicious secretions, which nature struggles to free herself from by the natural outlet of the skin, for this organ is fitted equally, to _excrete and secrete_. fermented and spirituous liquors, strong tea and coffee should be avoided, for they stimulate and exhaust the vital organs, and interrupt the digestive functions, thereby producing irritation of the internal linings of the stomach, with which the skin sympathises. water, on the other hand, is the most wholesome of all beverages, it dilutes and corrects what is taken into the stomach, and contributes to the formation of a perfect chyle. milk is very nutritious, it produces a full habit of body, and promotes plumpness, restores vigour and freshness, besides possessing the property of calming the passions, and equalising the temper. eggs are, in general, considered bilious, except in a raw state, when they are precisely the reverse; this is a fact, now so universally acknowledged, that they are always recommended in cases of jaundice and other disorders of the bile. spices, and highly seasoned meats import a dryness to the skin, and render the body thin and meagre. animal food taken daily requires constant exercise, or it is apt to render the appearance coarse and gross. it should be combined with farinaceous and vegetable food, in order to correct the heating effects of a concentrated animal diet. excess as to quantity should be strictly guarded against. when the stomach is overloaded it distributes a badly digested mass throughout the system, which is sure to be followed by irritation and disease, and by undermining the constitution, is one of the most certain methods of destroying beauty. chapter vii. influence of the mind as regards beauty. all passions give their corresponding expression to the countenance; if of frequent occurrence they mark it with lines as indelible as those of age, and far more unbecoming. to keep these under proper _control_ is, therefore, of high importance to beauty. nature has ordained that passions shall be but passing acts of the mind, which, serving as natural stimulants, quicken the circulation of the blood, and increase the vital energies; consequently, when tempered and subdued by reason, they are rather conducive than otherwise, both to beauty and to health. it is the _habitual frame of mind, the hourly range of thought_ which render the countenance pleasing or repulsive; we should not forget that "the face is the index of the mind." the exercise of the intellect and the development of noble sentiments is as essential for the perfection of the one, as of the other, fretful, envious, malicious, ill humoured feelings must never be indulged by those who value their personal appearance, for the existence of these chronic maladies of the mind, _cannot be concealed_. "on peut tromper un autre, mais pas tous les autres." in the same way candour, benevolence, pity, and good temper, exert the most happy influence over the whole person;--shine forth in every look and every movement with a fascination which wins its way to all hearts. symmetry of form is a rare and exquisite gift, but there are other conditions quite as indispensable to beauty. let a woman possess but a very moderate share of personal charms, if her countenance is expressive of intellect and kind feelings, her figure buoyant with health, and her attire distinguished by a tasteful simplicity, she cannot fail to be eminently attractive, while ill health--a silly or unamiable expression, and a vulgar taste--will mar the effect of form and features the most symetrical. a clever writer has said, "beauty is but another name for that expression of the countenance which is indicative of sound health, intelligence, and good feeling." if so, how much of beauty is attainable to all! health, though often dependant upon circumstances beyond our control, can, in a great measure, be improved by a rational observance of the laws which nature has prescribed, to regulate the vital functions. over intellect we have still more power. it is capable of being so trained as to approach daily nearer and nearer to perfection. the thoughts are completely under our own guidance and must never be allowed to wander idly or sinfully; they should be encouraged to dwell on subjects which elevate the mind and shield it from the petty trivialities which irritate and degrade it. nothing is more likely to engender bitter thoughts than idleness and _ennui_. occupations should be selected with a view to improve and amuse; they should be varied, to prevent the lassitude resulting from monotony; serious meditations and abstract studies should be relieved by the lighter branches of literature; music should be assiduously cultivated; nothing more refines and exalts the mind; not the mere performance of mechanical difficulties, either vocal or instrumental, for these, unless pursued with extreme caution, enlarge the hand and fatigue the chest, without imparting the advantages we allude to. drawing is highly calculated to enhance feminine beauty; the thoughts it excites are soothing and serene, the gentle enthusiasm that is felt during this delightful occupation not only dissipates melancholy and morbid sensibility, but by developing the judgment and feeling, imparts a higher tone of character to the expression of the countenance. indolent persons are apt to decide that they have "no taste" for such or such pursuits, forgetting that tastes may be acquired by the mind as well as by the palate, and only need a judicious direction. frivolous employment, and vitiated sentiments would spoil the finest face ever created. body and mind are, in fact, so intimately connected, that it is futile, attempting to embellish the one, while neglecting the other, especially as the highest order of all beauty is _the intellectual._ let those females, therefore, who are the most solicitous about their beauty, and the most eager to produce a favourable impression, cultivate the _moral, religious, and intellectual attributes_, and in this advice consists the recipe for the finest cosmetic in the world, viz.--content. index. almondegos soup, 11. almond pudding, 117. rice, 126. paste, 127. tea-cakes, 152. amnastich, 83. apple charlotte, 139, 140. jelly, 166. sauce, 23. apricot jam, 165. preserve, 164. marmalade, 163. arrowroot pudding, 136. asparagus sauce, 28. soup, 12. barley milk, 178. jelly, 177. soup, 14. batter pudding, 135. beans, french, to stew with oil, 93. _au beurre_, 96. to pickle, 170. béchamel, 32. beef, rump, to stew, 53. à la mode, or sour meat, 53, 54. of, an olio, 52. beef, stewed with french beans, 54. with white dried peas and beans, and celery, 56. collops, 57. cold roast, to warm, 57. steak, with chesnuts, 58. steak, stewed simply, 58. hash of, 57. brisket of, with vegetables, 59, 60. brisket, with onions and raisins, 59. tea, 171. ragout of, 60. steak pie, 188. to salt, 61. to spice, 61. to smoke, 62. _blanc_, 51. blanching, directions for, 57. blancmange, 147. blanquette of veal, 70, 71. of chicken, 71. boiling, rules for, 49. bola d'amor, 114. toliedo, 115, 116. d'hispaniola, 116. bola, plain, 152. small do. 152. bottling fruit, rules for, 161. braising, directions for, 52. brandy cherries, 162. bread crumbs for frying, 36. and butter pudding, 130. fruit-tart, 128. pudding, 135. sauce, 22. brocali, stewed, 93. broiling, directions on, 50. broth, chicken, 176. browned bread crumbs, 30. flour, for colouring and thickening soups, sauces, and gravies, 30. butter cakes, 156. melted, 25. oiled, 24. cabbage and rice stewed, 94. red, stewed, 96. to pickle, 172. cakes, observations respecting, 113, 114. almond tea, 152. rich plum, 153, 154. siesta, 151. sponge, 158. pound, 156. soda, 155. diet bread, 154. for passover, 158. a bola, 152. a very plain, 155. a plain lunch, without butter, 156. breakfast, 159. drop, 154. cinnamon, 153. butter, 156. short, 156. _matso_, 157. icing for, 159. calf's head to stew, 64. feet, stewed with spanish sauce, 64. au fritur, 65. stewed simply, 65, 66. jelly, 145. caper sauce, 27, 19. carrots, _au beurre_, 95. carp, stewed, 41, 42. cassereet, a, 81. casserole au riz, 101. caudle, 178. rice, 178. cauliflower, to pickle, 170. celery, stewed with mutton, 75 celery sauce, 19. charlotte russe, 189. a fruit, 190. apple, 139. chestnuts, stewed with steaks, 58. to roast, 185. cheesecakes, 108. savoury, 98. cherry batter pudding, 131. preserved whole, 165. chejados, 119. chicken broth, 176. pudding, 188. panado, 175. chocolate, to make, 182. chorissa, 62. omelette, 109. stewed with rice and fowl, 83. cinnamon cakes, 153. citron pudding, 150. clarify to, suet, 52. sugar, 160. cocoa nut pudding, 120. doce, 120. coffee, french method of making, 120. collard veal, 67. collops, beef, 57. college pudding, 131. colouring for soups and sauces, 2, 3, 30, 31. commeen, 55. consommé, 1, 2, 3. cooling, drink a, in fever, 94. creams, directions for making, 143, 189. crême brun, 128. cressy soup, 7. croquettes, 100. cucumbers, to pickle, 173. sauce, 29. mango, 94. cumberland pudding, 131. currant jelly, 165, 166. jam, 165. curried veal, 68. chicken, 68. custard pudding, 135. custards, 144. cutlets, veal, 68. à la française, 69. in white sauce, 69. in brown sauce, 70. mutton, 78, 79. lamb, with cucumbers, 81. damson marmalade, 163. descaides, 89. devilled biscuits, 98. diet bread cake, 154. for passover, 158. doce, cocoa nut, 120. drink for a cough, 180. an emollient, 181. a cooling, in fever, 181. a refreshing, 181. drop cakes, 154. duck stewed with peas, 85. seasoning for, 27. dutch, stew of fish, 40. dutch toast, 87. edgings of potatoes, 91. of rice, 91. egg paste, 105. wine, 183. balls, 36. marmalade, 121. sauce, 18. english, do., 28. eggs, scallopped, 98. savoury, 98. _see_ omelette. escobeche, 34. farcie, _see_ forcemeat. fish, directions for boiling and broiling, 37. fried in oil, 38. in butter, 39. a soup, 15. sauce without butter, 21. sauce to bottle, 22. stewed white, 39, brown, 41. stewed in dutch fashion, 40. salad, 44, 40. fritters, 47. omelette, 47. scallopped, 58. baked haddocks, 43. herrings, 43, 44. mackarel, 44. escobeche, 34. stewed carp, 41, 42. of, fillets, 42. water souchy, 41. impanado, 55. white bait, 45, 46. fricandelle, 46. fondeaux, 102. fondu, 102. forcemeat, directions for making, 33. for risoles, fritters, balls, &c., 33, 34. of fish for croquettes, &c., 35. for dressing fish fillets, 35. for dressing cutlets, 35, 36. fowls, a savoury way of roasting, 82. forced and boned, 82. boiled, 83. blanquette of, 85. curried, 84. stewed with rice, 83. a nice way of dressing with sweetbread, 84. broiled with mushrooms, 86. fricandelle, dutch, 46. fricandelles, 72. fricandeux, a, white, 62. brown,63. a, superior receipt, 67. fricassee of veal, 63. of sweetbreads, 74. fritters of rice, 125. of french roll, 123. fruit pies, 106. frying, directions for, 50. gateau de tours, 138. de pomme, 139. geese, seasoning for, 27. german puffs, 117. gherkins, to pickle, 170. giblet soup, 14. stewed, 86. pie, 108. glazing, directions for, 51. gloucester jelly, 177. gooseberry jam, 165. gravy soup, 3. gravy, a rich brown, 17. for roast fowls, 18. another for ditto, 18. ditto, when there is no meat to make it with, 20. to draw strong, 24. green, colouring for soups, &c., 31. grimstich, 122. grosvenor pudding, 149. haddocks, to roast or bake, 33. haman's fritters, 123. harricot, a, 76. hartshorn jelly, 176. hash a, to make, 57. herbs, savoury, for seasoning soups, &c., 27. herrings smoked, a nice way of dressing, 43. iced pudding, 190. iceing for cakes, 159. impanado, 45. irish stew, 77. moss, 180. italian salad, 191. italian cream, 143. jams, to make, 165. jaumange, 138. jerusalem artichokes, 96. jelly, savoury, 20. jellies, calf's-feet, 145. orange, 146. lemon, 146. hartshorn, 176. jellies, gloucester, 177. punch, 146. bread, 177. noyeau, 146. apple, 166. barley, 177. currant, 165. juditha, a, 148. julienne, soup à la, 5. kimmel meat, 54. kugel and commeen, 55. lamb, stewed with sprew, 79. with peas, 80. cutlets and cucumbers, 80, 81. shoulder of, a nice receipt for, 81. lamplich, 124. larding, 51. lemon tarts, 126. jelly, 146. luction, 118. maccaroni with cheese, 99. pudding, 136. mackarel, baked, 44. macrotes, 121. malagatany soup, 4. english do. 5. maigre soup, 12. maintenont cutlets, 76. marmalades, 163. melon mango, 171. milk, barley, 179. porridge, 178. restorative, 179. mince meat, 121. pies, 110. minced veal, 71. miroton, a, 71, 72. mint sauce, 23. mock turtle soup, 3. melina pie, 109. matso cakes, 157. fried, 157. diet bread, 158. mushrooms _au naturel_, 96. large flap, 97. to pickle, 172. sauce, 25. mutton, a french receipt for roasting, 75. stewed with celery, 75. a simple way of dressing, 76. cutlets maintenant, 76. a haricot, 76. irish stew, 77. a l'hispaniola, 77. collops, 77, 78. cutlets, 78, 79. smoked, 79. nouilles paste, 105. noyeau cream, 143. jelly, 146. oil twist, 153. olio, 52. omelet sweet, 142. souflé, 142. savoury, 99. chorissa, 109. onion sauce, 23. to pickle, 172. orange jelly, 146. orgeat, 180. ox-tail soup, 16. palestine soup, 8. salad, 99. pancakes, 129. for children, 129. parsley crisped, 30. parsley fried, 31. partridges, 185. passover pudding, 133. ditto, 133. ditto, 133. fritters, 134. a superior kind, 134. ditto with currants, 134. balls for soup, 9,10. diet bread, 158. cakes, 157. pastry, directions for making, 103. plain puff paste, 104. rich, ditto, 105. short crust, 105. nouilles or egg paste, 105. beef dripping paste, 106. glaize for, 106. patty meats, 110. peas-soup, summer, 13, 14. winter, 13. stewed with oil, 93. pears to stew, 150 to bake, 151. syrup of, 160. pepper pot, 6. pheasants, to roast, 185. piccalili, 171. pickling, rules for, 169. pie a fruit, 106. giblet, 108. a savoury, 107 a ditto for persons of delicate digestion, 88. a beef steak, 188. a french plum, 185. salmon, 187. pigeons, 86. pippins, stewed, 151, piqué, _see_ larding. plum cake, 153. jam, 167. pudding, 132. _poelée_, 51. pommes frites, 13. porridge, 179. potatoes, to mash, 91. balls, 91. wall, 91, 92. shavings, 92. soup of, 7. poultry cold, to warm, 85. pound cake, 156. prenesas, 118. preparation for cutlets, 36. preserving, observations on, 161. puddings, directions for, 112. plum, 132. millet, arrowroot, ground rice, tapioca, sago, 136. passover for, 133. iced, 190. almond, 117. cocoa nut, 120. citron, 150. grosvenor, 149. yorkshire, 136. suet, 137. bread, 135. rice, 130. custard, 135. batter, 135. cherry batter, 131. ratafia, 132. college, 131. cumberland, 131. rich bread and butter, 130. punch, 183. jelly, 144. whiskey, 184. milk, 184. _pureé_ of vegetables, 96. quince marmalade, 163. rachael, a, 118. ragout of beef, 60. ramakins, 100. raspberries preserved whole, 165. jam, 165. jelly, 166. ratafia pudding, 132. restorative milk, 176. jelly, 179. rice fritters, 125. pudding for children, 130. fruit tart, 127. souflé, 143. custard, 128. caudle, 178. wall, 91. risoles, 33, 34, 100. roasting, rules for, 50. rump of beef stewed, 53. russe, a charlotte, 139. salmon cutlets, 42. pie, 187. sauces, piquante, 17. egg, 18. english, do., 28. celery, 19. tomato, 19. for steaks, 21. without butter for fish, 21. for fish to keep, 22. to serve with ducks, 22. oiled butter, 24. bread, 22. apple, 23. onions, 23. melted butter, 25. mushroom, 24. white, to throw over vegetables, 26. for puddings without butter, 26. robert, 26. caper, 27, 19. à la tartare, 28. for roast mutton, 28. asparagus, 28. cucumber, white, 29. brown, 29. velouté, 31. béchamel, 32. sauer krout, 56. savoury jelly, 20. herb powder, 27. seasoning for poultry, 27. siesta, a, 151. soda cake, 155. sopa d'ora, 119. souflè, 140, 141. omelette, 142. rice, 143. soups, almondegos, a superior white soup, 11. asparagus, 12. cressy, 7. malagatany, 4. english do., 5. gravy, 3. barley, 14. carrot, 8. giblet, 14. julienne, 5. mock turtle, 3. matso, 9. palestine, 8. de poisson, or fish, 15. ox tail, 16. peas, summer, 13. winter, 14. potatoe, 7. à la turque, 6. vermicelli, 9. white, a, 9. tomato, 10. vegetable, or french, 11. spanish beans and peas, 29. spinach à la française, 92. sponge cakes, 158. spring dish, a, 95. staffin, 125. steak stewed with chestnuts, 58. stewed simply, 58. stewing, rules for, 50. stock--see _consommé_. strawberries preserved whole, 164. jam, 165. jelly, 166. suet to clarify, 52. sugar to clarify, 160. sweetbreads roasted, 73. stewed white, 73. brown, 74. fricasseed, 73. tart de moy, 122. tartlets, 107. tendons of veal, 66. thickening for soups and sauces, 2. timbale of maccaroni, 87. tomato soup, 10. sauce, 17. dry soup, a, 97. tourte à la creme, 149. trifle, an easy one, 137. a still more simple and quickly made, 147. truffle sauce, 20. turke soup, à la, 6. turkey boned and forced, 82. veal, a white fricandeaux of, 62. brown, do. 63. tendons of, 66. fricandeaux, 67. collard, 67. curried, 68. cutlets, 68, 69. 70. blanquette of, 70. minced, 71. stuffing, 34. miroton of, 71, 72. smoked, 73. vegetable or french soup, 11. observations on, 90. velouté, 31. venison to roast, 186. a pasty, 186. vermicelli pudding, 136. soup, 9. vol-au-vent, 109. de fruit, 110. petits, 110. waflers, 126. walnuts, to pickle, 173. water souchy, 41. whey wine, 179. tamarind, 179. plain, 180. white bait, 45, 46. white soup, 9. superior, do., 11. wine, mulled, 183. egg, 183. yorkshire pudding, 138. proofreaders. html version by al haines. bacillus of beauty _a romance of to-day_ _by_ harriet stark contents. chapter book i: _the broken chrysalis:_ i. the metamorphosis ii. the most beautiful woman in the world iii. the hornets' nest iv. the goddess and the mob v. a high-class concert book ii: _the birth of the butterfly:_ i. the psychological moment ii. a sunday-school lesson iii. the quest of knowledge iv. girl bachelor and biologist v. the finding of the bacillus vi. the great change vii. the coming of the lover book iii: _the joy of the sunshine:_ i. christmas ii. a looking over by the pack iii. snarling at the council rock iv. in the interests of music v. a plague of reporters vi. love is nothing vii. love is all viii. a little belated earl book iv: _the bruising of the wings:_ i. the kiss that lied ii. the irony of life iii. the suddenness of death iv. some remarks about cats v. the love of lord strathay vi. little brown partridges vii. letters and science viii. a chaperon on a cattle train ix. a burst of sunlight x. plighted troth book v: _the end of the beginning:_ i. the deeds of the farm ii. cadge's assignment iii. "p.p.c." book i. the broken chrysalis. _(from the shorthand notes of john burke.)_ the bacillus of beauty chapter i. the metamorphosis. new york, sunday, dec. 16. i am going to set down as calmly and fully as i can a plain statement of all that has happened since i came to new york. i shall not trim details, nor soften the facts to humour my own amazement, nor try to explain the marvel that i do not pretend to understand. i begin at the beginning--at the plunge into fairy tale and miracle that i made, after living twenty-five years of baldest prose, when i met helen winship here. why, i had dragged her to school on a sled when she was a child. i watched her grow up. for years i saw her nearly every day at the state university in the west that already seems so unreal, so far away, i loved her. man, i knew her face better than i knew my own! yet when i met her here--when i saw my promised wife, who had kissed me good-by only last june--i did not recognise her. i looked full into her great eyes and thought she was a stranger; hesitated even when she called my name. it's a miracle! or a lie, or a wild dream; or i am going crazy. the thing will not be believed. and yet it's true. this is my calmness! if i could but think it might be a tremendous blunder out of which i would sometime wake into verity! but there has been no mistake; i have not been dreaming unless i am dreaming now. as distinctly as i see the ugly street below, i remember everything that has befallen me since my train pulled into jersey city last thursday morning. i remember as one does who is served by sharpened senses. only once in a fellow's lifetime can he look upon new york for the first time--and to me new york meant helen. everything was vividly impressed upon my mind. i crossed the cortlandt street ferry and walked up broadway, wondering what helen would say if i called before breakfast. i could scarcely wait. i stopped in front of st. paul's church, gaping up at a twenty-six story building opposite; a monstrous shaft with a gouge out of its south side as if lightning had rived off a sliver. i went over to it and saw that i had come to ann street, where barnum's museum used to stand. the post office, the city hall, the restaurant where i ate breakfast, studying upon the wall the bible texts and signs bidding me watch my hat and overcoat; the _tribune_ building, just as it looks on the almanac cover--all these made an instant, deep impression. not in the least like a dream. by the statue of horace greeley i stood a moment irresolute. i knew that, before i could reach her, helen would have left her rooms for barnard college; breakfast had been a mistake. then i noticed that nassau street was just opposite; and, in spite of my impatience to be at her door, i constrained myself to look up judge baker. between its babel towers narrow nassau street was like a canyon. the pavements were wet, for folks had just finished washing windows, though it was eight o'clock in the forenoon. bicycles zipped past and from somewhere north a freshet of people flooded the sidewalk and roadway. down a steep little hill and up another--both thronged past belief--and in a great marble maze of lawyers' offices i found the sign of baker & magoun. the boy who alone represented the firm said that i might have to wait some minutes, and turned me loose to browse in the big, high-ceiled outer room or library of the place where i am to work. after the dim corridors it was a blaze of light. on all sides were massive bookshelves; the doorways gave glimpses of other rooms, fine with rugs and pictures and heavy desks, different enough from the plain fittings of the country lawyers' workshops i had known. the carpet sank under my feet as i went to the window. i stood looking at the jersey hills, blue and fair in the distance, and dreaming of helen, who was to bless and crown my good fortune, when i heard a step at the door and a young man came in--a tall, blonde, supple fellow not much older than i. then the judge appeared, ponderous, slow of tread, immaculate of dress; the same, unless his iron-gray locks have retreated yet farther from his wall of a brow, that i have remembered him from boyhood. "burke!" he said, "i am glad to see you. welcome to new york and to this office, my boy!" the grasp of his big warm hand was as good as the words and the eyes beneath his heavy gray brows were full of kindness as, holding both my hands in his, he drew me toward the young man who had preceded him. with a winning smile the latter turned. "hynes," said the judge, with a heartiness that made one forget his formal manner, "you have heard me speak of burke's father, the boyhood companion with whom, when the finny tribes were eager, i sometimes strayed from the strait and narrow path that led to school. burke, hynes is the sportsman here--our tiger-slayer. he beards in their lairs those tammany ornaments of the bench whom the flippant term 'necessity judges,' because of their slender acquaintance with the law." "glad to see you, burke," said hynes, as dutifully we laughed together at the time-honoured jest. i knew from the look of him that he was a good fellow, and he had an honest grip; though out where i come from we might call him a dude. all new yorkers seem to dress pretty well. presently managing clerk crosby came, and mr. magoun, as lean, brusque and mosquito-like as his partner is elephantine; and after a few words with them i was called into the judge's private room, where a great lump rose in my throat when i tried, and miserably failed, to thank him for all his great kindness. "consider, if it pleases you," he said, to put me quite at my ease, "that i have proposed our arrangement, not so much on your own account as because i loved your father and must rely upon his son. it brings back my youth to speak his name--your name, johnny burke!" yes, i remember the words, i remember the tremour in the kind voice and the mist of unshed tears through which he looked at me. i'm not dreaming; sometimes i wish i were, almost. when i left the judge, of course i pasted right up to union square, though i felt sure that helen would be at college. no. 2 proved to be a dingy brick building with wigs and armour and old uniforms and grimy pictures in the windows, and above them the signs of a "dental parlour" and a school for theatrical dancing. it seemed an odd place in which to look for nelly, but i pounded up the worn stairs--dressmakers' advertisements on every riser--until i reached the top floor, where a meal-bag of a woman whose head was tied up in a coloured handkerchief confronted me with dustpan and broom. "i'm the new leddy scrubwoman, and not afther knowin' th' names av th' tinants," she said, "but av ut's a gir-rul ye're seekin', sure they's two av thim in there, an' both out, i'm thinkin'." i pushed a note for nelly under the door she indicated--it bore the cards of "miss helen winship" and "miss kathryn reid"--and hurried away to look up this gem of a hall bedroom where i am writing; you could wear it on a watch chain, but i pay $3 a week for it. the landlady would board me for $8, but regular dinners at restaurants are only twenty-five cents; good, too. and anybody can breakfast for fifteen. then i went back to union square, where i hung about, looking at the statues. once i walked as far as tammany hall and rushed back again to watch helen's door. finally i sat down on a bench from which i could see her windows; and there in the brief december sunlight, with the little oasis around me green even in winter, and the roar of dead man's curve just far enough away, i suppose i spent almost the happiest moments of my life. i was looking at nelly's picture, taken in cap and gown just before she graduated last june. my nelly! nelly as she used to be before this strange thing happened; eager-eyed, thin with over-study and rapid growth. nelly, whose bright face, swept by so many lights and shadows of expression, sensitive to so many shifting moods, i loved and yearned for. nearly six months we'd been apart, but at last i had followed to new york to claim her. as i sat smiling at the dream pictures the dear face evoked, my brain was busy with thoughts of the new home we would together build. i'd hoard every penny, i planned; i'd walk to save car-fare, practice all economies-wasn't that a face at her window? i reached the top landing again, three steps at a time; but the voice that said "come!" was not helen's and the figure that turned from pulling at the shades was short and rolypoly and crowned by flaming red hair. "miss winship?" said the voice, as its owner seated herself at a big table. "can't imagine what's, keeping her. are you the john burke i've heard so much about? and--perhaps helen has written to you of kitty reid?" without waiting for a reply, she bent over the table, scratching with a knife at a sheet of bold drawings of bears. "you won't mind my keeping right on?" she queried briskly, lifting a rosy, freckled face. "this is the animal page of the sunday _star_ and cadge is in a hurry for it, to do the obbligato." i suppose i must have looked the puzzlement i felt, for she added hastily:-"the text, you know; a little cool rill of it to trickle down through the page like a fine, thin strain of music that--that helps out the song--tee-e-e-um; tee-e-e-um--" she lifted her arm, sawing with a long ruler at a violin of air,--"but you don't have to listen unless you wish--to the obbligato, you know." "doesn't the writer think the pictures the unobtrusive embroidery of the violin, and the writing the magic melody one cannot choose but hear?" i thought that rather neat for my first day in new york, but the shrewd blue eyes opened wide at the heresy. "why, no; of course cadge knows it's the pictures that count; everybody knows that." a writing-table jutted into the room from a second window, backing against miss reid's. on its flap lay german volumes on biology and a little treatise in english about "advanced methods of imbedding, sectioning and staining." the window ledge held a vase of willow and alder twigs, whose buds appeared to be swelling. beside it was a glass of water in which seeds were sprouting on a floating island of cotton wool. "admiring helen's forest?" came the voice from the desk. "i'm afraid there's only second growth timber left; she carried away the great redwoods and all the giants of the wilderness this morning. are you interested in zoology? sometimes, since i have been living with helen, i have wished more than anything else to find out, what is protoplasm? do you happen to know?" "i'm afraid not." "neither does helen--nor any one else." miss reid's merry ways are infectious. i'm glad helen is rooming with a nice girl. the place was shabby enough, with cracked and broken ceiling, marred woodwork and stained wall paper; but etchings, foreign photographs, sketches put up with thumb tacks and bright hangings made it odd and attractive. on a low couch piled with cushions lay helen's mandolin and a banjo. a plaster cast of some queer animal roosted on the mantel, craning its neck down towards the fireplace. "that's the notre dame devil," miss reid said, following my glance; "the other is the lincoln cathedral devil." she nodded at a wide-mouthed imp, clawing at a door-top. "don't you just adore gargoyles?" "yes; that is--very much," i stammered, wandering back to helen's desk. and then! and then i heard quick steps outside. they reached the door and paused. i looked up eagerly. "there's helen now," said miss reid; "or else cadge." a tall girl burst into the room, dropping an armful of books, and sprang to miss reid. "kitty! kitty!" she cried, in a voice of wonderful music. "two camera fiends! one in front of the college, the other by the elevated station; waiting for me to pass, i do believe! and such crowds! they followed me! look! look! down in the square!" chapter ii. the most beautiful woman in the world. both girls ran to the window. miss reid laughed teasingly. "i see nobody--or all the world; it's much the same," she said; "but you have a caller." i rose from behind the desk with some confused, trivial thought that i ought to have spent part of the afternoon getting my hair cut. i had had but a glimpse of the new comer in her flight across the floor; i knew she had scarlet lips and shining eyes; that youth and joy and unimagined beauty had entered with her like a burst of sunlight and flooded the room. i felt, rather than saw, that she had turned from the window and was looking at me, curiously at first, then smiling. her smile had bewildered me when she opened the door; it was a soft, flashing light that shone from her face and blessed the air. she seemed surrounded by an aureole. but she--how could this wonderful girl know me?--she surely was smiling! she was coming towards me. she was putting out her hands. that glorious voice was speaking. "john! is it you? i'm so glad!" it said. had i read about her? had i seen her picture? had helen described her in a letter? was she cadge? no; not altogether a stranger; somewhere before i had seen--or dreamed-"john," she persisted. "why didn't you write? i thought you were coming next week. did you plan to surprise me?" miss reid must have made a mistake, i felt; i must explain that i was waiting for helen. but i could not speak; i could only gape, choking and giddy. i did not speak when the bright vision seemed to take the hands i had not offered. i could feel the blood beat in my neck. i could not think; and yet i knew that a real woman stood before me, albeit unlike all the other women that ever lived in the world; and that something surprised and perplexed her. the smile still curved her lips; i felt myself grin in idiotic imitation. "what is the matter?" the radiant stranger persisted. "you act as if--" the smile grew sunnier; it rippled to a laugh that was merriment set to music. "john! john burke!" she said, giving my hands a little, impatient shake, just as nelly used to do. "it isn't possible! don't you--why, you goose! don't you know me?" "helen!" of course! i had known her from the beginning! a man couldn't be in the same room with nelly winship and feel just as if she were any other girl. but she was not helen at all--that radiant impossibility! and yet she was. or she said so, and my heart agreed. but when i would have drawn her to me, she stepped back in lovely confusion, with a fluttered question:-"how long have you been here, john?" that voice! sweet, fresh; full of exquisite cadences such as one might hear in dreams and ever after yearn for--from the first it had baffled me more than the beautiful face. it was not helen's. what a blunder! i gazed at her, still giddy. who was she? i could not trust the astounding recognition. she returned the look, bending towards me, seeking as eagerly, i saw with confused wonderment, to read my thought as i to fathom hers. then, as some half knowledge grew to certainty, the light of her beauty became a glory; she seemed transfigured by a mighty joy such as no other woman could ever have felt. an instant she stood motionless, the sunshine of her eyes still on me. then, drawing a long breath, she turned away, pulling the pins out of her feathered hat with hands that trembled. i watched the process with the strained attention one gives at crucial moments to nothings. i laughed out of sheer inanity; every pulse in my body was throbbing. she lifted the hat from her shining head. she put it down. she unfastened her coat. in a minute she would turn again, and i should once more see that face imbued with light and fire. i waited for her voice. "i'm sure of it!" she cried, wheeling about of a sudden, with a laugh like caressing music, and confronting me again. "you didn't know me, john; did you?" "why didn't i know you?" i gasped. "why are you glad i don't know you? what does it all mean, helen?" instead of answering she laughed again. it was the happiest joy-song in the world. a mirthful goddess might have trilled it--a laugh like sunshine and flowers and chasing cloud shadows on waving grass. "helen winship, stop it! stop this masquerade!" i shouted, not knowing what i did. "but i--i'm afraid i can't, john." the glorious face brimmed with mischief. in vain the woman perfect struggled to subdue her mirth to penitence. "i--i'm so glad to see you, john. won't you--won't you sit down and let kitty give you some tea?" tea! at that moment! clattering little blue and white cups and saucers, miss reid recalled herself to my remembrance. i had forgotten that she was in the room. i suspect that she dared not lift her head for fear i might see the laughter in her eyes. "i've made it extra strong, mr. burke," she managed to say, "because i'm starting for the _star_ office to find the photo-engravers routing the noses and toeses off all my best beastesses." "kitty thinks all photo-engravers the embodiment of original sin," said the shining one. "they clip her bears' claws." "well," returned miss reid, making a flat parcel of her drawings, "this is the den of beauty and the beasts, and the beasts must be worthy of beauty. mr. burke, don't you know from what county of fairyland helen hails? is she the maiden snow-white--but no; see her blush--or the princess marvel? and if she's cinderella, can't we have a peep at the fairy godmother? cadge will call her nothing but 'h. the m.'--short for 'helen the magnificent.' and--and--oh, isn't she!" "kathryn!" before that grieved organ-tone of reproach, kitty's eyes filled. i could have wept at the greatness and the beauty of it, but the little artist laughed through her tears. "helen eliza, i repent," she said. "time to be good, mr. burke, when she says 'kathryn.'" adjusting her hat before a glass, kitty hummed with a voice that tried not quaver:- "mirror, mirror on the wall, am i most beautiful of all? "queen, thou art not the fairest now; snow-white over the mountain's brow a thousand times fairer is than thou. "poor queen; poor all of us. i'm good, helen," she repeated, whisking out of the room. "such a chatterbox!" the goddess said. "but, john, am i really so much altered? is it true that--just at first, you know, of course--you didn't know me?" she bent on me the breathless look i had seen before. in her eagerness, it was as if the halo of joy that surrounded her were quivering. "i know you now; you are my helen!" again i would have caught her in my arms; but she moved uneasily. "wait--i--you haven't told me," she stammered; "i--i want to talk to you, john." she put out a hand as if to fend me off, then let it fall. a sudden heart sickness came upon me. it was not her words, not the movement that chilled me, but the paling of the wonderful light of her face, the look that crept over it, as if i had startled a nymph to flight. i was angry with my clumsy self that i should have caused that look, and yet--from my own helen, not this lovely, poising creature that hardly seemed to touch the earth--i should have had a different greeting! i gazed at her from where i stood, then i turned to the window. the rattle of street cars came up from below. a child was sitting on the bench where i had sat and feasted my eyes upon the flutter of helen's curtains. my numb brain vaguely speculated whether that child could see me. the sun had gone, the square was wintry. after a long minute helen followed me. "john," she said, "i am so glad to see you; but i--i want to tell you. everything here is so new, i--i don't--" it must all be true; i remember her exact words. they came slowly, hesitated, stopped. "are you--what do you mean, helen?" "let me tell you; let me think. don't--please don't be angry." through the fog that enveloped me i felt her distress and smarted from the wrong i did so beautiful a creature. "i--i didn't expect you so soon," the music sighed pleadingly. "i--we mustn't hurry about--what we used to talk of. new york is so different!--oh, but it isn't that! how shall i make you understand?" "i understand enough," i said dully; "or rather--great heavens!--i understand nothing; nothing but that--you are taking back your promise, aren't you? or helen's promise; whose was it?" i could not feel as if i were speaking to my sweetheart. the figure before me wore her pearl-set kappa key--the badge of her college fraternity; it wore, too, a trim, dark blue dress--helen's favourite colour and mine--but there resemblance seemed to stop. confused as i still was by the glory i gazed on, i began painfully comparing the nelly i remembered and the helen i had found. my helen was not quite so tall, but at twenty girls grow. she did not sway with the yielding grace of a young white birch; but she was slim and straight, and girlish angles round easily to curves. though i felt a subtle and wondrous change, i could not trace or track the miracle. my helen had blue-gray eyes; this helen's eyes might, in some lights, be blue-gray; they seemed of as many tints as the sea. they were dark, luminous and velvet soft as they watched my struggle. a few minutes earlier they had been of extraordinary brilliancy. my helen had soft brown hair, like and how unlike these fragrant locks that lay in glinting waves with life and sparkle in every thread! my helen's face was expressive, piquantly irregular. the face into which i looked lured me at moments with a haunting resemblance; but the brow was lower and wider, the nose straighter, the mouth more subtly modelled. it was a face greek in its perfection, brightened by western force and softened by some flitting touch of sensuousness and mysticism. my helen blushed easily, but otherwise had little colour. this helen had a baby's delicate skin, with rose-flushed cheeks and red, red lips. when she spoke or smiled, she seemed to glow with an inner radiance that had nothing to do with colour. and, oh, how beautiful! how beautiful! i don't know how long i gazed. i was trying to study the girl before me as if she had been merely a fact--a statue, a picture. but here was none of the calm certainty of art; i was in the grip of a power, a living charm as mighty as elusive, no more to be fixed in words than are the splendours of sunset. yet i saw the vital harmonies of her figure, the grace of every exquisite curve--the firm, strong line of her white throat, the gracious poise of her head, her sweeping lashes. i looked down at her hands; they were of marvellous shape and tint, but i missed a little sickle-shaped scar from the joint of the left thumb. i knew the story of that scar. i had seen the child nelly run to her mother when the knife slipped while she was paring a piece of cocoanut for the saturday pie-baking. that scar was part of helen; i loved it. i felt a sudden revolt against this goddess who usurped little nelly's place, and said that she had changed. why was she looking at me? what did she want? "you are the most beautiful woman in the world," said a choked voice that i hardly recognised as my own. instantly the joy light shone again from her face, bathing me in its sunshine, and the world was fair. she started forward impulsively, holding out her hands. "then it's true! oh, it's true!" she cried. "how can i believe it? i--nelly winship--am i really--" "ah--you are nelly! my nelly!" what happened is past telling! with that jubilant outburst, as naive as a child's, she was my own love again, but dearer a thousand times. would i have given her up if her hair were blanched by pain or sorrow, her cheeks furrowed, her face grown pale in illness? need i look upon her coldly because she had become radiant, compellingly lovely? why, she was enchanting! and she was helen. a miracle had been worked, but helen's self was looking at me out of that goddess-like face as unmistakably as from an unfamiliar dress. it was seeing her in a marvellous new garb of flesh. "oh, i'm so happy! i'm the happiest girl on earth; i'm--am i really beautiful?" the rich, low, brooding, wondering voice was not helen's, but in every sentence some note or inflection was as familiar as were her tricks of manner, her impulsive gestures. yes, she was helen; warm-breathing, flushed with joy of her own loveliness, her perfect womanhood--the girl i adored, the loveliest thing alive! i seized the hands she gave me; i drew her nearer. "helen," i cried, "you are indeed the most beautiful being god ever created, and--last june you kissed me--" "i didn't!" "--or i kissed you, which is the same thing--after the commencement reception, by the maple trees, in front of the chapter house; and----" "and thence in an east-southeasterly direction; with all the hereditaments and appurtenances--oh, you funny old preciseness!" "and now i'm going to----" the words were brave, but there was something in the pose and poise of her--the wonder of her beauty, the majesty--perhaps the slightest withdrawal, the start of surprise--that awed me. lamely enough the sentence ended: "helen, kiss me!" i begged, hoarsely. for just a fraction of a second she hesitated. then the merriment of coquetry again sparkled in her smile. "ah, but i'm afraid--" she mocked. her eyes danced with mischief as she drew away from me. "i'm afraid of a man who's going to be a great city lawyer. and then--oh, listen!" hurried, ostentatiously heavy footsteps sounded in the hall. they stopped at the door, and some one fumbled noisily at the knob. there was a stage cough, and kitty plunged into the room, carefully unnoticing. "such an idea for--a hippopotamus comic," she panted; "a darling! sent drawings down--messenger--rushed back to sketch--" here she paused to take breath. "--lest i forget." snatching off her gloves she resumed her place at the big table, and began making wild strokes with a crayon on a great sheet of cardboard. "i just _had_ to do it," said she apologetically over her shoulder; "but--don't mind me." chapter iii. the hornets' nest. it was dusk when i left helen. my head was buzzing. out of her presence what i had seen was unthinkable, unbelievable. i could do nothing but walk, walk--a man in a dream. i rushed ahead, jostling people in silly haste; i dawdled. i carefully set my feet across the joinings of paving blocks; i zigzagged; i turned corners aimlessly. once a policeman touched me as i blinked into the roaring torches of a street-repairing gang. once i found myself on brooklyn bridge, looking down at big boats shaped like pumpkin seeds, with lights streaking from every window. once i woke behind a noisy group under the coloured lights of a bowery museum. it rained, for horses were rubber-blanketed, and umbrellas dripped on me as i passed. i was hungry, for i smelled the coffee a sodden woman drank at the side of a night lunch wagon. but how could i believe myself awake or sane? again and again i found my way back to the bench on union square, from which i could gaze at helen's window, now dark and forbidding. across an open space was a garish saloon. when the door swung open, i saw the towels hanging from the bar. two men reeled across the street and sat down by me. "oo-oo!" one gurgled. "dan's goin' t' kill 'imself 'cause 'is wife's gone," blubbered the other. "tell 'm not ter, can't ye, matey? tell 'im' t's 'nough fer one t' die!" "oo-oo!" bellowed dan. i walked away in the darkness, but i felt better. drunkenness was no miracle: i was awake and sane, sane and awake in a homely world of sorrow and folly and love and mystery. i went to bed thinking of cleopatra, "brow-bound with burning gold"; of fair rosamond; vivien, who won merlin's secret; of lilith and strange, shining women--not one of them like the goddess the glory of whose smile had dazzled me. at last i slept, late and heavily. next morning i was again first at the office; and by daylight in the bustling city, things took a different complexion. i had gone to my sweetheart tired by a long journey, and i felt sure, or tried to feel sure, that my impressions of change in her were fantastic and exaggerated. judge baker, on his arrival, installed me in hynes's room, behind the library, between the corridor and one of the courts that light the inner offices. in his own room, to the left, he detained me for some business talk, after which he said, carefully rubbing his glasses: "i trust that you will not find yourself altogether a stranger in the city. my wife will wish to see you, and my sister, miss baker, cherishes pleasant recollections of your mother. i believe you are already acquainted with mrs. baker's young cousin, miss winship. you know that, since graduation, she has come to new york for the purpose of pursuing post-graduate studies in barnard?" "yes." i drew a breath of relief. there was nothing in the judge's manner to give significance to his mention of helen. i must have deceived myself. "a most charming young lady." he glanced at the letters on his desk and methodically cut open an envelope. then he dropped the paper knife, raising his bushy brows, a gesture that indicates his most genial humour, as he continued with more than usual deliberateness:-"you knew her, no doubt, as an intelligent student; you may be surprised to learn that she has developed extraordinary--the word is not too strong--extraordinary beauty." "always a lovely girl," i muttered. "from her childhood nelly has been a favourite with me;" the judge leaned back in his big chair, seeming to commit himself to an utterance; "but her attractions were rather those of mind and heart, i should have said, than of personal appearance. the change to which i have alluded is more than the not uncommon budding of a plain girl into the evanescent beauty of early womanhood; it is the most remarkable thing that has ever come under my observation. i am getting to be an elderly man, burke, and i have been a respectful admirer of many, many fair women, but i have never seen a girl like miss winship; she is phenomenal." "you--you think so?" it was true, then! "i have ceased to think; i am nonplussed. witchcraft, though not in the older sense of the word, is still no doubt exercised by young ladies, and there are certain improvement commissions that undertake, for a suitable consideration, the--ah--redecoration of feminine architecture, or even the partial restoration of human antiques. but this is a different matter." "i saw miss winship yesterday." "you will not then accuse me of overstatement?" "she is indeed beautiful." the restraint with which i spoke evidently puzzled him. he continued to look at me curiously, as he said slowly:-"from a young man i should have expected more enthusiasm. at times i suspect that the youth of today are less susceptible than were those of twenty-five years ago. but this affair has perhaps occupied my thoughts more than otherwise it might, because helen is in a measure my ward during her stay in the east, and because of my daughters' affection--" "judge, i had supposed you aware of an engagement between helen and myself." "ah, that accounts for much. to you, no doubt, she is little altered. your eyes have seen the budding of that beauty which but now becomes visible to those less partial. i believe mrs. baker did hint at something between you, but it had escaped my mind." the judge's bright eyes that contradict so pleasantly the heavy cast of his features began to twinkle. little lines of geniality formed at their corners and rayed out over his cheeks. he beamed kindliness, as he continued:-"accept my congratulations. a most excellent family. mrs. winship is mrs. baker's cousin. ah, time flies; time flies! it seems but yesterday that my little girls were running about with nelly, pigtailed, during their visits in the west." "does mrs. baker also think nelly--changed?" "only on tuesday my wife returned from nursing an ailing relative. she has not seen helen in some time. i believe we are to have her with us at christmas. we must have you also. but i cannot altogether admit that the change is a matter of my opinion. it has been commented upon by my daughters in terms of utmost emphasis." "she is the most beautiful woman in the world!" "there we shall not disagree. to nelly herself the riddle of nature that we seek to read is doubtless also a mystery, but one for whose unraveling she is happy to wait. my daughters have a picture of her, taken at the age, possibly, of six, which gives inartistic prominence to 'grandpa winship's ears'--the left larger than the right. you know the family peculiarity owned by the eldest child in each generation? the loss of this inheritance may not be, to a young lady, matter for regret; but as a mark of identification and descent, the winship ears might have entitled her to rank among the revolutionary daughters. however, she is a poor woman who has not a club to spare." "judge, how long is it since this--transformation took place? you speak of it as recent." "nelly comes to me," said the judge, "with--ah--natural punctuality for monthly remittances from her father. in november i was struck with the fact that new york agreed with her; yet even then i did not miss the family nose--a compromise of pug and roman. but ten days ago, when i saw her last, i recognised her with difficulty. for more precise information you must ask my daughters." "then it was only ten days ago that you saw anything wrong--?" "wrong! my dear young friend, if nelly's case obtained publicity, would not the world, which loves beauty, be divided between a howling new york and a wilderness?" the judge glanced up at me, slipping his paper knife end over end through his fingers. "i have spoken of myself as nonplussed," he said more seriously, "and i am. i was never more so; but i see no occasion for anxiety. since when has it been thought necessary to call priest or physician because of a young lady's growing charm? confronted by an ugly duckling, we must congratulate the swan." "judge, how much money does one need to marry on in new york?" "all that a man has; all that he can get; often more. but--ah--is the question imminent? nelly is in school; you have come out of the west, as i understand it, to attack new york. conquer it, sir; conquer new york before you speak of marriage to a new york woman." "helen is not a new york woman." "we naturalize them at the docks and stations." "but you--" i repressed a movement of impatience. "didn't you marry young?" "mrs. baker and i began our married life in one room; cooked over the gas jet, in tin pails. and if little nelly is the equal of other women of her family--but that is practice versus principle, my young friend; practice versus principle." he turned again to his letters, and i understood that the interview was closed. right after lunch i started for barnard. helen has written so much about the college that as soon as i struck the boulevard i knew the solid brick building with its trimmings of stone fasces. i turned into the cloistered court on one hundred and nineteenth street and paused a minute, looking up at its ionic porticoes and high window lettered "millbank hall." then i entered, and a page, small, meek and blue-uniformed, trotted ahead of me through a beautiful hall, white with marble columns and mosaics, sumptuous with golden ceiling, dazzling with light and green with palms, to the curtained entrance of a dainty reception room. "stop a minute, mercury," i said as he turned to leave; "where is miss winship?" he reappeared from an office beyond, replying:-"biol'gy lab'r'tory. what name?" instead of waiting until nelly could be summoned, i followed the mildly disapproving boy up a great, white stairway, past groups of girls, some in bright silk waists and some in college gowns. even in the farthest corner remote from the hubbub, a musical echo blent of gay talk and laughter filled the air; a light body of sound that the walls held and gave out as a continuous murmur. a second time piping, "what name, sir?" mercury opened the door of a large room with many windows. at the far corner my eyes sought out helen in conversation with a keen-eyed, weazened little man, at sight of whom the boy took to his heels. three women besides helen were in the room, bunched at a table that ran along two sides under the windows. they wore big checked aprons, and one of them squinted into her microscope under a fur cap. wide-mouthed jars, empty or holding dirty water, stood on other tables ranged up and down the middle of the room, and there was a litter of porcelain-lined trays, test tubes, pipettes, glass stirring-rods and racks for microscope slides. against the wall to the left were cabinets with sliding doors, showing retorts, apparatus, bottles of drugs, jars of specimens and large, coloured models of flowers and of the lower marine forms. against the right hand wall were sinks, an incubator and, beyond, a door leading into a drug closet. there was the usual laboratory smell, in which the penetrating fume of alcohol, the smokiness of creosote and carbolic acid, the pungency of oil of clove and the aroma of canada balsam struggled for the mastery. in her college gown helen looked more like herself than the day before and less so, the familiar dress accentuating every difference. against the flowing black her loveliness shone fair and delicate as a cameo, i thought of the princess ida, liker to the inhabitant of some far planet close upon the sun than our man's earth; such eyes were in her head, and so much grace and power- lived through her to the tips of her long hands and to her feet. she had not noticed my entrance, but as i stepped forward, she turned, and i was again lost in wonder at her marvellous grace. her beauty seemed a harmony so vitally perfect that the sight of it was a joy approaching pain. i had not been mistaken! she was the rarest thing in human form on this earth. i was awed and frightened anew at her perfection. "why, how did you find your way out here?" she asked with girlish directness. "i'm not quite ready to go; i must finish my sections for prof. darmstetter." the professor--i had guessed his identity--joined us, glancing at me inquisitively. his spare figure seemed restless as a squirrel's, but around the pupils of his eyes appeared the faint, white rim of age. "you are friendt of mees veensheep?" he asked. "looks she not vell? new york has agreed vit' her; not so?" at my awkward, guarded assent, i thought that something of the same surprise judge baker had voiced at my moderation flitted over the old man's face. "i find you kvite right; kvite right," he said, "new york has done mees veensheep goot; she looks fery vell." he whisked into the drug closet, and helen seated herself before a microscope next that of the fur-capped woman. "do you care for slides?" she said. "i'll get another microscope and while i draw you may look at any on my rack. but be careful; most of the things are only temporarily mounted--just in glycerine. here is the sweetest longitudinal section of the tentacle of an _actinia_, and here--look at these lovely transverse sections of the plumule of a pea; you can see the primary groups of spiral vessels. they've taken the carmine stain wonderfully! but my work is not advanced; i wish you could see that of the other girls." "i mustn't interfere with your task; i'll look about until you are ready." her shining head was already bent over the microscope; her pencil was moving, glad to respond to the touch of that lovely hand. i picked up a book, the same little volume i had noticed the day before, on "imbedding, sectioning and staining." near it lay a treatise on histology. i opened to the first chapter, on "protoplasm and the cell," but i couldn't fix my thoughts on _bathybius_ or the _protomoeba_. i walked toward an aquarium, flanking which stood a jar half-filled with water in which floated what seemed a big cup-shaped flower of bright brown jelly with waving petals of white and rose colour. while i looked, thinking only of the curve of helen's lips and the dancing light in her eyes, and the glowing colour of her soft flesh, prof. darmstetter's thin, high-pitched voice grated almost at my ear. "t'at is _actinia_--sea anemone." "i come from the west; i have never seen the sea forms living," i answered with an effort, fearing that he meant to show me about the laboratory. "it is fery goot sea anemone; fery strong, fery perfect; a goot organism." he bent over the jar, rubbing his hands. his parchment face crackled with an almost tender complacency. for a full minute he seemed to gloat over the flower-like animal. "very pretty," i said, carelessly. "fery pretty, you call it? t'e prettiness is t'e sign of t'e gootness, t'e strengt', t'e perfection. you know t'at?" to his challenging question, in which i saw the manner of a teacher with his pupils, i replied: "in your estimation goodness and beauty go together?" "t'ey are t'e same; how not? see t'is way." he shook his lean, reproving forefinger at a shapeless, melting mass that lay at the bottom of a second jar, exuding an ooze of viscid strings. "t'at,"--he spat the word out--"is also sea anemone. it is diseased; it is an ugly animal." "the poor thing's dying," said helen, coming to his side. "there ought to have been some of the green seaweed, ulva, in the water. wouldn't that have saved it?" "ugliness,"--darmstetter disregarded the question--"is disease; it is bat organism; t'e von makes t'e ot'er. t'e ugly plant or animal is diseased, or else it is botched, inferior plant or animal. it is t'e same vit' man and voman; t'ey are animals. t'e ugly man or voman is veak, diseased or inferior. on t'e ot'er hand,"--i felt what was coming by the sudden oiling of his squeak--"t'e goot man or voman, t'e goot human organism, mus' haf beauty. not so?" again he rubbed his hands. helen glanced mischievously at me, as a half-repressed snort interrupted his dissertation. the woman in the fur cap, who might have been a teacher improving odd hours, had knocked up the barrel of her microscope; she gazed through the window at the dazzling hudson. next her a thin, sallow girl, whose dark complexion contrasted almost weirdly with her yellow hair, slashed at a cake of paraffine, her deep-set eyes emitting a spark at every fall of the razor. the other student, a young woman with the heavy figure of middle age, went steadily on, dropping paraffine shavings into some fluid in a watch crystal. with a long-handled pin she fished out minute somethings left by the dissolving substance, dropping these upon other crystals--some holding coloured fluids--and finally upon glass slides. she worked as if for dear life, but every quiver of her back told that she was listening. "you agree vit' me?" "it seems reasonable; the subject is one that you have deeply studied." "ach so! t'e perfect organism must haf t'e perfect beauty. t'e vorld has nefer seen a perfectly beautiful man or voman. vat vould it say to von, t'ink you? but perfection, you vill tell me, is far to seek," he went on, without waiting for a reply. "yet people haf learned t'at many diseases are crimes. by-and-by, we may teach t'em t'at bat organism is t'e vorst of crimes; beautiful organism t'e first duty. v'at do you say?" the fur-capped girl pushed back her chair. "prof. darmstetter," she said, "will you be good enough to look at my sections?" "he's stirred up the hornets' nest," whispered helen. "but come; perhaps they will show us. those girls are so clever; they're sure to have something interesting." chapter iv. the goddess and the mob. as we descended the stairway and passed groups of students in front of the bulletin boards in the hall, helen said:-"i am afraid you shouldn't have called for me. it isn't usual here." "we'll introduce the custom. how could i help coming--after yesterday? helen--" "have you seen grant's tomb?" she inquired hastily. "it's just beyond the college buildings, hidden by them. you mustn't miss it, after coming so far." we had issued on the boulevard, and a few steps brought us in view of the stately white shrine on claremont heights. but i looked instead at her brilliant face against the velvety background of black hat and feather boa. the sun's rays, striking across the river, played hide-and-seek in her shimmering hair, warming it to gold and touching the rose of her cheeks to a clear radiance. her eyes were scintillant with changing, flashing lights. "well?" she challenged at last, half daring, half afraid. "you know me to-day?" "you are a sun goddess. helen, what does it mean?" "new york agrees vit' me," her laugh was irresistible--low and sweet, a laugh that made the glad day brighter. "how not? it is vun fine large city." we laughed together to the memory of _actinia_. "i am a goot organism. t'e bat organisms vish to scratch me; but t'ey are not so fery bat. in time ve may teach t'em gootness." "if darmstetter doesn't think you a perfect organism, he must be hard to satisfy. he's a peculiar organism himself. has he true loves among sand stars or jelly fish, or does he confine his affections to sea anemones?" "prof. darmstetter is a great biologist. it's a shame he has to teach. don't you think such a man should be free to devote himself to original work? he might in england, you know, if he were a fellow of a university. but we're proud of him at barnard; and the laboratory--oh, it's the most fascinating place!" we came slowly down the boulevard, looking out at the sweep of the hudson, while she talked of her studies and her college mates, trying, i thought, to keep me from other topics. i scarcely noticed her words; her voice was in my ears, fresh and musical. the new grace of her shining head and wondrous, swaying figure, the beauty and spirit of her carriage, filled my consciousness. a schooner with a deck load of wood drifted with the tide, her sails flapping; i saw her in a blur. when i turned from the sheen of the river, the bicyclists whizzing past left streaks of light. a man cutting brush in a vacant lot leaned on his axe to look after us. the sudden stopping of his "chop, chop"--he too was staring at the vision of beauty before his eyes--brought me out of my revery. "nelly," i said, "your father will expect a letter from me. what shall i say?" "tell him i am studying hard and like the city." "but about us--about you and me?" "must we talk of that here--on the street?" she spoke almost pleadingly, with the same soft clouding of her loveliness that i had seen the day before? "but i must speak," i said. "you were right yesterday, i won't ask anything of you until i have made a start; but i must know that you still love me; that will be enough. i can wait. i won't hurry you. that is all, helen. everything shall be as you wish; but--you do love me?" "oh, you great tease! why, i suppose i do; but--so much has happened, i don't know myself now; you didn't know me when you first saw me here. why can't you wait and--don't you hope new york vill agree vit' you?" she laughed with tantalizing roguery. "you _do_ love me!" i cried. "and we shall be so happy with all our dreams come true--happy to be together and here! if you knew how i have looked forward to coming, and now--yesterday i thought myself insane, but i wasn't! you are the most marvellous--" "am i? oh, i'm glad! so glad!" i was confused, overjoyed at her sudden sparkle; the soft, flashing light of her was fire and dew. she made visible nature sympathize with her moods. the sky smiled and was pensive with her. "but see," she cried with another of her bewildering changes; "we're at columbia." we had left the boulevard, and were approaching the white-domed library. "look at the inscription," helen said, as students carrying notebooks began to pass us. "'king's college founded under george ii.' doesn't that seem old after the state university? ours, i mean." our inspection was brief. before the open admiration of the students helen seemed, like a poising creature of air and sunshine, fairly to take wing for flight. "tell me about yourself," she commanded, when we were beyond the flights of terraced steps. "you are really in judge baker's office? you--you _won't_ say anything more?" "you--darling! you have almost said you love me; do you know that? well, i'll be considerate. i will work and i will wait and i will believe--no, i'll be certain that some day a woman more beautiful than the greeks imagined when they dreamed of goddesses who loved mortal men will come to me and, because it is true, will quite say 'i love you.' but i may not always be patient; for you do. after all, you are nelly!" i was almost faint with love of her and wonder; i adored her the more for the earnestness with which she lifted her flushed, smiling, innocent face to say: "but tell me about the office, _please_. you wouldn't want me to say--would you, if i wasn't sure? isn't the judge the most delightful man? so--not pompous, you know; but so good. don't you like judge baker?" "i love you! oh, yes, the judge says, 'if we are confronted with an ugly duckling we must congratulate the swan.' were you ever an ugly duckling? i'm sure you love me, helen." "did he say that? well, even when i last saw him why that was nearly two weeks ago--i--oh, i was an ugly duckling!" we laughed like children. in the sunshine of her joy-lit eyes i forgot the miracle of it, forgot everything except that i had reached new york and nelly, and that the world was beautiful when she looked upon it. we came down from cathedral heights; and as we boarded a train on the elevated, eyes peered around newspapers. an old gentleman wiped his glasses and readjusted them, his lips forming the words, "most extraordinary," and again, "most extraordinary!" a thin, transparent-looking woman followed the direction of his glance and querulously touched his elbow. two slender girls looked and whispered. i thought at first that city folks had no manners, but presently began to wonder that helen escaped so easily. she had drawn down a scrap of a veil that scarcely obscured her glow and colour and, as the train gathered headway, our neighbours settled in their places almost as unconcernedly as if no marvel of beauty and youth were present. indeed, most of them had never looked up. the two young girls continued to eye helen with envy; and i was conscious of an absurd feeling of resentment that they were the only ones. i wanted to get up and cry out: "don't you people know that this car contains a miracle?" why, when helen lifted to her knee a child that tugged at the skirts of the stout german hausfrau in the next seat, the mother vouchsafed hardly a glance. "how old are you?" asked helen. "sechs yahre," was the shy answer. "such a big girl for six!" "so grosse! so grosse!" the little thing measured her height by touching her forehead. "shump down," admonished the mother stolidly, while helen bent over the child, wasting upon her the most wonderful smile of the everlasting years. "it was long ago, wasn't it," nelly asked, when the child had slid from her lap, "that uncle promised to take you into his office?" "yes," i said. "when father died, the judge told me that when i had practised three years--long enough to admit me to the new york bar--he'd have a place for me. it was because the three years were nearly up, you know, that i dared last june to ask you--" "you'd dare anything," she interrupted hastily. "remember how, when i was a freshman, you raced a theologue down the church aisle one sunday night after service, and slammed the door from the outside? 'miss winship,' you said--i had sat near the door and was already in the entry--'may i see you home?'--" "the theologue and the congregation didn't get out till you said yes, i remember! they howled and hammered at the door in most unchristian rage?" "i _had_ to say yes; why, i had to walk with you even when we quarrelled; it would have made talk for either of us to be seen alone." she breathed a sigh that ended in rippling laughter. "you'll have to say yes again." but at that she changed the subject, and we talked about her work at barnard until we left the train at fourteenth street, where we met the flood tide of christmas surging into the shops and piling up against gaily decked show windows. street hawkers jingled toy harnesses, shouted the prices of bright truck for tree ornaments, and pushed through the crowd, offering holly and mistletoe. circles formed around men exhibiting mechanical turtles or boxing monkeys. from a furry sledge above a shop door, santa claus bowed and gesticulated, shaking the lines above his prancing reindeer. i had never seen such a spectacle. "what a jam!" cried helen, her cheeks flooded with colour. "come, let's hurry!" indeed, as we threaded our way in and out among the throng, her beauty made an instant impression. "there she goes!" "where? where? i don't see her." "there! the tall one, with the veil--walking with that jay!" not only did i hear such comments; i felt them. yet even here there were many who did not notice; and again i sensed that odd displeasure that people could pass without seeing my darling. it was a relief to leave the neighbourhood of sixth avenue and cross to the open space of union square. the east side of the little park was quiet. "all right?" i asked. "all right." her breath came quickly as if she had been frightened. "but see," she said a moment later, "there comes kitty trundling her bicycle down madison avenue. you'd better come in, and be on your best behaviour; yesterday kitty thought we were quarrelling." "sorry i'm wanted only to vindicate--is it your character or mine that would stand clearing? and will you tell me----" a little old frenchman, with a wooden leg, who was singing the "marseillaise" from door to door, approached, holding out his hat. "merci, m'sieu', madame," he said, carelessly pocketing a nickel; then, as he fairly caught sight of the face that helen of old might have envied, he started back in amazement, slowly whispering:-"pardon! mon dieu! une ange!" we left him muttering and staring after us. "i'll really have to get a thicker veil," said helen hastily; "stuffy thing! i like to breathe and see. at first it was--oh, delightful to be looked at like that--or almost delightful; for if no had one noticed, how was i to be sure that--that new york was agreeing vit' me? but now they begin to----" "then new york hasn't always agreed vit' you? aren't you going to tell me----" "oh, i've been well," she interrupted, "ever since i came. but here's kitty. any adventures, goldilocks?" "a minute ago a tandem cuffed my back wheel," said miss reid, coming up. "my heart jumped into my mouth and--and i'm nibbling little scallops out of it right now." and then we trooped upstairs together. chapter v. a high-class concert. i stayed for supper, over which kitty's big angora cat presided; kitty herself, her red curls in disorder, whimsical, shrewd, dipping from jest to earnest, teased helen and waited on her, wholly affectionate and, i guessed, half afraid. the little den was cosy by the light of an open fire--for it seemed to be one function of the tall, pink-petticoated lamp to make much darkness visible; and nelly was almost like the nelly i had known, with her eager talk of home folks and familiar scenes. she asked about my mother's illness and death that had held me so long in the west, and her great eyes grew dim and soft with tears, and she looked at me like a goddess grieving; until, sweet as was her sympathy, i forced myself to speak of other topics. and then we grew merry again, talking of college mates and the days when i first knew her, when i was a sophomore teaching in hannibal and she was my best scholar--only twelve years old, but she spelled down all the big, husky boys. "i didn't know what i was doing, did i," i said, "when your father used to say: 'bright gal, ain't she? i never see the beat of helen lizy;' and i would tell him you ought to go to the state university?" "think of it!" cried helen. "if i hadn't gone to college, i shouldn't have come to new york, and, oh, if--but how you must have worked, teaching and doubling college and law school! why, you were already through two years of law when i entered, only three years later." "well, it's been easy enough since, even with tutoring and shorthanding; six lawyers to every case--" "wasn't tutoring helen your main occupation?" asked kitty reid audaciously. "i have somehow inferred that--" but there was a sound of hurrying feet on the stairs, and she sprang to the door, crying:-"cadge and pros.! they said they were coming." on the threshold appeared a lank girl with shining black hair and quick, keen, good-humoured eyes. "howdy?" she asked with brisk cordiality; "angel children, hope i see you well." in her wake was a tall, quiet-looking young man with a reddish-brown beard. "salute; salaam," he said; "all serene, kitty? and you, miss winship?" then as the two became accustomed to the light, i saw what i had nervously expected. there was a little start, an odd moment of embarrassment. they gazed at helen with quick wonder at her loveliness, then turned away to hide their surprise. it was as if in the few days since they had seen her--for the new comers were kitty's brother and the miss bryant of whom everyone speaks as "cadge"--helen's beauty had so blossomed that at fresh sight of her they struggled with incredulous amazement almost as a stranger might have done. talking rapidly to mask embarrassment, they joined us round the fire, reid dropped a slouch hat and an overcoat that seemed all pockets bulging with papers, while miss bryant and kitty began a rapid fire of talk about "copy," "cuts," "the black," "the colour" and other mysteries. "wish you could have got me a proof of the animal page," said kitty finally; "if they hurry the etching again, before my poor dear little bears have been half an hour on the presses, they'll fill with ink and print gray. i'll--i'll leave money in my will to prosecute photo-engravers." "oh, don't fret," said miss bryant. "magazine'll look well this week. big tom's the greatest sunday editor that ever happened; and i've got in some good stuff, too." "of course your obbligato'll be all right," kitty sighed; "but--oh, those etchers and----yes, big tom'll do; i never see him fretting the art department, like the editor before last, to sketch a one-column earthquake curdling a cup of cream." "how _could_ anybody do that?" cried helen. "just what the artist said." miss bryant looked slightly older than helen; in spite of her brusque, careless sentences, i suspected that she was a girl of some knowledge, vast energy and strength of will. and suspicion grew to certainty that she and reid were lovers. i might have read it in his tone when in the course of the evening he asked her to sing. "then give me a baton," she responded, springing to her feet. rolling up a newspaper and seizing a bit of charcoal from the drawing table, she beat time with both hands, launching suddenly into an air which she rendered with dramatic expression as rare as her abandon. "applaud! applaud!" she cried, clapping her own hands at the end of a brilliant passage, her colourless, irregular face alive with enthusiasm, her black eyes snapping. "if you don't applaud, how do you expect me to sing? _vos plaudite!_" "i'll applaud when you've surely stopped," said kitty reid demurely; "but before we begin an evening of grand opera, i want you to hear the princess. helen, you know you promised." "nonsense!" exclaimed helen, colouring at the title, "i can't sing before cadge; but if you like, i'll play for you. see if i'm not improving in my tremolo." helen did not sing in the old days, so that i was not surprised at her refusal. taking her mandolin, she tinkled an air that i have often heard her play, but neither i nor any one else had ears for it, so absorbed was the sense of sight. her long lashes swept her cheeks as she bent forward in the firelight, her vivid colouring subdued by the soft, playing glow to an elusive charm. at one moment, as the flames flickered into stronger life, her beauty seemed to grow fuller and to have an oriental softness and warmth; the next, the light would die away, and in the cooler, grayer, fainter radiance, her perfect grace of classic outline made her seem a statue--galatea just coming to life, more beautiful than the daughters of men, her great loveliness delicately spiritualized. if i were a beautiful woman, i'd learn to play a mandolin. "sing, helen," begged kitty in a whisper. in a voice that began tremulously, low and faltering, and slowly gained courage, she sang the ballad she had been playing. it was easy to see that she was not a musician; but, as she forgot her listeners, we forgot everything but her. miss bryant put down the compasses and scale rule she had been restlessly fingering, and her keen eyes softened and dilated. kitty dropped on the floor at helen's feet; the hush in the room was breathless. reid sat in the dark, still as a statue; i clenched my hands and held silence. the words were as simple as the air. but the voice, so clear, so sweet, so joyous, like helen's own loveliness--to hear it was an ecstasy. we were listening to the rarest notes that ever had fallen on human ears--unless the tale of the sirens be history. as the last note died, the fire leaped, dropped and left us in dusk and silence. kitty buried her face against helen's dress. my heart was pounding until in my own ears it sounded like an anvil chorus. i don't know whether i was very happy or very miserable. i would have died to hear that voice again. it is the truth! with a sudden sob and a sniffing that told of tears unashamed, miss bryant found frivolous words to veil our emotion. "ladies and gentlemen," she quavered, "this is a high-class concert; three dollars each for tickets, please. helen, you don't know how to sing, but--don't learn! come pros."--the big drops ran down her cheeks; "i've got to look up a story in the morning." "wait a minute," said reid, his long, delicately shaped fingers trembling. "let me recover on something." picking up kitty's banjo, he smote the strings uncertainly and half sang, half declaimed:- "'with my hya! heeya! heeya! hullah! haul! oh, the green that thunders aft along the deck! are you sick of towns and men? you must sign and sail again, for it's johnny bowlegs, pack your kit and trek!' "by jove! kipling's right; nothing like a banjo, is there? now then, young person, i'm with you. good night; good night!" while his voice was still echoing down the stairway, miss bryant came running up again. "say, got a photograph of yourself, helen?" she asked. she had apparently quite recovered from her emotion, and her tone expressed an odd mixture of business and affection. "i believe if i showed big tom a picture of you," she explained, "he'd run a story--there's your science, you know, and your music--on the society page, maybe." "but i haven't any picture; at least, any that you'd want--only a few taken months ago, for my father." "show me those; why won't they do?" "oh, they aren't good; they--they don't look like me. besides, i really couldn't let you print my picture, cadge." "all right. good night, then; good night, kitty." "perhaps i was just the least bit homesick; i'm glad you've come," helen said to me at good-by. she did not withdraw the hand i pressed. she was still under the excitement of the music; the song had left on her face a dreamy tenderness. "don't you like cadge?" she asked, checking with shy evasiveness the words i would have spoken. "she can do anything--sing, talk modern greek and chinese--cadge is wonderful." "i know some one more wonderful. helen, when did you begin to sing?" "i don't sing; to-night was the first time i ever tried before any one but kitty. did i sing well?" "i can't believe you're real! i can't--" "don't! don't!" she laughed. "remember your promise." and with that she ran away from the door where i stood, and i came directly home. home, to set down these notes; to wonder; to doubt; to pinch myself and try to believe that i am alive. i am alive. this that i have written is the truth! this is what i have seen and heard since a common, puffing railroad train brought me from the west and set me down in the land of miracles. it is the truth; but out of that magic presence i cannot--i am as powerless to believe as i am powerless to doubt. god help me--it is the truth! book ii. the birth of the butterfly. (_from the autobiography of helen winship_.) chapter i the psychological moment no. 2 union square, december 14. i am the most beautiful woman in the world! i feel like a daughter of the gods. bewildered, amazed, at times incredulous of my good fortune--but happy, happy, happy! there is no joy in heaven or earth like the joy of being beautiful--incomparably beautiful! it's such a never-ending surprise and delight that i come out of my musings with a start, a dozen times a day, and shudder to think: "what if it were only a dream!" happy? i have no faith in the old wives' fables that we are most miserable when we get what we want. it isn't true that the weak and poor are to be envied beyond the powerful. ask the fortunate if they would change! i wouldn't; not for the klondike? i'm so happy! i want to take into my confidence the whole world of women. i want them to know how the gift was gained that they are some day to share. i want them to know that there are still good fairies in the world; and how i was fated to meet one, how he waved his wand over me and how my imperfections fled. every woman will read the story of my life with rapt attention because of the secret. i shall tell that last of all. now it's my own. is it true that i have longed for beauty more passionately than most women; or is it only that i know myself, not the others? i can remember the time, away back, when the longing began--when i was---incredible! was i ever an ugly little girl, careless of my appearance, happiest in a torn and dirty dress; and homely, homely, homely? oh, miracle! the miracle! they say all girls begin life thus heedless of beauty; but none get far along the road before they meet the need of it. so it was with me; and now i love to recall every pitiful detail of the beginning of the quest of beauty, the funny little tragedy of childhood that changed the current of my life--and of your lives, all you women who read. it was one day after school, in the old life that has closed forever--after the prairie school, dull, sordid, uninspiring, away in the west--that a playmate, billy reynolds, was testing upon me his powers of teasing. i remember the grin of pleasure in his cruelty that wrinkled his round, red face when at last he found the dart that stung. his words--ah, they are no dream! they were the awakening, the prelude of to-day. "janey's prettier'n what you be," he said; and of a sudden i knew that it was true, and felt that the knowledge nearly broke my heart. but could there be any doubt of the proper reply? "huh!" i said, shrugging my lean shoulders. "i don't care!" the day before it would have been true, but that day it was a lie. i did care; the brave words blistered my throat, sudden tears burned my eyeballs, and to hide them i turned my back upon my tormentor. it was not that i was jealous. i cared no more for billy than for a dozen other playmates. it was just the fact that hurt. i was homely! not that the idea was new to me, either. dear me, no! why, from my earliest years i had been accustomed to think of myself as plain, and had not cared. my earliest recollection, almost, is of two women who one day talked about me in my presence, not thinking that i would understand. "ain't she humbly?" said one. "dretful! it's a pity. looks means so much more to a gal." "but she's smart." by these words--you can see that i was young--i was exalted, not cast down. and for five years, remembering them, i had been proud of being "smart." but now, in the moment of revelation, the law of sex was laid upon me, and the thought failed to bring its accustomed comfort. smart? perhaps. but--homely! with feet as light as my heart was heavy because of billy's taunt, i flew home and ran up to my room. i had there a tiny mirror, about two-thirds of which had fallen from its frame. i may before that day have taken in it brief, uncritical glimpses at my face, but they had not led to self-analysis. now, with beating heart and solemn earnestness, i balanced a chair against the door--there was no lock--and looked long and unlovingly at my reflected image. i saw many freckles, a nose too small, ears too big, honest eyes, hair which was an undecided brown; in short, an ordinary wind-blown little prairie girl. perhaps i was not so ill-looking, nor janey so pretty, as billy affected to think, but no such comforting conclusion then came to me. sorrow fronted me in the glass. the broken mirror gave no hint of my figure, but i know that i was lean and angular, with long legs forever thrusting themselves below the hem of my dress; the kind of girl for whose growth careful mothers provide skirts with tucks that can be let out to keep pace with their increasing stature. yes, i was homely! i could not dispute the evidence of the bit of shivered glass. my heart was swelling with grief as i slowly went down stairs, where my mother was getting supper for the hired men. i think it must have been early spring, for prairie schools need not expect boy pupils in seeding time; i know that the door was open and the weather warm. "ma," i said as i entered the dining room, "will i ever be pretty?" "sakes alive! what _will_ the child think of next?" "but will i, ma?" "'han'some is as han'some does,' you know, nelly," my mother responded, as she set on the table two big plates piled high with slices of bread. then she went into the buttery and brought out a loaf of temperance cake, a plate of doughnuts and a great dish of butter. "oh, come now, ma; please tell me," i wheedled, not content with a proverb. "why, nelly, i don't know; the' ain't nobody does know. i was well-favoured at your age, but your pa wan't much on looks. but pa had a sister who was reel good-lookin', an' some says you've got her eyes. maybe you'll take after her. but land! you can't never tell. i've seen some of the prettiest babies grow up peaked and pindlin' an' plain as a potato; whilst, on the other hand, reel homely children sometimes come up an' fill out rosy-cheeked an' bright-eyed as you please. there was my half-sister rachel, now, eight years younger'n me. i remember well how folks said she was the homeliest baby they ever see; an' she grew up homely, too, just a lean critter with big eyes an' tousled hair; but she got to be reel pretty 'fore she died. then there's my own cousin francie, she that married tim'thy baker an' went to new york to live. she's a bright, nice-lookin' woman, almost han'some; an' her little girls are, too; about your age they be. an'--" i suppose the lonely prairie life had made ma fond of talking, without much regard for her audience. often have i heard her for an hour at a time steadily whispering away to herself. now she had forgotten her only auditor, a wide-eyed little girl, and was fairly launched upon monologue, the subject answering as well as another her imperious need. "which of pa's sisters, ma?" i asked, interrupting. "w'ich of his sisters--w'at? wat you talkin' 'bout now?" "which is the good-looking one?" "oh, your aunt em'ly, o' course. nobody ain't ever accused s'renie or keren-happuch o' bein' sinfully beautiful, fur's i know." my aunt em'ly was invested for me with a new interest. perhaps some day i might take after her and grow equally well-favoured. i did not remember having noticed that she was beautiful, and resolved to study her at the first opportunity. chapter ii. a sunday-school lesson. going to church was a good old new england custom that in our family had borne transplanting to the west. sunday was almost the pleasantest day in the week to me--not elbowing school-less saturday from its throne; not of course even comparing with the bliss of friday just after school, but easily surpassing the procession of four dull, dreaded, droning days the ogre monday led. the beauty and fragrance of the summer sabbath began in the early morning, when i went out into the garden, before putting on my sunday frock, and picked a quantity of the old-fashioned flowers that grew there. i arranged them in two flat bouquets, with tall gladiolus stalks behind and smaller growths ranging down in front so that they might see and be seen, peeping over each other's heads, when placed against the wall in church. then after the great toilet-making of the week we were off. the drive over the prairie in the democrat wagon behind our smartest pair of plough horses was a pleasure that never grew tame from repetition. arriving at the church, i would give my bouquets to the old stoop-shouldered sexton and watch him anxiously as he ambled down the aisle with them. perhaps my flowers--yes, the very flowers that i had dashed the dew from that morning--would be placed on the pulpit itself, not on the table below, nor yet about the gallery where sat the choir. then indeed i felt honoured. but wherever they might be, i could watch them all through the services, perhaps catch their fragrance from some favouring breeze, and feel that they were own folks from home. even sermon time did not seem long. after i had noted the text to prepare for catechism at home, i was free to dream as i chose until the rustle of relief at the close of the speaking. and the droning of bees and buzzing of flies, or the sudden clamour of a hen somewhere near would come floating in through the open window, and the odour of the flowers and the twigs of the "ellum" tree tapping at the pane helped to make the little church a haven of restfulness. but on the sunday following my awakening i had no care for sounds outside, no eyes for my bouquets, though they stood at either hand of the pulpit; i got permission to sit in aunt keren's pew, where i could see aunt em'ly's face; and all through the sermon i studied it with big, round eyes. yes, and with sorrow growing leaden in my heart. for i was not old enough to see in her face what it had been, nor to appreciate the fine profile that remained. hers was not the pink-and-white of rosy girlhood, the only beauty i could understand; and wherein her toil-set features differed from those of the other drudging farmers' wives or the shut-in women of the little village, i could not see. a lump rose in my throat; this wrinkled and aging person was the beautiful woman i might take after! i'm afraid i returned from church that day without the consolations of religion. there followed an anxious time of experimenting. some one had told me that lemon juice would exorcise freckles, and surreptitiously i tried it. how my face smarted after the heroic treatment, and how red and inflamed it looked! but then in a little while back came the freckles again and they stayed, too, until--but how they went, i am to tell you. i wheedled from mother the privilege of daily wearing my coral beads--the ones my cousins milly and ethel baker had sent me from new york--and had an angry fit of crying when one day, while we children were racing for the schoolhouse door at the end of recess, the string broke and they were nearly all trampled upon before i could pick them up. youth is buoyant. next i begged the sheet lead linings of tea chests from the man who kept the general store, and cut them into little strips that i folded into hair-curlers, covering them with paper so that the edges should not cut. i would go to sleep at night with my short, dampened hair twisted around these contrivances, and in the morning comb it out and admire it as it stood about my head in a bushy mass, like the circassian girl's at the circus. thus beautified, i happened one day to meet our white-headed old pastor! how he stared! "stand still a minute, nelly, child, and let's look at you," he commanded. "why, what have you been doing to yourself?" the good man's accent wasn't admiring; sadly i realised the failure of my attempt to compel beauty. when i reached home i sternly soaked the curl out of my hair, brushed it flat and braided it into two exceedingly tight pig-tails. ah, me! it's easy--afterwards--to laugh at the silent sorrows of childhood, bravely endured alone. at least, it's easy for me, now! i began to worry ma about my clothes. i grew ashamed of red-and-black, pin-checked woollen frocks, and sighed for prettier things. one of the girls wore at a sunday school concert a gray and blue dress with many small ruffles, that seemed to me as elegant as a duchess could want. the children whispered that it had cost $20, and i wondered if i should ever again see raiment so wonderful. i knew that it was useless to ask for such a dress for myself; i should be told that i was not old enough for fine feathers. it was our sabbath day custom to pass directly from the church services to those of sunday school, and drive home after these. one stormy day i was the only scholar in my class, and when we had finished the bible lesson leaflets and i was watching the long rows of bobbing heads, flaxen and dark, in the pews full of restless, wriggling children, i turned to the teacher with a question that i had long been meditating. "miss coleman," i began desperately, "ain't there any way to get pretty?" "i wish there were a way and i knew it," she responded with a smile. "but you should say 'isn't,' you know." "oh, but you are pretty," i cried, not with the intent of compliment, but as merely stating a fact. i do not now think that it was a fact. miss coleman's features were irregular, her nose prominent, her forehead too high; but she had a fair, pure complexion and fine eyes, and somehow reminded me of the calla lilly that ma was always fussing about in our sitting room. and she was good and wise. i have often thought how different my life might have been if her orbit had not briefly threaded mine. if i had asked that question of some simpering girl a few years older than i--the average sunday school teacher--she would have replied, from under the flower-burdened hat that had cost her so much thought, that all flesh was grass and beauty vain; and i should have known that she didn't believe it. "for that matter," said miss coleman, after a little pause in which she seemed considering her words with more than usual care, "there are ways of growing beautiful; and, so far as she can, it is a woman's duty to seek them; would you like to know how?" a duty to be beautiful! here was novel doctrine. i gazed with eyes and mouth wide open as she continued: "for one with good lungs and a sound body, the first law of beauty is to be healthy; and health is not just luck. to get it and keep it seek constant exercise in the open air. middle-aged women lose their looks because they stay in too constantly; when they were girls and played out-of-doors they had roses in their cheeks. most handsome women of sixty are those who go among people and keep their interest in what is going on. "and the second law is intelligence. for thinking gives the eyes expression. a foolish girl may be fair and rosy, yet far from beautiful. many of the world's famous beauties have suffered serious blemishes; but they have all had wit or spirit to give their faces charm. you have planted flowers?" "i guess so; yes'm." i didn't see the connection. "you know then that if you kept digging them to see if they had sprouted, they never would sprout. so it is not well to think too much about growth in beauty. don't be impatient. it is a work of years. but the method is certain, within limits. i should think that by exercise for the body and study for the mind you might easily become a beautiful woman. another thing; don't slouch." i sat up straight as a grenadier, my shoulders absurdly stiff. "no, nevermind your shoulders," said miss coleman, smiling; "they'll take care of themselves if you keep your head right. practise sitting and standing erect. and never wear a corset. if the almighty had meant woman to be corset-shaped, he'd have made her so." the superintendent's bell, tinkling for the closing hymn, and the rustle of the leaves of singing books broke in upon our talk; for the first time i failed to welcome the interruption. "why, i've delivered quite a lecture upon beauty," miss coleman said. "now just a word more. try to remember that by making yourself a good and wise woman you will also make yourself more beautiful." "oh, i'll remember; i will!" i cried. and i have done so! every word! and if miss coleman could only see me now! how could i forget? i was silent all the way home. at the dinner table, as my father was tucking his napkin under his chin, he said: "well, nelly, w'at was mr. stoddard's text?" "i--i guess it was something about the children of israel." "yes, prob'ly it was something about 'em," pa assented with a chuckle. but ma spoke more sharply: "i guess you won't get let to set in aunt keren-happuch's pew again right away, helen 'lizy." for before my lesson i had once more been studying aunt em'ly's face. i didn't mind the prohibition the least bit. i had a new idea and a new hope. the idea was exaggerated, the hope vain.--was vain? ah, it has been more than realised, as you shall hear; realised in a way that amazes me the more, the more i think upon it. realised as yours shall be, some day, through me! realised! great heavens! it is a miracle! chapter iii. the quest of knowledge. our district schoolhouse was a shadeless, unpainted box. within, whittled desks, staring windows and broken plastering made it a fit prison for the boys, whose rough ways were proof of the refining influence of their daily intercourse with the hired men. i wonder such places are tolerated. what a contrast to barnard's white and gold! john burke was our teacher the following winter. he was only seventeen then, but already tall and well grown, in appearance quite a man. he was a student working his way to an education, and his example was a help to me. for i no longer hated lessons. miss coleman's talk had filled me with such zeal for knowledge that i became, before the term was over, the phenomenon of the school. mr. burke boarded at our house and he would bring home shining tales of my prowess, and often i would listen open-mouthed as we sat about the table at night and he told stories of the state university and the students and the merry life they led. every one was amazed at my industry. i played as heartily as i worked, but i studied with a will, too, and passed a score of mates. that was easy enough, for home study was never dreamed of by most of them, and leisure hours in school were passed in marking "tit-tat-to" upon slates or eating apples under the friendly shelter of the desks. at the end of the term i received a prize--a highly coloured print of "washington crossing the delaware," which pa and ma used long after to bring out and exhibit with pride. it is still somewhere in the old house--hung up in ma's bedroom, i think, along with the blue-and-tinseled crown, marked "charity" in gilt letters across the front, which i wore in the exciting dialogue of "faith, hope and charity" at a sunday school exhibition. but more than any prize i valued the help and friendship of john burke and the consciousness that he considered me his most promising pupil. upborne by new ideals, i resolved to study through the vacation that followed, and to my surprise this was not an infliction but a pleasure, now that i was my own task-mistress. next term the "girl teacher"--for economy's sake we had them in summer when there were no big boys to thrash--was astonished at my industry and wisdom, and as i could see, a little afraid of them. at the end of the first week i went home bursting with an idea that in secret i had long cherished. aunt keren was at tea, i remember, and the talk fell upon my work in school, giving me my opportunity. "who'd a thought a mischeevious little tyke like her would ha' turned out a first-rate learner, after all?" queried auntie, beaming upon me good-naturedly from behind her gold-bowed spectacles. "i al'ays tol' ye, ezry, ye'd be proud o' her some day." "i guess sue arkwright's a famous good teacher; that's one thing," said ma, amiably. "sis never done near so well before; at least, not till last term." "i never thought sue was anythin' remarkable," pa broke in. "how is that, sis? is she a good teacher?" "no, she ain't," i responded, with quickened beating of the heart. criticism of teachers was admissible in my code of ethics, but justification must follow; there must be proof--or reproof. "what's that?" said pa, looking at me curiously. "ever ketch her in a mistake?" "yes, sir." "bring the book." i ran and fetched a well-thumbed book from the sewing machine and turned to the definitions of familiar foreign words. "there," said i, spreading the speller flat on the table and pointing with my finger. "french word for 'mister.' teacher called it 'monshure,' just as they all do. but that's wrong. to-day i showed her how it is. see, the book says it's pronounced 'm-o-s-s-e-r' and that little mark means an accent on the last syllable and it's 'long e.' 'mosseer' is right. but when i showed it to teacher, she looked at it awhile, and then she wrinkled up her eye-brows, and whispered it once or twice and said: 'oh, yes; "mosser."' and she made us call it 'mosser' all the rest of the day, too," i ended triumphantly. "why, o' course that ain't right; 'mosser' ain't it!" volunteered one of the hired men, who had lingered to hear the discussion. "i've heerd that word a thousan' times; right way seems like 'm'shoo.' shucks! can't get my tongue 'round it, nohow." "yes, i know", said pa "you go call frenchy." joe lavigne, summoned from the barn, came, followed by all the rest, curious to see what was wanted--a rough, kindly gang of men in blue overalls and big, clumping boots. "joe," said pa; "you say 'mister' in french." "ya-a-as, m'sieu' weensheep, so i call heem: m'sieu'; m'sieu'; m'sieu'." very carefully frenchy pronounced the clipped word. "that's all, joe; i s'pose book french is a good deal diff'rent from ord'nary kanuck. 'mosseer' is right anyhow, for the book says so. teacher had ought to know enough to go by the book, i sh' think." "tain't her fault, pa," i said, relenting. "she never went to any good school. i want to go somewhere where the teachers know a real lot; not just a little bit more than me. i want to go"--i paused to gain courage--"i want to go to the university, like--like mr. burke." "the state university!" pa repeated, in a tone of awe; "thunder! don't believe we could manage that, sis." "w'y, yes, y'can, too, ezry," aunt keren argued, "seems to me you're forehanded enough, to do for an only child. 'tain't 's if you was like me 'n' ab., with our four chunies." "she'd have to go to an academy first to get fitten for it," said ma. "she couldn't go to the univers'ty for three or four years yet." "of course not," i answered; "but you might write to mr. burke to send me a catalogue to find out how much i'd have to know to get taken in. then i could study at home till i got pretty near ready, and then take a year at the academy." the words flowed easily, eagerly; i had so often gone over the plan. "good idee," said pa, nodding his head, relieved to find that i wasn't seeking to leave home at once; and so it was arranged. isn't it wonderful? plain and bald and homely the house, unpretending the surroundings, simple and primitive the life, that sent forth the world's first beautiful woman, the woman of the secret! i have tried to set it all down exactly as it happened--the quaint, old-fashioned dialect, the homely ways, the bearded, booted men. for this place, just as it was, was the birthplace of the new glory; out of this homely simplicity dawned the new era of beauty that is to make the whole world glad. a catalogue was sent for, books were bought and i set to work unaided, though mr. stoddard took an interest in my studies and often helped me out of difficulties. i chose the classical course, undeterred by parental demonstrations of the "plum uselessness" of latin and greek; i had for the choice no better reason than that it was more difficult. i no longer went to the little red schoolhouse. all this time i had almost forgotten billy, to whom i owed such a debt of gratitude for sending me upon the quest. once i met him on the road. "ain't ye never comin' to school no more?" he queried. "no, i am never going again; i am preparing for the state university; i shall take a classical course," i answered with hauteur, looking down upon him as i spoke. only that morning ma had let out another tuck in my gown. "i'm aw'fly sorry," billy murmured with a foolish, embarrassed grin. "guess i'll walk along of ye, if ye don't care." my triumph found me cold. the sting of billy's words yet rankled, and perhaps i was not so grateful to the little wretch as he deserved. it was about a quarter of a mile to our house; we walked the distance in unbroken silence. once there, billy rallied. "good-by, miss winship," he said, holding open the gate for me. it was the first time that any one had addressed me by that grown-up title. "good-by, billy." and that was the end of the beginning of the quest. in blizzard time and through the fierce heat of summer i toiled at self-set tasks in our ugly, comfortable home. during the blessed intervals when we could induce "girl help" to stay with us i had scarcely any housework to do. fairly regular exercise came to be a habit and i worried admiring relatives into thinking me a candidate for an early grave by taking a cold bath every morning. in the end i managed, with a single year in a cheerless boarding house near a village academy, where i studied greedily, devouring my books, to enter the state university with a scholarship to my credit. i took half the examination in spring and read extra virgil and ovid all summer. then in august, when the long vacation was nearly over, came the village dressmaker. ma had promised me two new dresses, and i would sit hemming towels or poring over greek and roman history while they turned the leaves of fashion magazines and discussed materials and trimmings. i secretly hoped for a silk, but mother, to whom i suppose i am even now--now!--a little girl, vetoed that as too showy, and the dressmaker added her plea for good, durable things. the choice fell upon a golf suiting for school and a black cashmere for church. i begged hard to have the cashmere touch the ground, but both women smiled at the folly of the child who forgot the many re-bindings a long skirt would call for. there was a comic side to my disappointment, for i guessed that the widow trask could not make the designs i coveted, nor anything of which she could not buy a paper pattern. but when i went up to the university and became entitled to join in the cry:- s!----u! we're----a----few! s!----t!----a--t--e! u!----ni----ver--si--tee! wow!----wow!----wow! --i found that i compared favourably enough with my mates. dress played little part in every day college life, and for such occasions as socials or friday night debating society i soon learned from upper class girls to mitigate ugly gowns with pretty ribbons. and i congratulated myself upon the fact that i was not by any means the plainest girl in my class. my face was hopeless, but my hard-won fight for an erect posture had given me a bearing that seemed almost distinguished. and--well, even my face wasn't so bad, i thought then! we were a jolly set; most of us poor as church mice, and caring little. making rather a boast of it, indeed. john burke's roommate, jim reeder, cooked his own meals--mostly oatmeal--in his room and lived on less than a dollar a week until fairly starved. i suppose they'll call him "old hoss" to his dying day. until his mother moved to town, john was almost as ill-fed. he was just completing his law course when i was a freshman, and used to make brave jests at poverty, even after his admission to the bar. of course i was glad to meet him again, and, though i was puzzled just at first, to see how little older than i my former teacher was, yet afterwards--why, i haven't answered his last--i don't know how many letters; i simply must remember to write to him! i think the best part of the teaching wasn't in the books. some of the students were queer and uncouth when they came, the boys eating with their knives in the fashion of the farm; some of the brightest girls in ill-fitting clothes--perfect guys they'd be thought in the city. but there were others of quite different manner, and from them and from professors who had seen the world, we learned a little--a very little--of its ways. and perhaps we were not unfavourable specimens of young republicanism, with our merry, hopeful outlook upon life, and our future governors and senators all in the raw--yes, and our countesses and vice-reines! chapter iv girl bachelor and biologist merrily flew the years and almost before i realised it came graduation. in the leafy dark of the village street, in the calm of a perfect june night, john burke told me that he loved me, and i plighted my troth to him. we laid plans as we bade each other good-by, to meet again--perhaps--in new york in the fall; and even that little separation seemed so long. we did not guess that the weeks would grow to months, and--oh, dear, what will he think of me when he gets here? and what--now--shall i say to him? father for the first time visited college to see me graduate. between his pride in my standing at the head of my class and his discomfort in a starched collar, he was a prey to conflicting emotions all commencement week, and heaved a great sigh of relief when at last the train that bore us home pulled out of the station. but as we approached our own he again grew uneasy, and kept peering out at the car window as if on the watch for something. at length we descended in front of the long yellow box we called the "deepo." and there was joe lavigne to meet us, not with the democrat wagon, but with a very new and shiny top buggy. when we reached the farmhouse, i saw proofs of a loving conspiracy. the addition of a broad veranda and a big bay window, with the softening effect of the young trees that had grown up all around the place, made it look much more homelike than the bare box that had sheltered my childhood. a new hammock swung between two of the trees. mother met me at the door with more emotion than i had ever before detected upon her thin face. then i saw that the dear people had been at work within the house as well. cosey corners and modern wall paper and fittings such as i had seen at the professors' houses and had described at home to auditors apparently slightly interested, had been remembered and treasured up and here attempted, to make my homecoming a festivity. the house had been transformed, and if not always in the best of taste, love shone through the blunders. "oh, father," i cried, "now i am surprised! how much wheat it must have cost!" "well, i guess we can stand it," he said, grimly pleased and proud and anxious all at once. "we wanted to make it kind o' pleasant for ye, sis; an'--an' homelike." there was something so soft and tremulous in his voice that it struck me with a great pang of contrition that i had left him for so many years, that already i was eager to go away again--to the great city where john was soon to be. i turned quickly away and went from room to room admiring the changes, but after supper, when we were all gathered about the sitting room table, father returned to the subject most upon his mind. he had seen me with john during commencement week, and must have understood matters. "ready t' stay hum now, i s'pose, ain't ye?" he asked with a note in his voice of cheery assurance that perhaps he did not feel, tilting back and forth in his old-fashioned rocking chair, as i had so often seen him do, with closed eyes and open mouth, his face steeled against expression. and the slow jog, jog, jog of the chair reminded me how his silent evening vigils had worn away the rockers until they stood flat upon the floor, making every movement a clacking complaint. to-night--to-night, he is rocking just the same, in silence, in loneliness. poor, dear pa! "i'm glad to get home, of course," i said; "but--i wanted to speak with you. but not to-night." "why, ye're through school." "yes, but i--i wish i could go on studying; if i may." the words tripped over each other in my embarrassment. the jog, jog of the chair paused suddenly, leaving for a moment only the ticking of the clock to break the silence. "not goin' to put up 'ith us an' stay right alon', eh?" he asked; and rocked twice, then stopped again, in suspense for the answer. "why, father," i stammered, "of course i don't want to do anything unless you're willing, but i had thought i'd like--i did want to go and study in the city--i think--or somewhere." "dear me! dear me!" he mused, his voice very low and even; "an' you just through the university; 'way up to the top, too. can't ye--seems as if ye better stop alon' of us an' study home, same's you used to? mebbe--mebbe 'twon't be good for ye, studyin' so much." "of course i can, you dear old dad," i cried; and horribly guilty i felt as i looked at the kindly, weather-beaten face. "i shall do just whatever you say. but oh, i wish i _could go to the city_! don't you suppose i could?" "chicago, mebbe?" "i had thought of a post-graduate course in barnard college--that's in new york, you know." father knew john's plans. i blushed hotly. in the pause that followed i knew that he was thinking of a well-thumbed map in my old school geography; of the long, long journey to chicago, and the thousand weary miles that stretched beyond. hastily i went on:-"but i know how you have saved for me and worked for me and pinched; and i'd be ashamed to be a burden upon you any longer; i can teach to get money to go on with." "no;" said pa, sitting up straight and striking the arm of the chair with his clenched fist a blow that gave some hint of the excitement that moved him. "guess a child o' mine don't need to teach an' get all dragged out, alon' of a passel o' wild children! no, no, helen 'lizy;" he added more softly, sinking back into the old attitude and once more closing his eyes; "if the's so much more to learn, an' you want to go ahead an' learn it, just you go an' get it done with. i'm right sorry to have ye go so fur away; i did think--but it's nat'ral, child; it's nat'ral. i s'pose john burke's goin' to the city, too, and you kinder--i s'pose young folks likes to be together." "i--i--we have talked of it." talked about it! john and i had talked of nothing else for a week. i sat very still, my eyes on the carpet. "guess john burke'll have all he cares to do for one while, gittin' started in the law office, 'thout runnin' round with nelly," said ma. "ye seem bent on spoilin' the child, ezry. al'ays the same way, ever sin' she's a little girl." her lips were compressed, the outward symbol of a life of silent hours and self restraint. "there, there, ma," said father, jogging his chair again. "don't ye worry no more 'bout that. what's ourn is hern in the long run, an' she may as well have some of it now when she wants it, an' it'll do her some good. i s'pose frank baker--she that's your mother's cousin an' married tim'thy baker an's gone to new york to live--i s'pose she might look after you; but it's a long way off, new york--seems like a dretful long way off. what ye goin' to learn, sis, if ye should go t' the city?" "well, i was good in chemistry; prof. meade advised me--i might study medicine; i don't know. and i want to know more about books and pictures and the things that people talk about, out in the world, though i can hardly call that a study, i suppose." the words somehow disappointed me when uttered. they didn't sound convincing. such pursuits seemed less serious, there in the old farm-house that spoke of so much painful toil, than when john and i had discussed them on the sunny campus. "i--i don't know yet, just what to do; there's all summer to plan; but i want--somehow--to make the very most and the best of myself," i added earnestly. it was true, and the nearest i could come to the exact truth; that love urged me yet more eagerly upon the quest, and that with all my heart i longed to become a wise and brilliant woman, for john's sake, and as a step towards beauty, according to miss coleman's words. "i don't hold with women bein' doctors," said ma, as she energetically knitted into the middle of her needle before looking up. "i don't know what we're comin' to, these days." "there, there, ma, i don't know why women shouldn't be doctors, if they want to. they make better nusses'n men. mebbe--mebbe sis'll be gettin' married some day, an' i tell ye a little doctorin' know-how is mighty handy in a house. a doctor an' a lawyer, now, would be a gret team, right in the fambly, like. well, sis, we'll see; we'll see." i knew that the matter was practically settled; and there was little sleep for me, or for any one, that night in the old farm-house. i stayed at home until september, and then one morning father drove me again to the little yellow station whose door opens wide upon all the world. "well, good-by, helen 'lizy," he said. "good-by, father." for weeks i had been eager to be off, but as the train began to move and i looked back at his patient figure--he made no more show of his deep emotion than if the parting were for a day--a big lump rose in my throat at leaving him and ma--old before their time with toil and privation and planning and striving for me. i knew how lonely it would be in the sitting room that night without me. father with closed eyes jogging away in his chair, mother bolt upright and thin and prim, forever at her knitting or sewing; no sound but the chair and the ticking clock upon the shelf--that night and every night. and the early bedtime and the early morning and the long, long day--what a contrast to this! i pressed my face against the window, but a rush of tears blurred all the dear, familiar landmarks--barzillai foote's red barn, the grain elevator at the siding, the hartsville road trailing off over the prairie; i would have given worlds to be in the top buggy again, moving homeward, instead of going swiftly out, out, alone, into the world. three months ago! i did not dream what miracles were in store! and so one day i reached the new york i had dreamed about. it wasn't as a shrine of learning that it appealed to me, altogether; but as a wonderful place, beautiful, glittering, feverish with motion, abounding with gayety, thronged with people, bubbling with life. how it fascinated me! just at first of course i was lonely because john had not yet come, and mrs. baker, mother's cousin, was away from home. but i soon made friends with my cousins, ethel and milly; shy, nice girls, twins and precisely alike, except, that ethel is slightly lame. and at my boarding place i made the acquaintance of an art student from cincinnati three or four years older than i, who proposed that we should become girl bachelors and live in a studio. "but i didn't know people ever lived in studios," i objected. "oh, you dear goose!" said kathryn reid--it's really her name, though of course i call her kitty--"live in studios? bless you, child, everybody does it. and i know a beyewtiful studio that we can have cheap, because we're such superior young persons; also because it's ever so many stories up and no elevator. can you cook a little? can you wash dishes, or not mind if they're not washed? you got the blessed bump of disorder? you good at don't care? then live with me and be my love. you've no idea the money you'll save." that's just the way kitty talks. you can't induce her to be serious for three minutes at a time--i suppose it's the artistic temperament. but she's shrewd; studio life _is_ better than the kind of boarding house we escaped from. and so jolly! kitty has more chums than i, of course. her brother, prosper k., and caroline bryant--"cadge," for short--a queer girl who does newspaper work and sings like an angel, are the ones i see most. though for that matter the city's full of girls from the country, earning or partly earning their living. one will be studying music, another art; one "boning" at medicine, another selling stories to the newspapers and living in hope of one day writing a great american play or novel. such nice girls--so brave and jolly. my new home is in a building on union square. and i like it--the place, the people, the glimpse of the wintry square, the roaring city life under my window. i'm sure i don't want a quiet room. it's such fun, just like playing house, to be by ourselves and independent of all the world. i think it's an intoxicating thing, just at first, for a girl to be really independent. boys think nothing of it; it's what they've been brought up to expect. well, i tore myself away from the dear place to get at my work. i really mean to work hard and justify father's sacrifices. i tried to take singing lessons, because john is so fond of music, but there i made a dismal failure; i had, three months ago, neither ear nor voice. the day before the fall semester opened, i climbed the long hill to barnard college, fell in love with its gleaming white and gold, so different from the state university, and arranged for a course in biology. then i began physical culture in a gymnasium. i couldn't have made a queerer or a better combination. for it was in the barnard laboratory that i met prof. darmstetter; and it was my bearing, my unending practice of the west point setting-up drill, my delsarte, my "harmonic poise" and evident health that drew his attention to me. how well i remember the day i made his acquaintance! i had entered the laboratory without knowing what manner of man he was, for all my arrangements about my course had been made with clerks. so it was with genuine surprise that i turned from an inspection of the apparatus to answer when a squeaking voice at my elbow suddenly saluted me:-"mees veenship, not so?" the owner of the voice was a little old fellow, whose dry, weazened face gave no hint of his years. i guessed that he was probably seventy, though he might as easily be much younger. his skin was parchment-coloured and cross-hatched by a thousand wrinkles and the hair under his skull-cap was as white as snow, but he was as bright of eye and brisk of manner as a youth of twenty. "yes, sir," i replied rather awkwardly; "i am miss winship." "v'at for you study biology?" was his surprising query, uttered in a tone between a squeak, a snarl, and a grunt. "because i wish to learn," i replied, after a moment's hesitation. "no, mine vriendt," he snapped, "you do not vish to learn. you care not'ing for science. you are romantic, you grope, you change, you are unformed. in a vord, you are a voman. you haf industry--mine gott, yes!--and you vill learn of me because i am a man and because you haf not'ing better to do. and by-and-by behold prince charming--and you vill meet and marry and forget science. v'at for i vaste my time vit' you? eh? i do not know any voman who becomes a great scientist. not so? t'ose young vomen, t'ey vaste t'eir time and t'ey vaste mine." i followed his gesture and saw two or three nice-looking girls in big checked aprons amiably grinning at me. one of them by a solemn wink conveyed the hint that such hazing of new arrivals was not unusual. "you're paid to waste your time on me," i answered hotly. "i'm here to work and to listen to you; my plans are my own affair, and if i never become a great scientist, i don't see what difference that makes to you." the meekest looking girl gasped, wide eyed at my temerity. but prof. darmstetter's shrewd little eyes twinkled with reassuring good-nature. "vell, vell, ve shall see," said he, wagging his head; "maybe i find some use for you. i vatch you. maybe i find for you some use t'at you don't expect, eh? ve shall see." so he walked away, shrugging his shoulders and snapping his fingers and muttering to himself: "ve shall see; we shall see." and at times throughout the session he chuckled as if he had heard of an excellent joke. "good gracious!" i whispered to one of the aproned girls that had watched the encounter--students like myself--"that's an encouraging reception, isn't it?" "it is," she gravely replied. "we're all jealous of you. you are evidently destined to become prof. darmstetter's favourite pupil. i know i cried half the night at the way he greeted me. we were all watching you and you got off easy. brought an apron? i can lend you one, if you didn't. it's pretty mussy here." "thank you," i said, "but really i can't get my mind off prof. darmstetter, all in a minute so. what sort of a man is he?" "oh, irritating sometimes, but a genius; i suppose his treatment of the girls is a sample of his early teutonic ideas of civility. he likes better to teach the columbia boys--says their work in future years'll do him more credit. but we get used to him and don't mind it, we who were here last year. and he's a great scientist; has a world-wide reputation. he almost lives in the laboratory, here and at columbia; has no home life or friends or relatives. and oh, it's such a privilege," she said with a sudden change of tone, a schoolmistressly manner, looking upon me more austerely, "to study under such a man. he is a master." the master! she little knew how true was the word! to-morrow, if his secret and mine were known, the world would hail him as its lord. he would be a greater man than has yet lived on the earth. armies would fight for his favour at the bidding of queens--to get what i have! and to think that chance led me from two thousand miles away, straight to him. from the first he seemed to take an interest in my doings. he never troubled himself to be polite, but he watched me; always he watched me. i often saw him chuckling and rubbing his hands as if in approbation. but of what? not of my work, for of that he never took the slightest notice, except when i compelled him to do so by some question. then, in quick-flung sentences, he would condense the results of a lifetime of study into phrases filled with meaning, that seemed to cast light upon principles, not facts, and make wonderfully clear the very purpose of nature. then indeed he almost forgot that we were women, and talked with kindling enthusiasm of his pet subject. i ceased to wonder that he held such high rank in college. under such conditions i made rapid progress. i thoroughly enjoyed the work, though i was not absorbed in it, like most of my companions; but i was quick enough to keep pace with them and to make occasional shrewd suggestions that pleased prof. darmstetter not half so much as some sudden display of spirit. he did not seem to care whether i became a student. and always he watched me, for what purpose i could not determine. my home life--if existence in a studio can be so called--was merry. i was learning the ways of the world. i liked the life. i wrote to john almost every day. the freedom of the den, the change from rote lessons to post-graduate work was pleasant. i was happy. happy? i must have dreamed it. what i thought happiness was nothing to what i now know happiness can be. chapter v. the finding of the bacillus. if i have dwelt so long upon the laboratory and its master, it is because there the great blessing came that has glorified my whole existence. this was the way of it. one day i asked prof. darmstetter some question about the preparation of a microscopic slide from a bit of a frog's lung. "vait!" he snapped, "i vill speak vit' you aftervards." the girls prophesied the terrible things that were to happen, as they lingered in the cloak room, waiting their turn on the threadbare spot in the rug which a rich girl had bought to cover the threadbare spot in the carpet in front of the mirror. "now you'll catch it!" the last one said, as she carefully put her hat straight with both hands and ran out of the room. when i returned to the laboratory prof. darmstetter motioned me to a chair and took one opposite, from which he fixed his keen eyes upon my face. again he seemed weighing, judging, considering me with uncanny, impersonal scrutiny. "how i despise t'ose vomen!" he said at last, throwing up his hands with an impatient gesture. used to his ways, i waited in silence. "i teach t'ose vomen, yes; but i despise t'em," he added. "if you do, you ought to be ashamed of it," i retorted hotly. "but i don't believe you really despise them. such a bright lot of girls--why, some of them are bound to be heard from in science some day!" "in science? bah!" "why not? there was mary somerville and--and--and caroline herschel and--well, i can't think of their names all in a minute, but i'm proud to be one of the girls here anyway." "you are not one of t'em," he cried angrily. "t'ey are life failures. you fancy t'ey are selected examples, but t'ey are not; t'ey are t'e rejected. t'ey stood in t'e market place and no man vanted t'em; or else t'ey are fools as vell as failures and sent t'e men avay. you know me. i am biologist, not true? i hate t'e vord. i am physiologist, student of t'e nature of life--all kinds of life, t'e ocean of life of v'ich man is but a petty incident." "you were speaking about--" "ach, so! almost t'ou has t'e scientific mind t'at reasons and remembers. i said, i am physiologist. i study v'at nature is, v'at she means to do. v'en nature--gott, if you vant a shorter name--makes a mistake, gott says: 'poor material; spoiled in shaping, wrong in t'e vorks; all failures; t'row t'em avay. ve haf plenty more to go on vit'. you know. you study nature, also, a little. you know she is law, she is power. to t'e indifidual pitiless, she mofes vit' blind, discompassionate majesty ofer millions of mangled organisms to t'e greater glory of pan, of kosmos, of t'e universe. she vastes life. and how not? her best vork lives a little v'ile and produces its kind, and t'e vorst does not, and t'ey go down t'e dark vay toget'er and nature neit'er veeps nor relents kosmos is greater t'an t'e indifidual and a million years are short. "t'ose young vomen--nature meant t'em to desire beauty and dream of lofe. vat is lofe? it is nature's machinery. t'ose vomen are old enough for lofe, but t'ey haf it not. so t'ey die. t'ey do not reproduce t'eir kind, not'ing lifing comes from t'em, to go on lifing, on and on, better and better--or vorse, as nature planned--vit' efery generation. if a voman haf t'e desire of lofe and of beauty, and lofe and beauty come not to her, t'en i pity her, because i am less vise and resolute to vit'hold pity t'an nature is. efen if she haf not lofe, but only t'e ambition of power or learning or vealt', i might pity her vit' equal injustice, but i cannot. she vill not let me. she does not know t'at she is a failure. she prides herself upon being so mis-made. she cannot help t'at; neit'er can i help despising her. such vomen are abnormal, monstrous, in a vord, failures. let t'em die! you, i t'ink, are not so. you study to bide t'e time. you haf a fine carriage. you comb t'e hair, you haf pretty ribbons, you make t'e body strong and supple, you look in t'e glass and vish for more beauty. not so?" "of course i do," i cried angrily, wondering for the moment if he had lost his senses. it seemed as if he knew little about women for a man who professed to make all life his study. if there were one of his despised girls who lacked the desire of beauty and the dream of love, i am much mistaken. but i came to see afterward that he understood them as well as myself. "i t'ought so," he mused, his eyes still upon my face. "and you are not too beautiful now; t'ey could not doubt. yes; i vatch you, i study you. seldom i make t'e mistake; but it is fery important. so i vatch you a little v'ile longer yet. t'en i say to myelf: 'here is t'e voman; yes, she is found.'" and he chuckled and rubbed his lean hands together as i had so often seen him do. the thought flashed across my mind that this extraordinary man meditated a proposal of marriage, but i dismissed the notion as ridiculous. the professor leaned forward and, fixing me with his eye, spoke in a hoarse whisper, tense with excitement:-"mees veenship, i am a biologist; you are a voman, creature of nature, yearning for perfection after your kind. i--i can gife it you. you can trust me; i am ready. i can gif you your vish, t'e vish of efery normal voman. science--t'at is i--can make you t'e most beautiful being in t'e vorld!" another sunday school lesson! miss coleman and her unforgotten lecture upon beauty flashed upon my mind. but this man was promising me more than she had done, and his every word was measured. what was the mystery? what had he to say to me? "t'e most beautiful--voman--in t'e vorld," he went on in a slow, cadenced whisper. "do you vish it?" his glittering eyes held mine again. no, he was not jesting at my expense; rather he seemed waiting with anxiety for me to make some decision upon which much depended. he was in very serious earnest. but was ever a question more absurd? who of women would not wish it? but to get the wish--ah, there's a different matter! i thought he must be crazed by over-study, and i could only sit and stare at him, open-mouthed. "listen!" he went on more rapidly, as if to forestall objection. "you are scholar, too, a little. you know how nature vorks, how men aid her in her business. man puts t'e mot'er of vinegar into sweet cider and it is vinegar. t'e fermenting germs of t'e brewery chemist go in vit' vater and hops and malt, and t'ere is beer. t'e bacilli of bread, t'e yeast, svarming vit millions of millions of little spores, go into t'e housevife's dough, and it is bad bread; but t'at is not t'e fault of t'e bacilli--mein gott, no!--for vit' t'e bacilli t'e baker makes goot bread. t'e bacilli of butter, of cheese--you haf studied t'em. t'e experimenter puts t'e germs of good butter into bad cream and it becomes goot. it ripens. it is educated, led in t'e right vay. tradition vaits for years to ripen vine and make it perfect. science finds t'e bacillus of t'e perfect vine and puts it in t'e cask of fresh grape juice, and soon t'e vine drinkers of t'e vorld svear it is t'e rare old vintage. t'e bacillus, inconceivably tiny, svarming vit' life, reproducing itself a billion from one, t'at is nature's tool. and t'e physiologist helps nature. "see now," continued prof. darmstetter. "i haf a vonderful discofery made. i must experiment vit' it--_experimentum in corpore vili!_ impossible, for the subject is mankind. i must haf a voman--a voman like you, healt'y, strong, young--all t'e conditions most favourable. she must haf intelligence--t'at is you. she should know somet'ing of biology, and be fery brave, so t'at she may not be frightened, but may understand how t'e vonderful gift is to come to her; and t'at is you. she should not be already beautiful, lest t'e change be less convincing. yes, you are t'e voman for t'e test. you may become more famous in history fan cleopatra or ninon, and outshine t'em and all t'e ot'er beauties t'at efer lifed. do you vant triumphs? here t'ey are. riches? you shall command t'em. fame? power? i haf t'em for you. you shall be t'e first. aftervard, v'en beauty is common as ugliness is now--ah, i do not know. efen t'en it vill be a blessing. but to be t'e first is fame and all t'e ot'er t'ings i promise you. now do you trust me? now do you beliefe me? vill you make t'e experiment? i haf--let me tell you!--i haf discofered--" cautiously prof. darmstetter looked about the room. then he leaned toward me again and added in a hoarse whisper:-"i haf discofered t'e bacillus of beauty." chapter vi. the great change. the bacillus of beauty! was the poor man insane? had much study made of him a monomaniac babbling in a dream of absurdities? do you wonder that i doubted? and yet--the thought flashed through my mind that things almost as strange have become the commonplace. i had seen the bones of my own hand through the veiling flesh. i had listened to a voice a thousand miles away. i had seen insects cut in two, grafted together, head of one and tail of another, and living. i had seen many, many marvels which science has wrought along the lines of evolution. and yet-my dream; my desire always! if it could be! as i stared open-mouthed at the professor, he began once more:-"t'e danger, t'e risk--t'ere is none. you shall see. it is as harmless as--" "never mind about that!" i interrupted. "how would i look? would it change me totally? would i really be the most beautiful?--" i stopped, blushing at my own eagerness. "absolutely; i svear it. t'e most perfectly beautiful voman in t'e vorld. mein gott, yes. how not? never vas t'ere yet a perfectly beautiful voman. not von. all have defects; none fulfills t'e ideal. you? you vill look like yourself. i do not miracles. t'e same soul vill look out of your eyes. you vill be perfect, but of your type. t'e same eyes, more bright; t'e same hair, more lustrous and abundant; t'e same complexion clear and pure; t'e same voman as she might have been if t'e race had gone on defeloping a hundred t'ousand years. look you. some admire blondes; some brunettes. you are not a svede to be white, an italian to be black. you are a brown american. you shall be t'e most beautiful brown american t'at efer lifed. and you shall be first. vit' you as an example we shall convince t'e vorld. ve shall accomplish in t'ree generations t'e vork of a hundred t'ousand years of defelopment. how vill humanity bless us if we can raise, out of t'e slums and squalor, out of t'e crooked and blind and degraded, out of t'e hospitals and prisons, t'e spawning dregs of humanity and make t'em perfect! t'ey shall valk t'e eart' like gods, rejoicing in t'eir strengt'. no more failures, no more abnormalities. nature's vork hastened by science, aeons of veary vaiting and slow efolution forestalled by--by me!" the little professor stood erect, his eye fixed on mine, his mien commanding. i had never looked on man so transfigured. the thought was intoxicating me, driving me wild. i tried to think, to struggle against the tide that was sweeping me away. he seemed to be hypnotizing me with his grave, uncanny eye. i could not move, i could not speak. "you may ask," darmstetter went on--though i had not thought of asking--"if t'e beauty vould be hereditable; if as an acquired characteristic, it vould pass to descendants, or, if each child vill not haf to be treated anew. i believe no. it is true t'at acquired traits are not hereditable. t'ere weissmann is right, v'atefer doubters may say. you know t'e t'eory. t'e blacksmit's muscles are not transmitted to his son t'e clerk; but t'e black hair t'at he got from his fat'er. only after fery many generations of blacksmit's could a boy be born who vould grow up as a clerk vit' blacksmit' muscles. efolution shapes t'e vorld, yes; but t'e process is so slow, so slow! so education, modification, must begin afresh vit' each generation and continue forefer. but t'is bacillus does not add ornament to t'e outside. it is not like t'e masseuse, vit' her unguents and kneading. it changes all t'e nature. it is like compressing a million years of education by natural selection into von lifetime. t'at is my t'eory. i do not know--it is not yet tried--but how ot'ervise? ve but hasten t'e process, as t'e chemist hastens fermentation; nature constructs, she does not adapt or alter or modify. ve produce beauty by nature's own met'od. v'y not hereditary?" i had made up my mind. "i'll do it," i cried, no longer able to resist, for the fever of it was in my blood. "you shall make your attempt on me! it can do no harm. i do not see how it can accomplish all you claim, but if you think--it's an experiment full of possibilities--in the interests of science--" "interest of humbug!" snapped prof. darmstetter, his own sarcastic self again. "you consent because you vant to be beautiful. you care not'ing for science. i can trust you vit' my secret. you need svear no oat's not to reveal it. you vant to be t'e only perfect voman in t'e vorld, and so you shall be, for some time. t'at is right. t'at is your revard." my cheeks flushed at his injustice. i do care for others. i am not selfish--not more than everybody. and yet--at that moment i feared him and his knowledge; i shuddered at nameless terrors. really, i often wonder that i ever had the courage to try. and oh, i am so glad! now there is no more fear. darmstetter is my servant, if i will it. as for his marvellous power, i shall bless it and reverence it all my life. i thank god for letting me know this man. it is too wonderful--too wonderful for words! the transformation was slow at first. the beginning--such an anxious time. every day i studied myself and watched and waited for the first sign of growing grace, for the dawning glory. sometimes i thought i could see the change already under way, and then again the same plain nelly winship looked at me from the uncomplimentary glass, and away flew all my hopes. it was the fading of a little scar on my thumb that first let me know the blessed truth. now i can scarcely see the place where it was, and i'm sure no one else would notice it. it will never go away entirely. prof. darmstetter says i am not proof against wounds and old age, because these are a part of nature's great plan. but it faded, faded! and my ears! how i used to hate their prominence! but soon they snuggled closer to my beautiful, beautiful face--and i'm in sure i don't blame them. every morning when i woke, my shining eyes and the bloom of my cheeks told me i was growing perfect, just as he said i must do. though i'm not yet quite perfect. i could sit at my glass and look for hours at my reflected image--if it weren't for kitty--and-why, it seems like another girl, and such a girl as never the world saw before--not me, but her. sometimes times i fear her; but oftener and oftener, as i get used to the lovely vision, i want to hug her right out of the cold mirror and kiss her and pat her smooth cheek like a child's, and put pretty clothes upon her, as if she were a doll. and then i try to realise that her is me, my own self, and i just cannot believe it! i look from the reflected image to a little photograph of the helen winship i once knew, and back again to the glass, and wonder, and thank god, and shudder with awe of my own loveliness. i luxuriate in it, i joy in it, i feel it in every fibre of my being. i am as happy as a queen. i am a queen--or she is. i am but slightly taller. my form is more rounded and of better mould, but i am still slender. my face is the same face but--how can i express it? a venus with the--the expression of a western schoolgirl pursuing special studies in new york, looks at me with her eyes. they are the eyes of helen winship, but larger and fuller orbed and more lustrous, with an appeal that makes me fall in love with myself, as i look. the nose is longer and straighter, the cheeks fuller and fairer, the chin daintier, the neck--ah, well, why shouldn't i be frank? i am beautiful! and the complexion--still so strange i do not say "my complexion"--clear, fair, rosy all in one, with the fineness and purity of a baby's; it is the most indescribable of all the marvels that glow in my glass. before, i had the rather sallow, powder-excusing skin of so many western girls. now it is perfect. i love to gaze by the hour at my own beauty. i should be renamed narcissa. my voice, too, is glorious. i have to school myself not to start at the sound of it when i speak. and most of all, what most impresses me when i try to consider myself fairly--candidly--critically--is the appearance of strength, of health, of unbounded power and deathless youth--as if the blood of generations of athletic girls and free, viking men ran in my veins. i am, i believe, the only perfectly healthy woman on earth. will the gods smite me for my happiness? are they jealous? ah, well, i have never lived until now, and if i can stay a little while like this, i shall be satisfied; i shall be ready to die. if only beauty does not vanish as suddenly as it came! if it did, i should kill myself. there are disadvantages. such a time as i'm having with my clothes! money to buy new is not so plenty as i could wish, though the $75 a month that father sends was more than enough until the change. i'm saving to buy a microscope--a better one than those loaned to students at the laboratory; so i have to let out and contrive--i who so hate a needle! and the staring admiration that is lavished on me everywhere! i suppose i'll get used to it; but it's a new experience. i like to be looked at, too, much as it embarrasses me. my loveliness is like a beautiful new dress; one is delighted to have it, but terribly shy about wearing it, at first. admiration! why, the mystified music master is ready to go down on his knees to me, the janitor and the page boys are puzzled. i wonder--i wonder what john will say, i almost dread to think of his seeing me so; yet it will be the greatest test. test! i need none! the girls in the laboratory are divided between awe and envy, and kitty reid--poor kitty! she began by being puzzled, then grew panic stricken. the first time she noticed--i shall always remember it--was when i came in from the college one day, still skeptical of change, yet hoping it might be so. "why, you've a new way of doing your hair--no; same old pug--but somehow--you're looking uncommon fit to-day," she said glancing up from her drawings. my heart leaped for joy. it was true then! it was true! but remembering miss coleman, i forced myself to reply as quietly as i could:-"my genius must be beginning to sprout." a little later kitty was in constant mystification. "how do you do it?" she would demand. "what have you got? can't you let me into the secret? i just think you might introduce me to the fairy godmother." if i were to tell any one, it would be kitty, of course. such a dear little red-headed angel she would make! but it would not be fair to prof. darmstetter. he is not ready yet. so i can only sham ignorance and joke with her about milk baths and cold cream and rain water. now that she has reached the stage of fright, i have great fun with her. "the age of miracles has come again," she says a hundred times a day. "i can't believe my eyes! how is it that you are growing so beautiful? is it witchcraft?" "am i better looking?" i inquire languidly. "well, i'm glad of it. i had an aunt who was well-favoured when she was young; it's high time i took after her, if i'm ever going to." "no living aunt ever looked as you do now," kitty will mutter, shaking her head. "i don't know what to think. i'm half afraid of you." to tell the truth, she's more than half afraid of me, and i delight in mystifying her all i can. but the strangest thing of all, the most ridiculous thing, considering his age, the oddest thing when one remembers that he himself is its creator--professor darmstetter is half in love with the beauty he has made; he would be, if he might, the gray and withered pygmalion of my galatea! chapter vii. the coming of the lover. december 15. really, i don't know which is the more aggravating, john burke or kitty. such a battle as i've had with them to-day! i had quite stopped fretting over john's absence. indeed, though of course i wished to see him, i dreaded it; i was so happy, just as i was, and i had so many things to think about, so many dreams to dream and plans to make. i liked john when he taught the little prairie school and praised me to my wondering relatives. all through my college course i was proud of his regard, because every one respected him; and last june i promised to marry him. we said then that our love wasn't just a "co-ed. flirtation," because he was a grown man and not a student any more. but--but--but last june i wasn't-why, i've but just come to possess the gift that i wouldn't exchange for the proudest throne on earth, and i mean to make it my throne in the great world. i haven't yet had time to think things out or realise my fairy fortune; but john and i mustn't do anything foolish. wise love can wait. he came while i was at school. when i found him here, he actually didn't know me. he stared as if i were a stranger whose face drew, yet puzzled him. then he was attracted by my beauty, then for a moment dismayed, and then--why, he was really so much in love that i--i--he gazed at me as if i were not quite real; with reverence. his eyes mirrored my power; the wonder of the new me, the glory and the radiance of me shone in them. he worships me and--well, of course nobody could help liking that. he was just as he has always been, but somehow, here in the city, i couldn't help finding him bigger, stronger, more bucolic. his clothes looked coarse. his collar was low for the mode, his gloveless hands were red. there was something almost clerical in his schoolmasterly garb, but his bold dark eyes and short hair aggressively brushed to a standstill, as he used to say, looked anything but ministerial. it was plain that he was a man of sense and spirit, one to be proud of; plain that he was a countryman, too. i couldn't help seeing his thick shoes any more than i could his hurt face when i was distant and his ardour the moment i grew kind; and i was so ashamed--thinking of his looks and picking flaws, when three months ago i was a country girl myself--that i know--i don't know what i should have done, if kitty hadn't returned. i was so relieved to see her, for john has been writing of marriage soon and of a home, in one room if need be; and we have too much to accomplish, with beauty and woman's wit and brain and strength, for that. it is my duty to think for both, if he's too much in love--the dear, absurd fellow! and yet-as soon as he was gone, kitty jumped up from the drawing table. she was on pins and needles for anxiety, her eyes dancing. "well, when's the wedding?" she cried. "what wedding?" i was vexed and puzzled, and distressed, too, after sending john away as i had done. i wanted to be alone and have a chance to think quietly. "oh, any old wedding; will it be here, in the den? you going to invite us all?" asked kitty. "isn't going to be any wedding." "i'm sorry; i always did lot on weddings." "you'll have to be the bride, then. honest, kitty, i don't like jokes on such subjects. mr. burke and i haven't an idea of being married, not for centuries." kitty went white all in a minute. she is so quick tempered. "oh," said she, "you're going to throw him over. i thought as much! you were always writing to him when you first came to the city, and talking about him, at night when we brushed our hair; but lately you haven't spoken of him at all. you used to look happier when the postman brought you something from him. and you had his picture--" "the postman's?" i interrupted, but kitty kept on as if she were wound up:-"--on the mantel-piece, in a white-and-gold frame with your own. you hid 'em both when you began to grow beautiful. i suppose you think you're too good for him. but don't go and break his heart; please don't, princess; there's a dear." "goose! i haven't the least notion of breaking his heart. i--why can't you let me alone? i'm--i'm very fond of him--if you will insist on talking about it." "oh, i can see! if you'd noticed the poor fellow's face--" "'poor fellow!' if you'd seen him before you came! he doesn't need your pity. why, it seems to have been with you a case of love at first sight," i said mockingly. "he was rude to you, too; he never even noticed that you were in the room, after i came." "i don't care. i don't expect a man to notice me when he meets his sweetheart for the first time in ever so long; and such a sweetheart! but you--you--oh, i'm afraid of you! i'm afraid of you! what is this mystery? what is it? why have you grown so grand and terrible? what has become of my chum?" she sat down flat on the floor and burst into passionate weeping. "get up!" i cried. "i won't!" a sense of great loneliness came over me and i threw myself down beside her. "oh, kitty," i said, "why aren't you old and wise and sensible instead of being just a silly girl like myself? then you wouldn't sit here howling, but you'd kiss me and cuddle me and comfort me and tell me what to do." "i'm afraid of you! i'm afraid of you! it's--it's no' canny." "kitty, kitty! why aren't you my fairy godmother, so that you could show me in a magic glass what to do, instead of scolding me, when i'm wretched enough already?" "wretched! you!" her eyes fairly blazed. "i wouldn't ever--_ever_ be wretched if i looked like you--not ever in this world!" "yes, you would. you'd be so puzzled about things; and bad girls would scold you, and there wouldn't be a single soul within two thousand miles to rely upon. and you'd be awkward and shy when folks looked at you. and then you'd--you'd--you'd cry." afterwards we both wiped our eyes and made it all up; and i told her again that i really was fond of john. well, folks must eat. i went out to get some chops, a half dozen oranges and the other things for supper--we have lunch and supper, no dinner--and though i started so blue and wretched, i simply couldn't stay melancholy long, people stared at me and admired me so much. they crowded after me into the little corner grocery, and the room was so full that some one upset a tub of pickles and there they stood around in the vinegar to look at me. it was frightful! but it was nice too; though i was so embarrassed that i wanted to run away. i'll get used to it; but--why, my own mother wouldn't know me! it's no wonder kitty is frightened. i wish i could see ma. but she couldn't advise me. i ought to have a home, though, and some one older than kitty to look after me. i must leave the den; but where to go? suppose i burned myself broiling chops or beefsteak, or blistered my face with steam from the kettle! that would be frightful, now. it's the least i can do for prof. darmstetter to keep free from harm the beauty he gives me. and besides,--i never before was afraid, but now i go scurrying through the halls and up and down the stairs like a wild thing; the place is so public, so many people notice me. i wonder if i couldn't talk to mrs. baker. she's at home now. or there's the judge's sister, miss marcia, the dearest old maid. i've only seen her once or twice, but i believe she'd be good to know. i have too many problems to stay here. i must make some settled plan, now that my life means so much to all the women in the world. and--how to deal with a headstrong young man who won't take "no" for an answer or "wait" for wisdom i simply don't know. if he would only give me time to make my own acquaintance! there are so many things to think of. a great world is open to me. i have the key and i am going to live the most beautiful life. i must think and plan and learn how not to be frightened at my own face in the mirror; i must--i simply _must_ have time. * * * * * dec. 17. i have just seen john again; he came up to barnard, which won't do at all. and he came home with me, and--how he loves me! but i can manage him. indeed, he was more reasonable to-day. book iii. the joy of the sunshine. chapter i. christmas. no. -east 72d street, dec. 28. milly and i have just come from a run in the park, and here i am this shining white morning scribbling away in my own cosey room. my very own room--for the most delightful thing has happened; i'm visiting mrs. baker--aunt frank i am to call her, though she is really ma's cousin--and she has asked me to spend the rest of the winter here. so i've really left the den. and i didn't deserve it. why, when mrs. baker invited me to dinner on christmas day, i dreaded the visit. i hadn't seen her since i came from the west, and i wondered what she'd think of me, and what she'd write to mother. if pa and ma could see me now, would they say their little nelly'd "filled out well-favoured?" what _would_ they say to me? why, christmas morning, when i read the home letters, i felt as if i had betrayed my parents' confidence, as if i'd robbed them of their child by changing into such a lovely creature. then i laughed; they won't mind my getting rid of freckles and a pug nose. and then i cried, almost, and felt so lonely, for even kitty had gone off with pros.; and so far away and so happy, and a good deal troubled with it all; for john had sent me some roses and a ring, and i knew i should find him at my aunt's, eager to see whether i wore them. john's such a problem. all that day i sat alone in the den, trying to think, and trying to let down the hem of my waterproof, for it was snowing and i have only one good dress; and every few minutes i would slip on the ring and pull it off, watching the rainbow lights that flashed and paled in the heart of the stone, and smiling because john had chosen an opal; i wonder if he knows it's the gem of the beautiful woman. in the end i let it stay on my hand, of course, for, after all, i suppose i am betrothed to him. so it happened that i was almost late for dinner at the bakers', and quite late when i really got inside the house; for i walked past the door two or three times before i could muster up courage to ring the bell. when i finally ran up the steps, my umbrella was powdered white, and snow and water were dripping off my skirts. my heart was beating fast with dread and expectation; i was sure no one would know me. "i--i'm too wet for the parlour," i said to the maid who came to let me in; and after a single startled, puzzled look, she went to tell some one of my arrival. there i stood in my shabby mackintosh, looking at a huge, gilt-framed picture of the judge, until a plump little robin of a woman, in a black dress with a dash of red at the throat, came trotting out to meet me. that was aunt; in spite of my fright and self-consciousness i wanted to laugh to see her bright eyes look at me in amazement that grew almost to panic. she didn't know me; the servant could not have caught my name. "did you--wish to see me?" she finally managed to say. "i'm helen winship--" i faltered. i felt as if i had done something very wrong. "nelly!" she cried, clutching my hands and almost lifting herself on tiptoe, as she blinked into my eyes in the uncertain light of the outer hall. "this isn't--can't be--not _our_ helen winship--oh, it's some message from her--some--" her voice died away in incoherent mutterings. she drew me into a big hall like a sitting room behind the small parlour. "come into the light, child, whoever you are. i want to look at you," she said. an open fire was burning in the grate, and in the room were milly and ethel and white-haired miss marcia and a tall, blonde young man. all rose to their feet, then stopped. there was an awkward pause, the answering thrill of tense amazement shot from mind to mind like lightning. they stood as if frozen, gazing. the room was for a moment so still that i could hear my own quick breathing and the hammering of my heart. i was grateful for some far shout upon the street that drowned the noise. "but--you--but--i thought--" milly began in a half-hushed, awe-struck whisper; she never finished the sentence, but continued to gaze at me with big, round eyes, her lips parted, her breath quick and tremulous. i was transported with joy and fright; i almost wished i might sink into the floor, but just then down the stair came the judge with john behind him, and little joy perched on his shoulder. i think the others were as grateful as i for the interruption. "put me down! put me down!" screamed joy as she saw me sprinkled with sleet. "mamma, ith that mithith thanta clauth?" at the welcome laugh that helped to break the ice she ran with a flirt of her short skirts to hide her head against her father's knee. "helen!" repeated mrs. baker, only half recovering from her stupefaction, "this isn't--why, it can't be you!" "i--oh, i'm afraid i'm late," i stammered. miss marcia began to unbutton my raincoat, and her kindness somewhat relieved my embarrassment, though i don't know how i managed to respond to the hubbub of greetings, especially when mr. hynes, the stranger, was presented. he had been looking at me more intently than he knew, with dark blue brilliant eyes, and he flushed as he touched my hand, until i was glad to take refuge with joy, who hovered about, eying me as if she still suspected some ruse on the part of santa claus. "joy, you know cousin nelly?" i said; and at sound of my voice, they all looked again at each other and then at me. "why, i can't believe my eyes, though bake here said you'd altered. altered!" twittered aunt frank. she turned indignantly upon the judge, who wisely attempted no defense. "i didn't dream--bake, here, never can tell a story straight. have you--what is it? nelly, dear, it's two years since i've seen you; of course you've--grown!" but no amazement could long curb her hospitable instincts. her incoherence vanished as she grasped at a practical consideration. "but let milly take you up stairs and get your things off," she said with an air as of one who solves problems. "are you truly cothin nelly?" joy lisped. "all wight; come thee my twee." though she couldn't recognise me as the cousin of a few weeks earlier, the child was eager to claim me as a new friend. so i escaped with her and milly to the nursery, where i stayed as long as i dared, letting my cheeks cool. "the twee ith mine and mamma'th," said joy; "we're the only oneth young enough to have christhmath twees, papa thayth." "hoh, guess i'm younger'n mamma, ain't i?" scoffed my other little cousin who had been sent to inquire into our delay. he is perhaps a dozen years old, is called "boy" officially, and timothy, jr., in the family records, and--like joy--wasn't in the least afraid of me, after five minutes' acquaintance. boy led me down to the others, but dinner was nearly over before i felt at ease. i'm not used to having at my back a statuesque servant--though this one was not too statuesque to be surprised by my appearance almost out of decorum. and i couldn't help knowing that every one wanted to look at me all the time, which was delicious, but embarrassing. i blushed and gave stupid answers when addressed, and even feared that i might show myself at fault in the etiquette of a city table. it was strange to have forks in so many cases where i've always used spoons. and, though of course i knew what the finger bowls were, i wasn't quite sure how to use them. no one was more puzzled by my appearance than uncle timothy himself. as he looked at me--and this he did through most of the meal--certain long gray hairs in his eyebrows seemed to wave up and down, as i had often noticed with the frightened curiosity of a child, like the questioning antennae of an insect. "and what is the school work now?" he asked when the dessert came. "the last time i had the very real pleasure of seeing you, it was--perhaps animalculae?" "the cell," i replied, relieved at the introduction of a topic that i could talk about, "and the cell wall. protoplasmic movements, you know, and unicellular plants and animals. i'd been making sketches that day of the common amoeba of standing water." "i am not familiar with the--ah--with the amoeba; but doubtless its habits are interesting. and when do the school days end? a young lady looks forward with pleasure, i fancy, to release from--" "is the amoeba a--some horrid bug, i suppose?" interrupted aunt frank; "and you--er--do things to it in that laboratory? how can you? the very thought of such a place! it makes me shiver!" "oh, but you should see it, so clean and bright; the laboratory's simply beautiful!" "but this is your first winter in the city, and you ought to be enjoying concerts and theatres, meeting people, seeing things." "oh, i only keep such hours as i elect, being a post graduate; and i've been to several theatres," i said; "kitty and i get seats in the top gallery." "the--the top gallery?" "at matinees," i hastily explained, "and not--not lately." and then i felt more confused than ever, for mr. hynes was watching me. john was looking at me, too, with that great light in his face that had been there ever since my arrival, when he first saw the opal gleaming on my finger; and i--oh, how could i have hinted that i don't dare go where so many people might look at me? but it's the truth. and though the truth may be inconvenient, it's wonderfully sweet! after dinner we passed into the big drawing room behind the hall. joy did some clumsy little dances in her short white frock--she is really too chubby to caper nimbly--and ethel and milly played and sang neither well nor ill. i think they were more afraid of me than i had been of the servants at dinner. they are not very pretty, with their light, wavy hair and pale flower faces, though i'm afraid i set my standard too high now--now that i know what is possible. i went to the piano myself afterwards and played. played! it was terrible! never would i have believed that i could make such a mess of it. i didn't sing until they began trying carols. i didn't mean to do so then, but i chimed in before i thought, when they sang:- he set a star up in the sky full broad and bright and fair. "that song was taken from the ormulum," said the judge; "a poem of the thirteenth century--" "nelly! was that you?" cried aunt frank, interrupting. the music of the new, fresh, vibrant voice had thrilled them all--all except the unconscious judge--and there they sat, spellbound. but as they shook off the witchery, there was all at once a babble of voices, and before i quite knew what had happened, i was at the piano again, singing "the king in thule:" there was a king in thule true even to the grave to whom his mistress, dying, a golden goblet gave. perhaps it wasn't very appropriate to christmas, but cadge had drilled me upon it. in the middle of the first stanza i happened to glance up, and noticed that mr. hynes was again looking at me with an absorbed, indrawing gaze, colouring with amazed pleasure. it woke in me a flutter of consternation and delight, for he has the sensitive face of a musician; but my presence of mind was gone, and for one horrible instant i thought i was going to break down, and just sat there, gasping and blushing. my heart sank and my voice dwindled to a quavering, unfamiliar whisper. i couldn't remember the words; but then i seized hold of my courage and sang and sang and sang, better than i had ever done before. i didn't look up again until i had finished; then somehow i got away from the piano, and shyly slipped into a chair near miss baker. of course there was a clamour that i should sing again, but i couldn't. the flaming of my cheeks made me ashamed. perhaps some time i shall learn the city way of not seeming to care very much about anything. aunt must have had it at her tongue's end all the evening to invite me to come to her; and when she was bidding me good-night she could wait no longer. "you're living right on union square?" she said; "in the same building with--with--" "a milliner, a dentist, a school for theatrical dancing," i enumerated, laughing happily. i knew that it was i myself, and not my mode of life, that bewildered her. "but--is it--_nice_?" "better than a boarding-house. two or three other girls lodge there, the housekeeper is obliging, and the experience--well, at least it's enlightening." "i wish you'd come here. why don't you?" "oh, could i?" i cried with sudden frankness. "you can't think how glad i'd be! the studio was awfully nice at first, and i've made the best of it, but i know ma--mother and father would be pleased. if it wouldn't be too much trouble--" and so easily it was all arranged. of course after she had seen me, heard me, felt the charm of me--of her--aunt frank couldn't leave her in the studio! i'd have been glad to avoid the journey back to union square with john; for the evening, with all its perplexities, had been paradise, and i dreaded to have him bring me back to earth with words of love. i ought to be more than usually tender towards john now, when he has just lost his mother; but when the bakers' door had closed behind us, and we stood together under the crispy starlight--for it had cleared and turned cold during the evening--i talked feverishly of things that neither of us cared about, and kept it up all the way home. john scarcely seemed to listen to my chatter. he was as if under a spell, and his dark, strong face glowed with the magic of it. as we approached the square, he looked down at me, and slipped my hand from his arm into the clasp of his warm fingers. through my glove he felt the ring, and gave the hand a little, almost timid pressure. "am i doing right? ought i to wear it?" i cried. "won't you help me think, just as if you didn't--didn't care? this isn't like last summer. we are different; i am very different. you must have seen to-night, that i am not at all the same girl. i've told you that i can't be certain; i am dazed." "i shall remember everything--all you told me when i came, and now," he said. "but you are doing right--darling!" he held my hands when we parted and looked into my eyes, and i saw that his own were shining. his love seemed too deep for any outburst of passion, or else he feared to alarm me; and yet he seemed so sure. i wish--i wish--oh, i don't know what i wish; i ought not to be bound to any one; but i suppose i love john. chapter ii. a looking over by the pack. jan. 2. if women are not meant to study, prof. darmstetter should be pleased with me. instead of working up my laboratory notebooks, i have sat until midnight, dreaming. "go to bed early and get your beauty sleep," says aunt, but i push open the window and lean upon the sash and let the cold air blow over me. i'd like to dance a thousand miles in the moonlight; i'm so young, and so strong, and such glorious things are coming! to-morrow i shall have a foretaste of the future; i shall know what other people--not john and my relatives--think of me. ah, there's only one thing they can think! to-morrow'll be the beginning of the world to me. to-morrow! to-morrow! aunt frank has sent out cards for an "at home." and it's to-morrow! oh, i'm glad i came here! i revel in the new home. i like the house; it looks so big and solid. i like my cousins--quiet little creatures. they wait upon me, anticipate my smallest wish, and defer to my opinions as if i were a white star queen dropped from the ether; all but boy, and even he respects me because i can construe caesar. i like my aunt--devoted to clubs and committees, though she's forgotten them now in her eagerness to introduce me. ah, to-morrow! blessed to-morrow! and i like aunt marcia baker. i wonder if, when i am older, i too shall be serene and stately, with a face that seems to have outlived sorrow; i can hardly believe now that i shall care to live at all when people's eyes have ceased to follow my beauty. when for me there are no more to-morrows. i think i shall like mr. hynes; he's almost one of the family, for he is betrothed to milly, and i'm glad--ah, so glad i'm not she! what a life she looks forward to--each day exactly like its fellows; a droning, monotonous existence, keeping house, overseeing the cooking--perhaps doing it herself; for he's only a young lawyer, just starting in life! but i like his face, so full of impulse and imagination. i believe he's a man who might go far and achieve much. why should he handicap himself with an early marriage? it's well enough for milly; she doesn't understand her limitations. why, she's almost as eager over to-morrow as if it could mean to her what it does to me; and that is an outlook into a life so glad, so wonderful! dear, good aunt frank proposed the tea before my trunks were fairly unpacked. "won't your professor give you a holiday from--is it microbes you study?" she inquired. "sure they're not dangerous?" "the afternoon tea bacillus is not wholly innocuous," suggested uncle, pinching her cheek. it was good to see the loving look that reproved and repaid him. "why, bake," she protested, "tea never hurt anybody." "oh, i've time enough," i said; "i have no regular days for going to prof. darmstetter, and the other studies--" it was on my tongue to add: "and the other studies don't matter," but i checked the words. "well, you'll find it takes time," aunt reminded me. "how about clothes, now? suppose you show me what you brought." and in a few minutes we were all chattering at once in discussion of my modest little wardrobe. i could feel, as each new dress was shaken from its folds, that aunt was more dissatisfied than she would confess. "everything's pretty and tasteful," she conceded at last; "but--for a tea--if you could--" if she had dared, she'd have offered to get me a dress herself. "oh, of course i'll need something new," i said hurriedly; "i meant to ask your advice. nothing very costly," i was reluctantly adding. but at that moment an inspiration came to lighten the gloom. the very thing! i'd use the money i'd saved for the microscope! i don't need one the least bit. so i was able to add with some philosophy:-"i never did have a nice dress, and i'd like something pretty good this time. why, i haven't nearly spent all my allowance," i cried with kindling enthusiasm, jumping up to pace the floor. "tell me what i ought to have--just exactly what is most suitable. i don't know much about teas, but i'd like something--fine!" aunt's face glowed with excitement. i think she saw in imagination fifty helens dancing before he eyes in a kaleidoscopic assortment of dresses. "you're right. we'll get--oh, what shall we--what shall we get that'll be good enough for you?" she cried in a flutter. "something simple of course, you're so young; but--i'll tell you: we'll go right to mrs. edgar!" perhaps my own face burned, too. "who's she? some one on the avenue?" "no; no one knows her, but--she's a marvel! it'd mean the world and all to her to please some one sure to be noticed, like you. she's a widow; has two children." so to mrs. edgar we went. her eyes devoured me. she is a mite of a woman, young, white-faced, vivacious. "for a tea?" she asked. "a--a large one?" she spoke with forced calmness, but her hands had the artist's flutter, the enthusiast's eagerness to be doing. "i'll get samples," she went on; "there's not a minute to be lost; not--one--moment! i'll work all night rather than fail her. you will not wish"--she dismissed us abruptly--"to go with me to the shops?" "no; miss winship attracts too much attention." alas, it's true! it has become an ordeal for me to venture into a shop. but what a blessed thing if my beauty should bring success and ease to this poor, struggling little widow--just by my wearing a dress she has made! oh, she'll not be the only one! what if kitty sometime wins fame by painting my picture, or cadge by writing of me in her "recollections?" why shouldn't i inspire great poems and noble deeds and fine songs, like the famous beauties miss coleman told about? yes, even more than they; there was not one of them all like me! next evening when aunt brought the samples upstairs, i was reading to the judge in the library, and the others were listening as if stocks and bonds were more fascinating than romances. "shall we pray for a second joshua, arresting the sun, pending deliberation?" asked uncle, displeased at the interruption. "why, bake, there's scarcely ten days, and how we'd feel if nelly didn't look well!" cried aunt frank; and we all broke out laughing at the bare idea of my looking ill! "i never saw any one to whom dress mattered so little," aunt marcia said, as she folded up her silk knitting. "but mrs. edgar insists upon her four fittings like any shylock haggling for his pound of flesh; it is written in the bond." when she had trotted away home with her prim elderly maid, like a pair out of "cranford," ethel made an impressive announcement:-"the general will pour." "returned hero from the philippines?" "oh, dear, no. meg van dam could face mausers, but a red cross bazaar was as near as she got to the war. we call her the general because--oh, you'll find out. meg is mrs. robert van dam." "oh, i think i've seen that name in the papers. aren't they grand people?" "why, yes; rather; we don't know the van dams; meg's only just married. you might have read about her mother-in-law, mrs. marmaduke van dam, or her aunt-in-law, mrs. henry van dam, or mrs. henry's daughters; the family's a tribe. but meg, why, we went to school with meg; she's just the general." my dress came home to-night--white and dainty. ah, at last i've something to wear that's not "good" and "plain" and "durable"! but there was an outcry, as there has been at every fitting, because i won't wear stays. eccentric, they call me; as if nature and beauty were abnormal! when i was arrayed in it, aunt and ethel led me to the library for uncle's inspection. "is to-morrow the day set to exhibit to helen other aspects of new york than the scholastic?" he asked, looking up from his paper. "the first appearances of a young girl in modern society are said to be comparable with a 'looking over by the pack,' as described by mr. kipling. may mrs. baloo and mrs. bagheera and mrs. shere khan have good hunting to-night, and be kind to-morrow to our womanling." "why, bake, you know just as well as i do there aren't any such people coming. i believe it's just one of your jokes," sputtered aunt. "nelly, dear, turn slowly round." she had dropped on her knees beside me, busy with pins and folds, and joy was lisping the caution, born perhaps of experience, "don't you thoil it, cothin nelly, or nurthey'll vip you," when milly came into the library; and with her was mr. hynes. "lovely! isn't it, ned?" cried milly. "it's for to-morrow." mr. hynes scarcely glanced at the dress, then looked away again, with indifference that somehow hurt me. "very pretty," he said languidly. "classic, isn't it? by the way, judge, i think you'd be interested--" and then he began to tell judge baker about some horrid auction sale of old books! i was surprised. i couldn't account for it. to hide my disappointment--for i do want to look my best to-morrow, and then everybody has taken so much pains---i bent over joy, tying and untying the ribbons that held the rings of soft hair in front of her ears. "thop, cothin nelly; you hurt!" she screamed. as soon as i could, i ran to take off the dress. how could aunt so parade me? of course the women mr. hynes knows must have all their dresses from city dressmakers. but i believe, after all, he did notice, for i saw him colour before he turned sharply away. to please milly, he might at least-he called the dress classic; it's just long, soft folds without messy trimmings; and, oh, it's not vanity to peep at myself again and again and to dream of to-morrow. i'm gloriously, gloriously beautiful! if john comes to-morrow, i do hope he'll wear gloves. he has good hands, too; well-shaped-why, of course; mr. hynes must admire me. chapter iii. snarling at the council rock. jan. 10. to-day has been heaven! there was a famous lawyer among aunt's guests and a united states senator and a real author, a woman who has written books; but people brushed past them all for a word with me! and i'm going to the opera! i shall sit in a box. mrs. van dam says i'll make the sensation of the season! i'm going to the opera! when men came this morning with palms and flowers to decorate the house, i ran off to the park. i did almost run, really. there was a song at my lips: "gladdest, oh, gladdest, most beautiful in the world; blessed, most blessed, most beautiful in the world!" and the "tap-tap" of horses' feet on the asphalt, the "b-r-r-r-rp" of the cable cars and the rattle of elevated trains kept time, until all the city seemed ringing with my joy. i know it's foolish; if i had been beautiful from my childhood; if i could have grown up to think of it as a matter of course; if i had been used to the awe of men and women's envy, i might think less about it, might even fancy that i would have preferred learning or wealth--for we all love what we have not. but now--it is so new, so marvellous! i had plenty of things to think about when i could calm myself. only yesterday i'd had a long talk with prof. darmstetter. "the experiment is not yet complete," he declared. he had asked me to stay for--but that is a part of the secret which is to pass with this record from me to all women. "you are beautiful," he said; "mein gott, yes! more beautiful t'an any ot'er voman since t'e appearance of man on eart'. but perfectly beautiful? i do not know; i t'ink not yet. who can tell for v'at ultimate perfection nature destined t'e human body? but we shall see. t'at perfection you shall reach. in a veek, a mont', t'ree mont's--i cannot tell. ve must vait and experiment and still vait, but success is assured--absolute success. i shall gif it. i do not know if t'e human type is t'e highest t'at eart' is capable of supporting, but it is t'e highest present type, and it shall be my vork to gif it t'at for v'ich it has hungered and t'irsted, and towards v'ich slowly it has groped its vay; it shall be my vork to gif humanity beauty and perfection." the light that illumined his yellow, wrinkled face made me cry out:-"all the world will bless you! all women will be grateful as i am grateful--" "ach!" he snapped with a sudden change of countenance. "i shall be von more name and date to make harter t'e student's lessons and longer t'e tables--t'at is gratitude! vit' t'e vorld we haf at present no concern. for t'is, indeed, you bless me--t'at i am not a quack to make public an incomplete discofery, for ot'er quacks to do mischief. you are glad t'at it is vit' you alone i concern myself. but you are not grateful; you are happy because i say t'at you shall be yet more beautiful; t'at is not gratitude. you might--" at the eager shrillness of his voice i drew a step away. "indeed i'm grateful, whether you believe it or not!" i cried. "you think all women so selfish! of course i'm glad that i alone am in the secret, but you proposed it yourself, and i rejoice as much as you do that some day--by and by--other women will be happy as i am happy--" "yes--by and by! you emphasize t'at," he snapped mockingly, but then he recovered himself and his queer new deference. "and you haf t'e right; i vish you to rechoice in your own lofeliness. ve haf engaged toget'er in t'is great vork, and it is vell t'at we bot' haf our revards--i t'at i aggomblish somet'ing for t'e benefit of my kind, and you--since vomen cannot lofe t'eir kind, but only intifiduals--you haf t'e happy lofe t'at is necessary to a voman." his eyes rested on my ring. i couldn't tell him--proud as i am of it--that john had loved me before i ever heard of the bacillus. but i could punish his gibes. "oh, by the way--i'm not coming to-morrow," i said. "my aunt is to give a tea." strange to see him struggle with his disappointment like a grieving child! but he bravely rallied. "t'at is goot," he said, "you shall tell me v'at people t'ink of you. you vish to go about--to be admired; you vish to gif up science; not so?" "oh, no! i couldn't be a doll, for men to look at and then tire of me. i must study the harder--to be worthy--" the look of his face, of the thin, straight-lipped mouth, the keen old eyes, stopped me. "you vill not gif up study now, at least," he sneered; "not until you haf t'e perfect beauty. you haf need of me." prof. darmstetter is so irritating! why, he has just as much need of me! he himself said i was the best subject he could find for the experiment. but even if he had finished his work with the bacillus, he'd rather teach me, a despised woman, all the science i could master than develop the budding talent of the brightest columbia boy. the sight of my beauty is a joy to him. really, i pity the poor man. he makes the great discovery when he's himself too old to profit by it; the bacillus will not work against nature. it has brought him only a hopeless longing-but i shall study. he shall see! not in the laboratory, of course; that is hardly fitting now. i wouldn't go there again except for the lure of promised beauty--can more loveliness be possible? but i do feel the responsibility of beauty. the wisest and best will crowd about me, and they must find my words worthy the lips that shape them and the voice that utters. and i shall learn from their wisdom. "there was hypatia; she was both beautiful and learned," i found myself confiding to a gray squirrel in the park, and then i laughed and ran home to make my last preparations. ethel arranged my hair to-day, though i could hardly yield her the delight of its shining, long undulations. then she did milly's as nearly like mine as possible, and milly did hers. the girls wore white like me, and my aunt was in black. the house was full of flowers; as if it had plunged into seas of them, it dripped with an odourous rosy foam. john sent a box--the extravagant boy!--and there were big american beauty roses, with stems as long as walking sticks from pros. and cadge. milly had flowers, too, from mr. hynes. at first i wasn't a bit afraid, while acquaintances were dropping in one by one--mrs. magoun, mrs. crosby, the wife of the managing clerk in uncle's office, aunt marcia--all allies. then there came a stir at the door, the magnetic thrill that foreruns a somebody. and there upon the threshold stood a tall, dashing girl, superbly turned out; not handsome, but fine-looking, dark, decisive, vital--a creature born to command. i knew her at the first glance. she was the general! i was for a moment surprised to see her so young and girlish, though i might have known; for she was milly's schoolmate. i doubt if she's two years my senior, but in social arts and finesse--ah, the difference! the house seemed to belong to her from the moment she entered. she moved like a whirlwind--a well-mannered and exquisitely dressed whirlwind, of course--with an air of abounding vigour and vitality, up to where we stood, and there stopped short. "how d'y'do?" she said, in the clipped new york fashion, looking at me with the confidence of one who is never at a loss--and then-oh, the joy! for all her _savoir faire_, it was her turn to be confused. for a moment she peered at me with a short-sighted squint; then after a little hesitation, she put up her lorgnette, making an impatient gesture, as if to say: "i can't help it; i _must_"--and stared. her eyes grew big as she gazed; but at last she drew a long breath, and put down the quizzing-glass with an effect of self-denial. when she spoke there was little to remind me of her momentary loss of self-command. "are you enjoying new york?" she demanded. "milly tells me you've never been in the city before; that you are studying at barnard." "yes." i knew that i had impressed this strong, splendid woman, but i was a little afraid of her. quite herself again, she began asking questions about myself, my home, my studies; quick, probing, confusing questions, while in my cheeks the awkward colour came and went. but it would never have occurred to me to parry her queries. i could not help liking her, though when at last she left me and began a progress through the rooms, i drew a breath of relief, like one who has passed with credit a stiff examination. at the door of the dining-room she paused again, judging through her glass the table and its dainty decorations. "those flowers are rather high," she declared, and calling upon milly for help, she began rearranging the roses, and laying the twigs of holly upon the cloth in bolder patterns. she seemed to take charge, to adopt me with the house, to accept and audit and vouch for us. then people began coming all at once, all together, and i had to take my place beside mrs. baker and aunt marcia in the reception room. i can't tell anything about the next hour; it's a blur. but i wouldn't have missed a minute. i had never before seen a reception, except at the university where sometimes i used to serve as an usher, pouncing upon people as they entered and leading them up to the row of professors and professors' wives backed against the wall. but now i had to stand up myself and meet people. and oh, that was different! at first two or three women would approach, putting out their hands at an absurd height, and start to say: "how d' you--" or "i'm so--" and aunt would make some excited, half-coherent remark and look at me, anxiously but proudly, and say my name. but they never heard her! as they really saw me, each in turn would start, and, wide-eyed, look again. and as the awe and wonder grew in their faces--as there came the little stop, the gasp, that told how their reserve was for once overthrown, then, to the utmost, i tasted the sweet of power and felt the thrill of ecstasy. red spots burned in aunt's cheeks; she talked fast in her company voice, and somehow the lace at her throat got awry. aunt marcia was as calm and stately in her soft black velvet as if nothing were happening. and really there was little to disturb one's composure. new yorkers aren't like our whole-souled, emotional western folks. not one of these women but would have suffered torture rather than betray her surprise beyond that first irrepressible gasp of amazement. after that one victory of human nature, they would make talk about the weather, or the newest book, and then get away to discuss me in undertones in the hall or drawing room. quickly the sixth sense of a strange agitation went through the house. i knew what they were all talking about, thinking about. subtle waves of thought seemed to catch up each new comer so that she felt, without being told, that something extraordinary was happening. women now approached not unprepared; but for all their bracing against the shock, not one could be quite nonchalant at the first sight of my superb, compelling beauty. my eyes flashed, my pulse rioted as i felt the vibrant excitement of the gathering, the tiptoe eagerness to reach our neighbourhood, the hush that fell upon the circle immediately around me, the reaction of overgay laugh and chatter in the far corners. oh, it was lovely, lovely! no girl could have been quite unmoved to feel that all those soft lights were glowing in her honour, those masses of flowers blooming, all that warmth and perfume of elegance and luxury wafted as incense to her nostrils. and the undercurrent of suppressed excitement, the sensation of her! at times i grew impatient of conventionality. how was it possible for these people to look so quietly, eye to eye, upon the most vitally perfect of living beings? how could they turn from me to orange frappã© or salted almonds? once or twice i caught some faint echo of the talk about us. "where is she?" asked one voice, made by curiosity more penetrating than its owner realised. "julia's seen her; she's talked and talked till i had to come." "and she's still studying?"--another voice--"how can she? great beauty and great scientist--bizarre combination!" how that would amuse prof. darmstetter! by and by i saw john towering above the others while he bobbed about helplessly in the sea of women's heads that filled the rooms and even rose upon the "bleachers," as he calls the stairs. there were not really so very many people, but he didn't know how to reach us, he is so awkward. when he had steered his course among the women and had spoken to my aunt, his face was radiant as he turned to me. "i knew _you_ wouldn't fail us, mr. burke," aunt said hurriedly. "mrs. marshall--so glad--this is--nelly, dear--" behind john was a lady waiting to meet me. "--so glad you've come," i said to him; and the words sounded curiously to me because in my excitement i also had spoken in my "company voice." but i had no time to say another word to him, as i turned to greet mrs. marshall. he mumbled something, flushing, while his eyes devoured my beauty in one dumb, worshipping look. then he dropped quickly out of our group. i was sorry, but he'll understand that i was flurried. he ought to learn self-control, though; he shouldn't look at me before so many people with all his heart in his eyes. and i was so vexed about his clothes, too! his old, long, black coat, such as lawyers wear in the west, would have been pretty nearly right--something like what the other men wore--but he seemed to think it was not good enough, and had put on a brand new business suit. of course there wasn't another man there so clad, but he never seemed to notice how absurd he was. the viewing of the pack didn't last long. before my cheeks had ceased flaming, before i had grown used to standing there to be looked at, people seemed to go, all at once, as suddenly as they had arrived. just as the last ones were leaving, some instinct told me that mr. hynes had come. before i saw him, i felt his gaze upon me, a wondering, glad look, as if i were eve, the first and only woman. milly brought him to me and left us together, but at first he was almost curt in his effort to hide his sensibility to my beauty--as if that were a weakness!--and i was furiously shy, and felt somehow that i must hold him at still greater distance. "am i never again to hear you sing?" he asked. "sweet sounds that have given a new definition to music are still vibrating in my memory." i knew he was thinking of christmas! "i don't often sing, except for joy," i mumbled; "i've had so few lessons." "joy doesn't know her joys; but--wouldn't she share them?" "sometime--perhaps--" i couldn't answer him, for hot and cold waves of shyness and pleasure were running over me. oh, i hope, for milly's sake, he doesn't dislike me. he seems to feel so intensely, to be so alive! when he had gone, i went to the dining-room with aunt marcia, and found there ethel and the general and peggy van dam, the general's cousin, a pale girl, all eyes and teeth. kitty was with them, and she darted towards me, but mrs. van dam was before her. "sit down, both of you," she commanded. she fairly put us into chairs, and brought us cups of something--i don't know what. aunt marcia breathed a little sigh of relief. "helen," she said, "you haven't been standing too long?" "it wasn't an instant! i could stand all day!" mrs. van dam smiled, and i felt _gauche_, like a schoolgirl. i am so impulsive! "it was all delightful!" cried kitty; "and yet--while you were my chum, helen, i _did_ think you rather good-looking!" "you find yourself mistaken?" the general inquired. "oh, no-o-o; not exactly; a beautiful girl, certainly; but--oh, i could have made pincushions of some of those pudgy women, nibbling wafers, and delivering themselves of lukewarm appreciations! 'too tall'--'too short'--'too dark'--'too light'; 'i like your height bettah, my deah.' helen, you dairymaid, powder! plaster over that 'essentially improbable' colour." mrs. van dam broke out laughing at kitty's mimicry. i wish the child wouldn't let her hair straggle in front of her ears and look so harum-scarum. "i doubt if we have had many harsh critics," said miss baker. "not a thing to criticise," cried aunt frank, entering just then and catching the last word. "everybody so interested in nelly! bake, if you'd only come earlier, i'd have been perfectly satisfied." they say that uncle timothy can never be coaxed home to one of his wife's receptions, but he answered with great solemnity, as he loomed up behind the little woman:-"i am privileged to be here, even at the eleventh hour. i could not wholly deny myself the sight of so much youth and bloom." "don't be hypocritical, judge," said the general reprovingly. "you're too big and honest to achieve graceful deceit. but before i go--i've seats for the opera monday night in mother's box. miss winship must come, and--" her glance deliberated briefly--"and milly." milly cried, "how delightful, meg!" but my tongue tripped and my cheeks flamed as i tried to say that i had never seen an opera and to thank my new friend. little she heeded my lack of words. gazing at me once again as she had upon first seeing me, she exclaimed:-"you great, glorious creature! they sha'n't hive you in a schoolroom; you must come out and show yourself; why, you'll set new york in a furore!" i think she's splendid. no sooner was she gone than i was summoned to the reception-room, and cadge rushed to meet me. she looked much smarter than kitty, with her black hair curled and her keen eyes shining with excitement. "all over but the shouting?" she asked. "meant to get here in season to see you knock 'em in the old kent road, but woman proposes, big tom disposes. shall i turn in a paragraph? just--did you have music? what's your dress--in the sunday society slush, of course, not the daily; 'fraid the _star_ won't take over a stick--. greek a little bit? m-m-m--not modistic exactly, but--but--." her abrupt sentences grew slower, paused, dropped to an awestruck whisper, as she looked upon me. she added in her gravest manner: "say, you're the loveliest ever happened! the--very--limit!" but awe and cadge could not long live together. in a moment her mouth took a comically benevolent quirk. "and 'among those present'--" she asked; "who was that leaving just as i got here?" "mrs. robert van dam, schoolmate of my cousins. but you're not writing me up, cadge?" cadge whistled. "van dam! how calmly the giddy child says it! does your youngest cousin make mud pies with duchesses? say, she comes pretty near being one of the '400.' but i'm off; a grist of copy to grind--talk of raving beauties, you'll be the only one that won't rave!" of course cadge wouldn't have talked just like that before the others, if she had come earlier. at bedtime milly and ethel ran to my room to talk things over, and my aunt came to shoo them off to bed, but she stayed and talked, too; and i've no business to be writing at this shocking time of night, except, of course i couldn't sleep and so i might as well. "everybody thinks you resemble your cousins," aunt said; "and really there _is_ a family likeness." poor aunt! ethel and milly are washed out copies of me, in dress and hair, if that constitutes resemblance; and they imitate even my mannerisms. i should think mr. hynes would be too critical to admire milly. i had a partial engagement for monday with john; but he'll let me off, to go to the opera. chapter iv. in the interests of music. tuesday morning, jan. 14. i am writing before breakfast. they told me to lie quietly in bed this morning, but i'm not tired, not excited. nothing more happened than i might have expected. i couldn't have supposed that in my presence people would be stocks and stones! but oh, it was beautiful, terrible! how can i write it? if i could only flash last night--every glorious minute of it--upon paper! and i might have lost it--they didn't want to let me go! there was a full family council beforehand. john had taken quietly enough the cancelling of our half engagement for the evening, but he had strong objections to my going to the opera. "if you prefer that--" he said; "but do you think it wise to appear in such a public place with strangers?" "but why not?" i was impatient at so much discussion and discretion. my mind was made up. "there's no reason why you shouldn't, i suppose." john drew a great sigh. "but i shall feel easier if--i think i'll go too." "we'll all go," cried aunt frank--it was so funny to have them sit there debating in that way the problem of her--"we'll enjoy it of all things--the judge and i, and especially ethel." and so, when the great night came, milly and i left the others in the midst of their preparations, and went off to dine with mrs. van dam; we were to go with her afterwards to see mascagni's "christofero colombo." it seems impossible now, but i was excited even about the dinner. i thought it the beginning of recognition--and it was!--to be seized upon by this splendid, masterful young general. she lives not far from us--on sixty-seventh street near fifth avenue, while we are on seventy-second street near madison. the wall of her house near the ground looks like that of a fortress; there are no high steps in front, but milly and i were shown into a hall, oak finished and english, right on the street level; and then into a room off the hall that was english, too--oak and red leather, with branching horns above the mantel and on the floor a big fur rug; and, presently, into a little brocade-lined elevator that took us to mrs. van dam's sitting-room on the third floor. "you ought to see the whole house," milly whispered, as we were slowly ascending. i had eyes just then for nothing but the general herself, who met us, a figure that abashed me, swishing a gleaming evening dress, her neck and hair a-glitter with jewels, more dominant and possessive and---yes, even more interested in me than when i had first seen her. when we went down to dinner, i did see the house; for at a word from milly, partly in good nature and partly in pride, mrs. van dam led the way through stately rooms that kept me alternating between confusion and delight, until she paused in a gilded salon, with stuccoed ceiling and softest of soft rose hangings, where i scarcely dared set foot upon the shining floor. less in jest than wonder, i asked if marie antoinette didn't walk there o' nights. "it's _diane_, isn't it, who walks here this night?" she said, linking her arm in mine and leading me to a tall mirror. then she changed colour a little, took her arm away hastily and walked from the great glass. kind and friendly as she was, she couldn't quite like to see her own image reflected there--beside mine! "_diane_ and the queen of sheba!" exclaimed milly, for beside our simple frocks the general was indeed magnificent. her brow cleared at this, and she laughed with satisfaction. when i blurted out something about having once run off to a shop parlour, before i came to aunt, for a peep at a full-length glass, she laughed again at the confession and called me "a buttercup, a perfect _diane_." at dinner we met mr. van dam--a small man who doesn't talk much; and it seemed so exciting to have wine at table, though of course i did not taste it, or coffee. and it was delightful to lean back in the carriage, as we drove to the opera house, and remember how kitty and i used to pin up our skirts under our ulsters and jog about in street cars. mrs. van dam wore a wonderful hooded cloak of lace and fur, and her gloves fastened all the way to her elbows with silk loops that passed over silver balls. i had been so impatient during dinner, because they didn't sit down until eight o'clock, and then dawdled as if there were no opera to follow; but i needn't have worried, for although the performance had begun when we arrived, there were still many vacant places in the great house. i drew closer about my face the scarf that ethel had lent me until we had passed through the dazzling lobby, up the stairway and through the corridors, and until the red curtains of the box had parted, and i had slipped into the least conspicuous chair. muffled as i was, i trembled at the first glance at the great, brilliantly lighted house, from which rose the stir of a gathering audience and a rustle of low voices. "why, you're not nervous, are you?" the general asked. "i've brought you here early on purpose; you'll be comfortably settled before anybody notices." and she good-naturedly pushed me into a front place. the music was all the while going on, but no one seemed to pay much attention. "who'll notice me in this big building?" i asked with a shaky little laugh. but just at first, as i looked out over the house, i clutched the lace that was still around my throat. it was warm after the chill air without, and my head swam. there was mystery in the swarming figures and the murmur. the breath of the roses that lay over the box rails, the gleaming of bared shoulders, the flash of jewels seemed to belong to some other world--a world where i was native, and from which i had too long been exiled. surely in some other life i must have had my place among gaily-dressed ladies who smiled and nodded, bending tiara-crowned heads above gently waving fans. i felt kinship with them; i passionately longed to be noticed by them, and feared it even more intensely. almost immediately after our arrival the curtain fell upon the first scene. we had missed every word of it! mrs. van dam left me for a few minutes to myself, and as i became more composed, i put back my scarf and looked about a little more boldly. the house was yet far from full, but every moment people were coming in. the boxes at each side of us were untenanted, but at no great distance i saw peggy van dam, seated beside a large woman--her mother, mrs. henry--and chatting busily with a stout, good-natured-looking young man. even peggy had not noticed our entrance and, quite reassured, i lifted my opera glass and began studying the audience. we were near the front of the house in the first tier on the left, and i had in view almost the whole sweep of the great gold and crimson horseshoe. down in the orchestra some of the women were as gorgeous in satins and brocades as those in the boxes, while others wore street attire. nearly all the men had donned evening dress, and i thought at first--but soon saw how absurd that was--that i could pick out john by his office suit. i could not repress a little glow of pride, as i looked down upon those rows and rows of heads, to think that somewhere among them, or above them, john was watching, rejoicing with me, fearing for me where for himself he would never fear. he'd lift, if he could, every stone from my path. mr. hynes, now, would carry you forward so fast that you'd never see the stones. i had no thought that mr. hynes was in the house, but, amusing myself with the idea, i lifted my glass--dear little pearl trinket with which the general had provided me--and looked for him, wondering how often a poor young lawyer attends the opera. of course i couldn't see anybody i knew, nor could i read my libretto, for the words danced before my eyes; and mrs. van dam, smiling at my interest, began chattering about the people around us, speaking as if i would soon be as familiar with the brilliant world of fashion and society as herself. "i wonder," she said in her energetic way, "what it feels like to be at one's first opera." excitement was flashing from my eyes and burning on my cheeks as i answered:-"it's--it's--oh, i can't tell you! but in the west," i added hastily, "we had oratorio." "what a buttercup you are!" she said again. soon the curtain rose upon the second act--or scene. whichever it was, that was all that i was fated to see or hear of the opera. and for the little while i could consider it, i must say i was disappointed. the scenery was superb, but the voices-"you've spoiled us, nelly," milly whispered. "colombo's not bad." i squeezed her hand ecstatically. i find that i don't criticise men so shrewdly; but oh, the thin, shrill pipe of isabella, compared with what a woman's voice may be! yet i admired her skill, and did not wonder that the house applauded. the second scene was just closing, and i was lost in dreams of the fine things that i shall do for art and music when i'm a great society leader, when the box door opened, and there entered an elderly couple, much alike--tall, thin, rather stately and withered. i knew that they must be mrs. marmaduke van dam, the general's mother-in-law, and her husband. impulsively i sprang up to allow them to come to the front places. and then--the catastrophe! i was conscious at first only of an instant's confusion, of a hurried introduction in undertones. then i found myself again sitting, my arm tingling to the clutch of milly's fingers. in her pale, pretty face her light eyes glowed with a fright that was not all painful. the blood seemed to flow back to my heart as i realised what i had done. the sudden stir in our box had called attention, and i had been standing in the glare of electric lights overhead and at my feet, my white dress outlined against the blood-red curtains. "take this fan," milly whispered from behind me. "will you have my seat?" shame dyed my face. after such a heedless act i couldn't look at the general. i knew that, in his surprise at my appearance, mr. marmaduke van dam had fumbled noisily with his chair, and that mrs. marmaduke had dropped her shoulder wrap--she was in evening dress; how can elderly women do it?--i knew that in spite of their rigid politeness they found it hard to keep their eyes from me. i hoped the general had been too busy to appreciate my folly, and i drew a quivering breath of relief that it had had no more serious consequences. yet i was queerly dissatisfied. the metropolitan opera house is a big building, and the part of the audience to which i could have been conspicuous was small. yet some people must have seen; had they taken no notice? for some space--minutes or seconds--it seemed so. then a confused murmur, a shifting, restless movement, began near us in the orchestra. a good many people down there, as well as in the boxes at each side, had noticed me earlier. now they began whispering to their neighbours. heads were turned our way; people were asking, answering, almost pointing. i could see the knowledge of me spread from seat to seat, from row to row, as ripples spread from a stone thrown into still water. opera glasses were levelled. comment grew, swelled to a stir of surprise. the curtain had dropped for the interval between scenes; our box became for the moment the centre of interest, and the lights were high. even the orchestra was resting. then it was given me to see how in a great audience panic may leap without cause from opportunity. the stir grew, spread. fascinated, i gazed down at the disturbance. i knew that a frightened smile still curved my lips. i felt my eyes glow, luminous and dilated. my heart almost stopped beating, gripped by triumph and horror. afterwards i realised that i had not availed myself of the screen milly offered; i hadn't lifted the fan to shield my face; i had not stirred to hide myself. "bob!" whispered the general. "quick! don't you see?" robert van dam sprang to his feet, offering, as i thought, to exchange places with me. once more i started up, and chairs were moved to give me passage. while again i stood under the glare of the lights, and while for the second time the movement in the box drew attention thither, somebody below half rose to look at me. two or three--a dozen--followed. as i dropped into my seat at the back of the box, and cast the scarf again about my head, twenty, thirty people were struggling out of their chairs. from my shelter i watched as, farther and farther away, the heads began to turn. from places where i had not been visible i heard the murmur swelling, the scuffle of people rising. i had disappeared from sight, the first to rise had dropped back into their seats as if ashamed, but others increased the uneasy tumult of low, tense sounds. my brain worked quickly. i understood the shuddering thrill that passed over the audience. it was as if all my life i had seen such vast assemblies, and knew the laws that rule their souls. even before it came i guessed it was coming; a voice--it was a man's--crying out:-"what is it? is it--fire?" and from away across the house came the answering call--not a question this time, not hesitant, but quick and sharp:--"fire!" what should i do? why was not john or mr. hynes there to tell me? wild thoughts darted through my mind. should i stand once more? show myself? should i cry: "it was i, only i! they were looking at me. there is no fire!" crazy, crazy thought! for the thing was over as soon as it began. those who had started the confusion and who understood its cause, began shouting:-"sit down! sit down!" from the topmost gallery a tremendous great voice came bellowing down:-"what--_fool_--said--that?" there was a little laugh, a hiss or two rebuked the disorder; then the baton signalled the orchestra, and the music recommenced, smoothly and in perfect time; the conductor had never turned his head. the curtain went up; the incident was closed. i drew a long, sighing breath of relief as one, then another, then all together, as if by a single impulse, the people sat down in their places. it had been but an instant. the painted stage, the glittering court ladies, isabella on her throne, the suppliant colombo, were as if nothing had happened. "first-rate orchestra," muttered robert van dam. the general turned in her chair and looked at me. she did not speak, but i could see that she was excited; it seems to me now that her eyes were very bright, and that her strong, square-chinned face looked curiously satisfied. "let's go," i gasped; "i want to go home." choking with sobs, though not unhappy, i felt as if i wished to run, to fly; but, as i tottered out of the box, i could scarcely stand. mr. van dam helped me, the general and milly following. in the corridor we were joined by peggy and the florid young man whom i had seen with her. "why--why, you're not going? you are not going?" peggy cried. she breathed quickly, and her teeth and eyes alike seemed to twinkle. "can--can't mr. bellmer or i--do something?" "nothing at all," said the general in brisk staccato, fastening my wraps with an air of proprietorship; "nobody's in voice to-night, do you think? miss winship doesn't care to stay." before we reached the lobby, john came from somewhere, hurrying towards us. i was walking between mr. bellmer and robert van dam, but with scarcely a look at them he tucked my hand under his arm, just as he would have done in the old days at the state university. at the door mr. van dam looked for a cab. "i'll take her home," said john grimly. "i'll go with you; i must see her safe with mrs. baker," the general replied, understanding at once. "mr. bellmer, tell mother, please, that bob and i have gone with miss winship. or--bob, you won't be needed; you explain to mother." the two men hurried away upon their errand, though i fancied they went reluctantly. peggy had not come down. all the way home john's brows were black, and he looked straight ahead of him. as we passed under the glow of electric lamps, milly smiled bravely at me across the carriage, respect and awe mingling with her sympathy. the general sat at my side erect; her eyes glittered, and she looked oddly pleased--not like a woman who had been at the focus of a scene, and had been dragged away from the opera before it was over, but like a general indeed, planning great campaigns. as for me, i felt that i must laugh--cry. did ever such a ridiculous thing, such a wonderful, glorious thing, such a perfectly awful thing, happen to any other girl that ever lived? i was living the scene again--seeing the mass of heads, the sea of upturned faces. again i was gazing into the one face that had been distinct, the eyes that had drawn mine in all that blur and confusion, that had looked back at me, as if in answer to my voiceless call for help, with strength and good cheer. even in the moment of my utmost terror, i had been sustained by that message from ned hynes. how did i chance to see him just at that crisis, when i didn't know of his presence? and why didn't he come to us afterwards, as john did? mrs. baker and ethel saw us leave the box, and were at home with uncle almost as soon as we. "are you safe, nelly?" aunt cried, rushing at me; then, with the sharpness of tense nerves, she rebuked the judge: "ba-ake, you hissed her!" "nay, my dear; in the interests of music, i frowned upon disorder." he added, with waving of his antennae eyebrows: "it was helen's first opera." we all laughed hysterically, and then mrs. van dam and john went away. could--_could_ mr. hynes have gone to the opera just because he had heard that i would be there? chapter v. a plague of reporters. saturday evening, jan. 18. since monday i have left the house but once. the judge has given me a microscope so that i may study at home instead of going to barnard; and to please him i make a pretence of cutting sections from the plants in aunt's conservatory; but oh, it's so dull, so dull! or would be but for my happy thoughts. it isn't interest in apical cell or primary meristem that makes me fret to return to prof. darmstetter! it's all on account of reporters that i am shut up like a state secret or a crown jewel. from daylight until dark, men with pencils and notebooks, cardboard-bearing artists and people with hand cameras have watched the house; and it's so tiresome. the siege had already begun when mrs. baker came to my room the morning after the opera, but i knew nothing about it. i couldn't understand why she scolded with such vehemence upon finding me writing in this little book instead of lying in bed; why she exclaimed so nervously over my escape and the horrors of jumping from windows, or sliding down ropes, or of being hurried along in fire panics until i was crushed to death. "why, you talk as if there had _been_ a fire," i cried, kissing her. millions of fires have flamed and roared and sunk and died again; but never before has there been a me! the dear fussy little woman said that john had been telephoning inquiries. i could see that she wished to keep me in my room, and finally, at some laboured excuse for withholding the morning papers, i understood that she and john were hiding something; she is so transparent! "you must be calm, nelly, dear; you mustn't excite yourself," she chirped anxiously. "unless i see the papers, i shall have a fever, a high fever," i threatened; "i must--oh, i must see every word about last evening!" at last the _record_ and the _messenger_ came upstairs already opened to the critiques of the new opera. mrs. baker wished to read aloud, but i almost snatched the papers from her; my eyes couldn't go fast enough down the columns. but in neither sheet did i find more than a reference to a "senseless alarm" that marred the rendition of "christofero." my cheeks flamed with annoyance. it was the reporters who were senseless; they had seen men adoring the wonder of this century, and had not flashed news of it--of me--to all the world! aunt couldn't understand. she thought to comfort me by saying that my share in the disturbance would never be suspected; she unblushingly averred that no one had seen me; she begged me to rest, to forget my fright, not to be distressed by the newspapers. distressed? not i! events had been too startling for me to heed the stupidity that whined over missing a few bars of a silly overture when _i_ was in sight. indeed i had been frightened; yet why should not the world demand to look upon me? i thought only of hurrying to prof. darmstetter that he might share my triumph. but aunt wouldn't hear of my leaving the house; scarcely of my coming down stairs. fluttering into my room she would bring me some fruit, a novel; then she would trot away again with an air of preoccupation. i was getting out of patience at all this mystery, when, during one of her brief absences, ethel tapped at my door, and a minute later kitty reid dashed at me, while in the doorway appeared cadge, scratching with one hand in a black bag. "oh, helen, helen," cried kitty, laughing and half crying, "_have_ you seen cadge's exclusive?" "cadge! you were there? cadge!" "sure," said that strange creature, her keen eyes glancing about my room; "you don't deserve half i've done for you--not letting me know beforehand--." "or me!" kitty broke in. "oh, i've have given a--a tube of chrome yellow to see you!" "--but we've made the row look like nineteen cents in a country where they don't use money. see you've got the fossils." cadge nodded towards the papers i had been reading. "but the _star's_ worth the whole--now where the mischief--" "cadge! show me!" from the black bag she drew several sheets of paper, upon each of which was pasted a cutting from a newspaper, with pencilled notes in the margin; a handkerchief, a bunch of keys, six pointed pencils, a pen-knife, a purse, rather lean, a photograph of two kittens. "there," she said, relieved at sight of these, "knew i couldn't have lost 'em. brooklyn woman left 'em $5,000 in her will. they'll stand me in a good little old half column. now--where--ah, here you are!" she unfolded a _star_ clipping and proudly spread it upon my knee. "there, princess! that's the real thing!" i caught my breath at the staring headlines. beauty of a woman threatens a panic at the opera house. presence of miss helen winship creates sensation that might have resulted in a perilous stampede. _alarm of fire during the third scene of "christofero colombo"_ great audience at the metropolitan endangered by frenzy over remarkably lovely girl. "hot stuff, ain't it?" said cadge, beaming with satisfaction. "i never like that opera assignment--dresses and society, second fiddle to the music man--but i wouldn't have missed last night! minute i saw you in the van dam box i knew there'd be the biggest circus i ever--why--why, helen--" the horror of it--the pitiful vulgarity! my father, the university folks--all the world would know that i had been made notorious by a--that i--oh, the tingling joy, the rapture--that i was the loveliest of women! "cadge! oh, cadge!" i threw myself into her arms. "why, helen, what's this? can't stand for the headlines? built in the office and i know they're rather--" "they're _quite_" interrupted kitty. "of course the princess wouldn't expect a first page scare. but cheer up, child; there's worse to come." the girls were soothing me and fussing over me when aunt frank opened the door. at her surprised look i brushed away my tears of joy. i understood everything now--her uneasiness, the long telephonic conferences, my confinement to the house. "aunt," i managed to say, "here is kitty come to condole with me and congratulate me; and this is my friend, miss bryant of the _star_. you remember? she was here at the tea." "a reporter!" "oh, i had to know! don't worry. cadge, dear, did nobody but you see me?" "the fossils never have anything they can't clip," said cadge in the tone of absorption that her work always commands. "i'm surprised myself at the _echo_, though it did notice that a 'miss winslow' fainted in the van dam box. but haven't you had reporters here--regiments? expected to find you ordering gatlings for the siege." "we're bombarded!" said aunt. "with--er--" "rapid fire questions," suggested ethel. "--but the servants have their orders. of course," aunt added uneasily, "we're glad to see any friend of nelly's." "oh, by the way, i'm interviewing you," cadge announced; _star_ wants to follow up its beat. you haven't talked?" "why, no; but--do i have to be interviewed?" just at first the idea was a shock, i must confess. "do you _have_ to be interviewed? wish all interviewees were as meek. why, of course, helen, you'll want to make a statement. i 'phoned the _star_ photographer to meet me here, but he's failed to connect. however, kitty can sketch--" "oh, miss bryant!" wailed aunt. "an interview! how frightful! can't you let her off?" "why, i don't exactly see how--though i might--" cadge deliberated, studying aunt's face rather than mine, "--might wait and see the red extras. i know how she feels, mrs. baker--they're always that way, at first--and i'm anxious to spare her, but--i can't let the _star_ be beaten. if i were you--" she turned to me, hesitated a moment, then burst out impulsively:-"if i were you, i wouldn't say a word! not--one--blessed--word! i'd pique curiosity. there! that _is_ treason! why, i'd give my eye teeth, 'most, for a nice signed statement. but i'll wait--that is, if you really, honest-injun, prefer." "you're very kind," said aunt frank, with a sigh of bewildered relief. "we'd give anything, of course--_anything_!--to avoid--" "mind," cadge admonished me as she rose to go. "i'm running big risks, letting you off; the office relied on me. if you do talk to anybody else, or even see anybody, you'll let me know, quick? and if you don't want to give up, look out for a little fat girl with blue eyes and a baby stare; she'll be here sure, crying for pictures; generally gets 'em, first time, too. snuffles and dabs her eyes and says: 'if i go back without any photograph, i'll lose my j-o-o-o-b! wa-a-a-h! wa-a-a-h! until you do anything to get rid of her. ought to be on the stage; tears in her voice. i wouldn't do stunts like that, if i never--you will look out, won't you?" aunt is so funny, not to have guessed who wrote the _star_ article. but she never saw it. her precautions had all been taken at john's officious suggestion over the telephone. busybody! an interview is nothing so terrible. the world has a right to know about me; and i don't suppose aunt had an idea how grievously cadge was disappointed. no sooner had cadge left us than mr. bellmer, pink and stammering in my presence, and after him the general, called to inquire for me. it was wonderful to see the change in the strong, self-confident girl's manner. she beamed at my appearance, and her every word was caressing and deferential. the night before had had a magical effect. i was no longer "diane," the ingenue whom she patronized as well as admired. i was a powerful woman, a great lady. "did our princess enjoy waking this morning to find herself famous?" she asked, echoing milly's word for me; and then, to mrs. baker's horror, she, too, had a tale to tell about reporters; they had been besetting her for information about her companion of the opera. "but i never see people of that sort, you know," she said, with an accent that piqued me, though i couldn't help feeling glad that cadge had gone. she showered me with messages from mrs. marmaduke van dam and from peggy and mrs. henry. she had a dozen plans for my entertainment, but mrs. baker opposed a flurried negative:-"we'll run no more risks like last night's; nelly must stay at home--till folks get used to her." "then i can never go anywhere; never!" i cried in despair, yet laughing. it's impossible sometimes not to laugh at aunt. but mrs. van dam gave me a look that promised many things. "you won't be left in hiding after such a dã©but; you'll electrify society!" she said; and when she had gone, i wore away the day wondering what she meant, until i could send for the afternoon papers. i laughed until i cried when they came, and cried until i laughed. the red extras reviewed the occurrence at the opera from alpha to omega, publishing "statements" from ushers who had shown us to our box; from people in the audience and from the cab man who drove us home. and they supplemented their accounts with pen and ink sketches of "miss helen winship at the opera," evolved from the fallible inner consciousness of "hurry-up artists." when uncle came home, he found me reading an interview with him which contained the momentous information that he would say nothing. "we shall not again forget," he said with a deep sigh of relief, "that --the face that launched a thousand ships and burned the topless towers of ilion --was helen's. but the metropolitan still stands. an argument not used on heart-hardened pharaoh was a plague of press representatives." i'm afraid he'd had a trying day. the worst of my day was still to come. after dinner, when i happened to be alone a minute in the library, mr. hynes came in. oddly enough i'd been thinking about him. i had determined that the next time he called i would for once be self-possessed; i would act as if i had not seen how oddly he conducts himself--now gazing at me as if he would travel round the earth to feast his eyes upon my beauty and now actually shunning milly's cousin. i was quite resolved to begin afresh and treat him just as cordially as i would any other man: but the moment he appeared away flew all my wits. "i think milly'll be here in a minute," i stammered, and then i stopped, tongue-tied and blushing. he came towards me, saying abruptly: "may i tell you what i thought when i saw you above us--" i didn't need to ask when or where. "--i thought: the queen has come to her coronation." one's own stupid self is so perverse! of course i meant to thank him for his silent help the night before, but i asked with a rush of nervous confusion:-"you--were you there?" i could have suffered torture sooner than own that i had seen him. "were you there, ned?" repeated milly, blundering into the room. "why, we didn't see you." of all vexatious interruptions! behind her came john and most of the family. "the servant of the presence would fain know if the presence is well," john said, coming quickly to my side and peering down at me with a dark, worn look upon his face, as if he hadn't slept, and a catch in his voice that irritated me, in spite of his playful words. i knew well enough that his anxiety had been on my account, but it was so unnecessary! "the child bears up wonderfully," cried my aunt, before i could answer; "but to-morrow'll tell the story; to-morrow she'll feel the strain." then they all broke out talking at once. john drew a big chair for me to the fire, and there was such an ado, adjusting lights and fending me with screens. "you _are_ well?" john asked, obstinately planting himself between me and the others. "perfectly. how absurd you are!" it was so ridiculous that i should be coddled after the triumph of my life, as if something awful had happened to me. i had felt annoyed all day, so far as anything can now annoy me, by john's too solicitous guardianship, and it vexed me anew when he began to pile up cautions against this and against that--to warn me against going out alone upon the street, and to urge care even in my intercourse with cadge. he is quicker than my aunt; he divined the source of the _star_ article, and he almost forbade me to cleave to such an indiscreet friend. "oh, last night won't happen again," i said carelessly; "and you don't know cadge; she's as good as the wheat." i wasn't listening to him. i was twisting his ring impatiently on my finger and watching in the play of the fire a vision of the great opera house, the lights, the jewels, the perfumes, the white, wondering faces. "can't you see, nelly," replied john, with irritation, "that this bryant woman's article practically accuses you of risking lives to gratify a whim of vanity?" "why, john burke, how can you say such a thing?" exclaimed aunt frank, overhearing his words and as usual answering only the last half dozen. "risking lives! poor nelly!" "i didn't say it," john patiently explained; "but other people--" "nobody else will talk about nelly's vanity. why, she hasn't a particle. as for the papers, i won't have one in the house--" "except the _evening post_?" suggested aunt marcia. "which cadge says isn't a newspaper," i contributed. "--so we needn't care what they say." i was ready to laugh at john's discomfiture, but the possible truth of his words struck me, and i cried out: "people won't really believe i did it on purpose, whatever the papers say--that i went there just to be looked at! oh, that would be horrible! horrible!" "of course not," john said with curt inconsistency to bring me comfort; but i had a reply more sincere--a fleeting glance only, but it said: "the queen can do no wrong." "oh, i hope you are right; i hope no one thought that," i said confusedly in answer to the glance. and then i bent over the caesar that boy laid upon my lap, while uncle asked:-"well, my son, is there mutiny again in the camp of our great and good friend, divitiacus the aeduan?" a few minutes later john said good-night with a ludicrous expression of pained, absent-minded patience. i didn't go to the door with him; i scarcely looked up from boy's ablative absolutes. oh i treated him shabbily. and yet--why did he use every effort that day to keep me ignorant of my own rightful affairs, only to come at me himself with a club, gibbering of newspapers? why, john's absurd! he would have liked to find me--not ill, of course, but overcome by the opera experience, dependent on him, ready to be shielded, hidden, petted, comforted. he can not see me as i am--a strong, splendid woman, ready to accept the responsibilities of my beauty. chapter vi. love is nothing! monday, jan. 20. dear me! beauty is a responsibility! such troubles, such trials about nothing! it's photographs this time! last wednesday--the day after the papers published so much about me--a strange man called in mrs. baker's absence and begged me to let him take my photograph--as a service to art. if aunt had been at home i wouldn't have been permitted to see him. but the man was pleasant and gentlemanly, and so sincere in his admiration that he won the way to my heart. i'm afraid devotion is still so new to me that it's the surest road to my good graces. he hesitated and stammered, blinking before my shining loveliness as if blinded, as he offered to take the pictures for nothing, if he might exhibit them afterwards; and at last i went to his studio, though i said that his work must be for me only, and that i must pay for it. i wonder at myself for yielding, for i didn't mean to have any photographs until the experiment was quite finished--to mortify me in future with their record of imperfection; but i'm so nearly perfect now that, really, it's time i had something to tell me how i do look. of course, as fast as i can lay hands on them, i'm destroying every likeness of the old nelly. at the studio it was such a revelation--the care and intelligence the man displayed, the skill of the posing--that when i got home full of the subject and found cadge waiting, i had to tell her all about it. "h'm!" she said after i had finished; "what sort of looking chap?" when i had described him, she sat silent at least a third of a minute, establishing for herself a new record. then she said:-"princess, i'll have to take back every word i said yesterday about letting you off from being interviewed. i agreed to wait, but it's up to you. every rag in town'll have some kind of feature about you next sunday, and you wouldn't ask me to see the _star_ beaten? you'd better come right now to the _star_ photographer, or--see last night's papers?--you'll wish you'd never been born. i tell you the situation's out of my control." "well, come on then, before aunt frank gets back." so we started out again. the sun and air made me so drunken with pure joy of living that i didn't mind the scolding sure to follow--though it certainly has proved an annoyance ever since to have aunt's fidgetty oversight of me redoubled, and to be shut up, as i have been, closer than ever, like a princess in a fairy book, just as my splendid triumphs were beginning. worst of all, almost, mrs. baker told the tale of my misdeeds to john. "why, helen," he said at once, "no photographer of standing goes about soliciting patronage; the man who came here wants pictures of you to sell." "like the great ladies' photographs in england?" i asked flippantly, though i was really a little disturbed. "just what i told her!" groaned aunt frank. "bake must see the man; or--mr. burke, why can't you find out about him? perhaps it's all right," she added weakly; "from her accounts he didn't flatter nelly one bit; simply raved over her." "yes, i'll run in and converse with the art lover," john grimly agreed; but just then in came milly with the general, and the subject was changed. indeed, though i don't know just how she managed it, from the moment the brilliant woman of the world entered the room, poor clumsy john was made to seem clumsier than ever, and before long, without quite knowing why, he went away. i'm pretty sure that mrs. van dam dislikes to see us together. john was wrong and yet not wrong about the photographer; his threatened interposition came to nothing, for the very next morning--only yesterday, long ago as it seems--i was enlightened as to the cheap and silly trick that had been played upon me. "thee, cothin nelly; pwetty, pwetty!" cried joy, running towards me and holding up a huge poster picture from the sunday _echo_. "isn't it--why--give it to me!" i almost snatched the sheet from her baby hands. my portrait! i knew it in spite of crude colour and cheap paper. it was my portrait, and it was labelled: "helen winship, most beautiful woman in the world. posed by miss winship especially for--" and then--the insolence of the man!--there followed the name of the bashful stranger whose devotion to art had drawn him to my door! the fellow had practised upon my credulity to obtain my likeness for publication. i threw down the sheet, quivering with anger. i felt that i should never again dare look at a paper; but half an hour later i sent boy out to buy them all, and, locked into my room, i shook all about me a snowstorm of bulky supplements and magazines. having posed for cadge, i knew, of course, that the _star_ would print my picture, perhaps several of them. but at any other time i should have been overcome to find a "special section" of four pages filled with half-tone likenesses of me, cemented together by an essay on "beauty," signed by a novelist of repute, and by articles from painters, sculptors, dressmakers and gymnasts, all from their respective standpoints extolling my perfections. cadge had written an interview headed "how it feels to be beautiful." but the _echo!_ besides the poster which joy had shown me, it published two pages of portraits framed in medallion miniatures of celebrated beauties with whom it compared me, making me surpass the loveliest women of history and legend, from helen of troy to the reigning music hall performer. and, with a shock of surprise, i not only saw in the pictures the dress i had worn and the theatrical things the deferential artist had loaned me to pose in, but in the article appeared every word i had said to him; and the skill with which fact, fiction, clever conjecture and picturesque description had been stirred into the sweetened batter that cadge calls a "first-rate delirious yellow style" was maddening. this is the beginning of the stuff:-chapter i. a prairie bud. so fair that, had you beauty's picture took, it must like her or not like beauty look. --aleyn's henry vii. a western wild rose! as sweet! as perfect! by all who have seen her, helen winship is pronounced the most beautiful of women. last monday night, at the opera house, a great audience paid her such spontaneous tribute as never before was offered human being. at the sight of a young girl, trembling and blushing, staid citizens were lifted to their feet by an irresistible wave of enthusiasm. not for anything this girl has done, though science will hear from her; not for her voice, though no nightingale sings so melodiously; but for a face more glorious than that other helen's, "whose beauty summoned greece to arms and drew a thousand ships to tenedos." this modern helen is a niece of judge timothy baker, at whose residence, no. -east seventy-second street, she is staying. the judge and his family are reticent concerning their lovely guest, of whom the _echo_ presents the first authentic picture. miss winship cannot be described. artists say that by their stern canons she is a perfect woman. her beauty is that of flawless health and a hitherto unknown physical perfection. she is cast in goddess mould. the loose, flowing robe of her daily wear is of classic grace and dignity. tall as the venus of milo, she incarnates that noble figure with a lightness and a purity virginal and modern. she is neither blonde nor brunette; of a type essentially american, she has glorious eyes and for her smile a man would lose his head. it is a fact for students of heredity and environment to consider that miss winship is not a product of the cities. jasper m. winship, her father, is a bonanza farmer. mrs. winship was in her youth the belle of prairie dances, and still has remarkable beauty. born of pioneer stock, baby helen was reared to a life of freedom; learning what she knew of grandeur from the sky and of luxury from the lap of mother earth. child of the sunshine and sweet air, she danced with the butterflies, as innocent as they of cramping clothing that would distort her body, or of city conventionalities that might warp her mind. year by year she grew, a brown-faced cherub, strong-limbed and supple. springtime after springtime her marvellous beauty budded, unnoted save by the passing traveller, who put aside the bright, wind-blown hair to gaze long into her fathomless eyes. roystering farm-hands checked their drunken songs at the little maid's approach, but no wild thing feared her. birds and squirrels came at her call and fed from her hand. and so it went. chapters ii and iii described with brilliant inaccuracy my university life and made me a piquant mixture of devotee of science and favourite of fashion. ah, well, it was all as accurate as pa's name or mother's beauty or her love of dancing--she thinks it's as wicked as playing cards. before i had read half the papers, between dread of father and john and the absurdity of it all, i was in a gale of tears and laughter. more than once milly crept to the door, or i heard in the hall the uneven step of lame little ethel. but i wouldn't open. i was swept by a passion of---not grief, not anger, not concern, not fear of anything on earth; but--joy! joy in my beauty, about which a million men and women had that morning read for the first time! joy in the fame of my beauty which should last forever! joy in my full and rapturous life! what did i care for the spelling of a name or the bald prose about my college course? what concern was it of mine how my photographs had been obtained? trifles; trifles all! here were the essential facts set broadly forth, speeding to every part of the country--why, to every part of the world! cadge or pros. reid now--any one who knows how such things are done--might note the hours as they passed, and say: "now two millions have seen her beauty, have read of her; now three; now five; now ten millions." and the story would spread! in ever widening circles, men warned by telegraph of the new wonder would tear open the damp sheets; and pen and pencil and printing press would hurry to reproduce those marvellous lines--to-morrow in philadelphia, boston, baltimore, montreal; next day in chicago, st. louis, atlanta; and so on to denver, galveston and the golden gate. the picture--_mine_;--_my picture_!--would be spread on tables in the low cabins of pilot boats and fishing smacks; it would be nailed to the log walls of klondike mining huts; soldiers in the steaming trenches around manila would pass the torn sheets from hand to hand, and for a moment forget their sweethearts while they read of me. and the ships! the swiftest of them all would carry these pages to london, paris, vienna, there to be multiplied a thousand fold and sent out again in many tongues. blue-eyed gretchen, giuseppina, with her bare locks and rainbow-barred apron, slant-eyed o mimosa san, all in good time would dream over the fair face on the heralding page; women shut in the zenanas of the unchanging east would gossip from housetop to housetop of the wonderful feringhe beauty; whipped slaves in midmost africa would carry my picture in their packs into regions where white men have never trod, and dying whalers in the far north would look at my face and forget for a little while their dooming ice floes. the wealth of all the earth was at my command. railroad train and ocean grayhound, stage and pony cart, spurring horseman and naked brown runner sweating through jungle paths under his mail bags, would bear the news of me east and west, until they met in the antipodes and put a girdle of my loveliness right round the world! never before had i realised what a great thing a newspaper is! my heart was beating with a terrible joy. and so--prosaic detail--i threw the papers down in a heap on the floor, combed my hair in a great loose knot, put a rose at my belt, and went down to smile at my aunt's anxieties. i even went with my cousins to supper with aunt marcia. and in the early evening mr. hynes came to walk with us home. i knew his step, and my heart jumped with fright. what would he, so fastidious as he was, think of that poster? but his look leaped to mine as he entered, and i--oh, it seemed as if there had never been such a night; never the snow, the delight of the cold and dark and the far, wise stars! i couldn't tell what joy elf possessed me as we walked homeward. i wanted to run like a child. yet i couldn't bear to reach the house. "why, helen," said ethel; "you're not wearing your veil." "will the reporters git me ef i don't--watch--out?" i laughed. how could i muffle myself like a grandmother? "we'll keep away the goblins," he said; and--it's a little thing to write down--he walked beside me instead of milly. we would pass through the shadows of the trees, and then under the glare of an electric lamp, and then again into blackness; and i felt in his quickened breath an instant response to my mood; as if newspapers had never existed, and we were playing at goblins. i hope he didn't think me childish. of course john had come before we reached home, and of course he had been all day fuming over the papers, as if that would do any good; but i had drunk too deep of the intoxicating air to be disturbed by his surprised look when mr. hynes and i entered the library; can't i go without his guarding even to aunt marcia's? i like the library--bookshelves, not too high, all about it, and the glow of the open fire and the smiling faces. sometimes i grow impatient of aunt's fussy kindness, and of the slavish worship of limp and characterless milly and ethel; but last night i was glad to be walled about with cousins, barricaded from the big, curious world. i could have hugged boy, who lay curled on the hearth, deep in the adventures of mowgli and the wolf brethren. i did hug little joy, who climbed into my lap, lisping, as she does every night: "thing, cothin nelly." i looked shyly at mr. hynes, who had stooped to pat the cat that purred against his leg, muttering something about a "fine animal." i knew--i begin to understand him so well--just how he felt the charm of everything. "thing," joy insisted, putting up a baby hand until it touched my cheek and twined itself in my hair, "thing, cothin nelly." and i crooned while breathlessly all in the room listened:-"sweet and low, sweet and low, wind of the western sea-"he'll be a bad man, won't he, joy," i broke off, as john came to my corner, "if he scolds a poor girl who has had to stand on the floor all day for the scholars to look at, and get no good mark on her deportment card?" "i am no longer a schoolmaster, nelly," said john so icily that aunt looked up at him, surprised. "come, joy," she said, "cousin nelly can't be troubled with a great big girl. why, mr. burke, she's cried herself ill, fairly, over those dreadful newspapers. i do so hope they'll leave her in peace now. but of course we tell her it's all meant as a tribute." "over the rolling waters go, come from the dying moon and blow-blow him again to me, while my little joy, while my pretty joy sleeps." "thing more about your little joy! more about me." the sleepy child cuddled closer and, as i continued to sing, i knew that at least one person in the room understood that a creature so blessed as i could never cry herself ill. "father will come to his babe in the nest, silver sails all out of the west--" "milly and i have tributes, too," laughed ethel. "the _trumpet_ says we're just as charming girls as our wonderful cousin. and the _record_ prints snapshots at joy and her nursemaid. aren't newspapers funny?" "some one of us should be running for office," said uncle timothy. "it seems gratuitous to subject an unambitious private family to the treatment expected by a candidate or a multi-millionaire. yet i have seldom had occasion to complain of the press. in its own perhaps headlong manner, it pursues such matters as are of greatest public importance. a household, to avoid its attentions, should be provided with good, plain, durable countenances. the difficulty with this family is its excess of attraction." he patted aunt's hand affectionately, while i sang:-"--under the silver moon sleep, my little joy, sleep, my pretty joy, sleep--" "--but, uncle, what shall i do?" "nothing. in a shorter time than now seems possible, another topic will supersede you. then, as one of our presidents has aptly said, you will sink into 'innocuous desuetude.'" but of course i sha'n't! as i rose to carry joy to her bed, i felt from all in the room a look that said i was like a great, glorious madonna, and i bent lower over the sleeping child's still face; it is good to have everybody admire me. oh, i do wish john were more reasonable. not satisfied with seeing me saturday and yesterday, he came again to-day and asked me to marry him at once. he's so ridiculous! "perhaps i'm selfish to wish to mould your brilliant life to my plodding one," he said wistfully, as if he were reading my thoughts. "but i don't mean to be selfish. i love you--and--you're drifting away from me." "what a goose you are, john!" i said, laughing impatiently. "i'm just the same that i always was; the trouble is, i'm not a bit sentimental." john _is_ selfish. he'd hide me somewhere outside the city, he'd bury alive the most lovely of women. he prosed to me about a "home"; as if i could now endure a darby and joan existence! to-night his ring distracts--torments me. i pull it off and put it back and it galls my finger, as if it rubbed a wound. i used to go to sleep with it against my lips--i love the opal, gem of the beautiful women. i wonder if it's really unlucky. i suppose john's talk to-day annoyed me because i'm in such a restless mood--waiting for the barriers to fall, for the glorious life ahead of me to open. how could he expect me to feel as in the days when we were boy and girl, when we dreamed foolish dreams about each other, and were romantic, and young? i have changed since then, i have a thousand things to think about in which he doesn't sympathize; if i answered his words at random it was because i couldn't fix my mind upon them. i drew a long breath when he left me--when i escaped the tender, perplexed question of his eyes. it's true; i'm not a bit sentimental. i used to think i was, but now i feel sure that i could never love any one as john loves me. but i mustn't drift away from him. i remember so many things that tie us together, here in this strange, stormy city. what happy times we used to have! he'll understand better by and by, and be less exacting. but i can't marry; i must be free to enjoy the victories of my beauty; i told him at christmas that i can't marry for a long, long time. chapter vii. love is all! thursday, jan. 30. i've been trying to read, but i can't. pale heroines in books are so dull! last night came the van dams' dance and my triumph--and a greater triumph still; for to-day i have a wonderful, beautiful chapter to add to my own book, to the story of the only woman whose life is worth while. i see the vista of my future, and--ah, little book, my eyes are dazzled! a rich woman would be a beggar, a clever woman a fool, an empress would leave her throne to exchange with me. nothing, nothing is impossible to the most beautiful woman that ever lived, whose life is crowned by love. love is all; all! in a palace without ned i'd weep myself blind; with him a desert would be eden. love is all! that blessed dance! the general invited me ten days ago, the afternoon when--when john burke-poor john!---scolded me about the photographs. "just a 'small and early,'" she said, broaching her errand as soon as she had fairly driven john off the field--there was just the faintest suggestion of relief in her tone--"peggy's mother's giving it--mrs. henry van dam." she looked at aunt with an assurance as calm as if there were no interdict upon social experiments. "impossible!" gasped aunt, glancing despairingly in the direction in which her ally had disappeared. "why, nelly doesn't leave the house; i've stopped her attendance even at barnard." "and quite right; but a private house isn't a big school, nor yet the opera. of course you say yes, don't you, helen?" "yes, yes! a dance! oh, i'm going to a dance! play for me, milly; play for me!" humming a bar of a waltz, i caught aunt frank in my arms, and whirled her about the room until she begged for mercy. "oh, you dear people, i'm so happy!" i cried as i stopped, my cheeks glowing, and, falling all about me, a flood of glistening hair; while the general, whose creed is to wonder at nothing, gazed at me in delighted amazement. "you splen--did creature!" she cried. "i--i would like to go; aunt frank, you will let me?" i said meekly, as too late i realised how differently a new york girl _bien ã©levã©e_ would have received the invitation. but, indeed, my heart jumped with rapture. without john, mrs. baker really didn't know how to refuse me. "but--but--but--" she stammered. "surround her with a bodyguard, if you like," said the general. "you'll have judge baker and hynes, of course; and that--what's the name of that shy young man who's just gone? he looks presentable." "but--but--" protested aunt; "bake'd never go; and--nelly--has--do you suppose mr. burke has evening clothes?" "naturally," i said with nonchalance, though my quick temper was fired. i was as sure he hadn't as i was that mrs. van dam knew his name, and that he would oppose the dance even more strongly than did aunt; and i wished that i could go without him. but it was useless to think of this, with even the general suggesting a bodyguard. i resolved that he should at least consult a decent tailor. "why not have detectives as guards--as if i wore a fortune in diamonds?" i grumbled. "let us at least have mr. burke. now, helen, what do _you_ propose to wear?" concluded the general. mrs. van dam took an extraordinary interest in my toilette. she even came to see my new evening dress fitted, and put little mrs. edgar into such a flutter that she prodded me with pins. i'll simply have to ask father to increase my allowance; cheap white silk, clouded with tulle, was the best i could manage. "h'm--empire; simple and graceful," pronounced oracle. "square neck, helen, or round?" "why--i've never worn a low dress--not really low," i said, longing but dubious. "pa says--" "nonsense!" "a shame!" chimed mrs. edgar. and it would have been a shame to hide my neck and arms. i laughed when they cut away their interfering linings from the white column of my throat, and left across my shoulders only wisps of tulle. and last night, when i came to dress, i laughed again, and kissed the entrancing flesh, so firm and soft and gleaming faintly pink, and then i blushed because aunt marcia saw me do it. i worship the miracle of my own fairness. i could scarcely bear to put gloves on, even. miss baker gathered all my shining hair into the loose knot that suits me, and put roses at my girdle and into the misty tulle about my shoulders. ethel fitted on my slippers, and brought her fan and her lace handkerchief, and when i had smiled for one last time at the parted scarlet lips and the brilliant eyes that smiled back at me from the mirror, and had turned reluctantly from my dressing table, i was still joyous at remembrance of the light, the grace, the marvel of the vision i had seen reflected, that had seemed fairly to float in the dancing rose light of its own happiness. down in the hall the family were waiting, with john and mr. hynes; and, as i glided into sight on the stairway, milly behind me, the judge looked up at us, quoting with heavy playfulness:-"she seizes hearts, not waiting for consent, like sudden death that snatches unprepared. "how many conquests will satisfy you to-night, fair princesses? milly, will two young men answer instead of one old one?" he had been exempted from serving on my bodyguard. "bake! death! how can you," sputtered aunt. "come, girls, the carriage is waiting. "wish i could dance," whispered ethel, reaching up to touch my flowers--a pathetic little figure poised on her best foot. "oh, i wish you could! i wish you were going," i replied hastily, bending to kiss the little creature, the better to hide my sudden consciousness of my bared shoulders. all in the room were looking at me as if never before had they beheld my beauty. john's strained eyes seemed to plead with me for an answering glance of affection, and i knew that ned--though i wasn't conscious of looking at him at all--was alternately white and red as i was myself. i felt his glance so confused and passionate and withal so impetuous that, as aunt marcia lifted my wrap and i went down to the carriage, my heart beat violently, and i sank back into my corner in a frightful, blissful maze of fear and ecstasy. but even then i didn't know what had happened to me. we had but a few blocks to go, and before i had recovered, a man in livery was opening the carriage door at the mouth of a canvas tunnel which seemed to dive under a great house that towered so far above the street as to look almost narrow. we passed through the tunnel, another man opened a door almost at the street level, and we advanced into a hall extending the entire width of the house, so brilliantly lighted and so spacious that i caught my breath at thought of our errand, seeing that the size of the place and its splendour so far exceeded what i had supposed. i clutched at aunt's hand as if to stop her in front of the huge fireplace, where logs, crackling on tall "firedogs" of twisted iron, gave out a yellow blaze; but then quickly such a different terror and wonder and joy came again upon me that i lost consciousness of everything but ned; and the masses of ferns and palms through which we were moving--the doll-like servants in silk stockings and knee breeches, their scarlet coats emblazoned with the monogram of the van dams--faded out of sight. yet i never once glanced in his direction. we had to go to the third floor for the dressing rooms; but in spite of those minutes of grace, when a maid had removed my wraps--she started with amazement as she did so--my cheeks were still aflame. mrs. baker and milly fussed with my dress, and aunt became incoherent in her efforts to soothe and encourage me; for she feared the ordeal before us, and thought that i feared it also. and i was afraid, but not of meeting any person in that house, save one. i quivered at the thought that outside the door ned was waiting, that we must go out to him, that i might even be obliged to speak to him. and yet i longed to see him again, to be with him--somewhere, away from them all. perhaps at last i was beginning to understand. the general had been sent for, and i kept close to her and to peggy, when they went down with our party to the parlours on the second floor. there, at our entrance, groups of people seemed to divide with an eager buzz that at any other time would have been ravishing music. last night i didn't know that i heard it, though now i remember how splendidly apparelled women and sombre-coated men turned their heads as we passed. of course word had spread that the beautiful miss winship was expected. it was almost in a dream that i stood before mrs. henry van dam--a short, heavy woman, in purple velvet, flashing with diamonds. without a vestige of awkwardness or timidity i answered her effusive welcome, and the greetings of her grayish wisp of a husband, and of mr. and mrs. marmaduke van dam--both thin and grave; her neck cords standing out under her diamond collar. and of little mr. robert van dam. and of mr. bellmer--a pink, young, plump thing, all white waistcoat and bald head, just as i remembered him at the opera. i held a reception of my own. i did it easily. after the first moments ned's presence excited me. i was always conscious of his nearness; i felt that whether i talked or was silent--though i was never allowed to be that--to whatever part of the room he went, his glowing eyes never left me. and there came to me a thrilling confidence that he understood. he knew that to me all these people were so much lace, so many blotches of white complexion, so many pincushions of silk or lustrous satin stuck through with jewels. he knew that i cared for no one of them; for nothing; not even for my beauty, except that--thank god!--it pleasured him. i knew that perfect beauty had come to me last night--had come because i loved and was loved; and because love was not the pale shadow i had called by its name, but a rapture that was in my heart and in my face and in the faces 'round me and in the music that swelled from the great ballroom! i had no idea of time, but perhaps it wasn't long before the general manoeuvred me from the sitting-out rooms and across the hall to join the dancers. mrs. baker and john were with us; ned was not, but i knew that he would follow. it was a big apartment that we entered, occupying the entire end of the second floor towards the street, perhaps thirty feet by forty and twenty high; for an instant i was dazzled by the gleam of white and gold, the rise of pilasters at door and window, the shimmer of soft, bright hangings and everywhere the cheat of mirrors. i breathed delight at sight of the lovely ceiling all luminous--no lights showed anywhere, yet the air was transfused by a rosy glow. the next minute i had forgotten this in the pulse of the music and the blur of moving figures; my favourite waltz was sounding, and the scene was one of fairyland. "shall we dance?" asked john, and i came to myself in a panic. dance with john--there? i hadn't thought of that. of course i must, but--why, his step is abominable! it always was! "as you please," i said with the best grace i could muster, glancing nervously up at him. he looked well in his new evening clothes, but his face was set in grim lines of endurance, and i went on with guilty haste to forestall question or reproach:-"i hope you waltz better than you used." "i'm afraid i don't," said he dryly. and he didn't. i simply couldn't dance with him. he never thought about what he was doing or where he was going. i looked back despairingly at the general, grimacing involuntarily as i gathered my skirts from under his feet; and i had an odd notion that she smiled with malicious satisfaction. could she have reckoned upon weaning me from him by a display of his awkwardness? i felt nettled at both of them. "helen," he said abruptly, as we laboured along the crowded floor, "do you remember our last dance--at the commencement ball?" the night of our betrothal! what a time to remind me of it! i had just seen ned and milly join the group we had left; and as they, too, began to dance, i felt a stab of pain that made me answer angrily--we were barely escaping collision with another couple:-"if it's only at commencement that you care to dance--" he tightened his grip upon me almost roughly, then took me back to my aunt without a word. i tried to reason myself out of my pettishness, to atone to john, poor fellow! but my eyes followed ned and milly among the graceful, flying figures, and my feet tapped the floor impatiently until, presently, the music stopped and they came to us. then ned's parted lips said something, and then--as the music recommenced, i was in his arms and, almost without my own knowledge or volition, was moving around the room. moving, not dancing--floating in a rosy light, away and away from them all, into endless space, my hand in his, his breath on my cheek; always to go on, i felt; on and on, to the dim borderland between this earth and heaven. presently his eyes told me that something was happening. the dancers had been too busily engaged to pay much heed to my first brief adventure, but in the intermission of the music i had been noticed, and now i saw that there was an open space about us. here and there a couple stood as they had risen from their seats, while others, who had begun to dance, had come to a pause. slender girls in clouds of gauze and fat matrons panting in satins were gazing in our direction. in the doorway were gathered people from the parlours. "are they looking at us? we must stop," i whispered. "looking at you, not us. but don't stop; not yet--helen!" "helen!" he had called my name! my eyes must have shown with bliss and terror. i had an almost overmastering desire to whisper his name also, to answer the entreaty of his voice, the clasp of his fingers. but i forced myself to remember how many eyes were watching. "i--we must stop," i said. "not yet; unless--we shall dance together again?" i scarcely heard the "yes" i breathed. i shouldn't have known what i had said but for the sudden light in his eyes, the firmer pressure of his arm. my feet didn't seem to touch the floor, as he gently constrained me when i would have ceased to dance, and kept me circling round with him until we came opposite my seat; then he put me into it as naturally as if i had been tired. tired! our faces told--they must have told our story. but the others were blind--blind! john had risen as if to meet us, but if he took note at all of my flushed face, he doubtless thought me frightened. it was exultation, not fright. i did not heed the following eyes, when, as gliding figures began to cover the floor again, john took me back to the parlours. i went with him submissively; i thought of nothing but the joy of my life, the love of my lover. i shall think of nothing else to the end of my days. ned went with me, confused and impulsive and ardent as john was attentive and curiously formal. but i wasn't allowed to remain with either of them. i didn't wish to do so. i was glad that people crowded about me--men in black coats all alike, whose talk was as monotonous as their broad expanses of shirt front or their cat's eye finger rings. but i tried to listen and answer that i might hide from john my tumult. before long i danced again--this time with some black coat; then with another and another and another; and, at last, once more with ned. we scarcely spoke, but he did not hide from me the fervour of his look, nor i from him the wild joy of mine. there was no need of words when all was understood, but as he put his arm around me, the tinkling music receded until i could hardly hear it, the figures about us grew indistinct--and in all the world there were left only he and i. "once there was another helen," he said. his voice caressed my name. "there have been many; which helen?" i so loved the word as he had spoken it that i must repeat it after him. "_the_ helen; there was never another--until you. she was terrible as an army with banners; fair as the sea or the sunset. men fought for her; died for her. she had hair that meshed hearts and eyes that smote. sometimes i think--do you believe in soul transmigration?" my heart beat until it choked me. some voice far in the depths of my soul warned me that i must check him--we must wait until i--he--milly-"sometimes; who does not? but prof. darmstetter would say that it was nonsense," i whispered, and waited without power to say another word. "it is true; helen is alive again, and all men worship her." his eyes were so tenderly regardful that--i could not help it. once more i raised mine and we read each other's souls. and the music seized us and swept us away with its rapture and its mystery. the rest of the evening comes to me like a dream, through which i floated in the breath of flowers and the far murmur of unheeded talk. i saw little, heard little, yet was faintly conscious that i was the lodestar of all glances and exulting in my triumph. it was marvellous! i didn't dance much. people don't at new york balls. but whether i danced or talked with tiresome men, my heart beat violently because he would see the admiration i won--he would know that i, who was helen, a queen to these others, lived only for him, was his slave. there was supper, served at an endless number of little tables; there was a cotillon which i danced with mr. bellmer. john stayed in the parlours with aunt, and ned danced with milly, but i was not jealous. jealous of milly, with her thin shoulders rising out of her white dress, her colourless eyes and her dull hair dressed like mine with roses? jealous, when his glance ever sought me; when, as often as we approached in a figure, if i spoke, his eyes answered; if i turned away my face, his grew heavy with pain? once in the dance i gave a hand to each of them. his burned like my own; hers was cold. "tired, milly?" i asked, and indeed i meant kindly. "no," she said sulkily, turning to the next dancer. i couldn't even pity her, i was so happy. i couldn't bear to have the beautiful evening end, and yet i was glad to go home--to be alone. when john lifted me from the carriage, his clasp almost crushed my hand; poor john, how he will feel the blow! i didn't wait to say good-night to aunt; i didn't look at milly, but ran away to my room. oh, indeed, the child doesn't love him! milly knows no more about love than i did two months ago. she's bloodless, cold; i do not wrong her. some day she will learn what love is, as i have learned, and will thank me for saving her from a great mistake. i hope she will! i have saved myself from the error of my life. i'm not the same woman i was yesterday. it makes me blush to think how i looked forward to the adulation of the nobodies at that dance. i care for no praise but his. why, i'll go in rags, i'll work, slave--i'll hide myself from every eye but his, if that will make him love me better. or i will be empress of beautiful women, if that is his pleasure, and give him all an empress's love. i couldn't sleep last night. i know that he could not. i know that he has been watching, waiting, as i have, for to-day, when he must come to me. chapter viii. a little belted earl. feb. 4. five wasted days; and nothing more to tell, though some women mightn't think so; nothing but--another triumph! i've been to the charity ball. i've danced with a lord--such a little fellow to be a belted earl! i have scored over brilliant women of society. it isn't the simple country girl of a few weeks ago whom ned loves, but a wonderful woman--a personage; and i am glad, glad, glad! though no woman could be good enough for him. i'm not; i am only beautiful enough. and oh, so feverishly happy, except that waiting is hard, so hard. i'm so restless that i scarcely know myself. if i might tell him that i love him--as other queens do! i am afraid of his glance when he is here, because he knows. but when he's not here, i imagine that he does not know, that he will never come again unless he learns the truth, and i say it over and over: "i love him! i love him!" and am glad and panic-stricken as if he had heard. i have never had any other secret, but the bacillus, i would sooner die than tell that, to ned. my love i would cry aloud, but i cannot until he speaks, and he cannot speak until--has milly no pride? i thought--i thought that the very day after the dance--why, i could have rubbed my eyes, when i went down to a late breakfast, to find mrs. baker chirping with sleepy amiability, and milly doling out complacent gossip to ethel. the very sky had fallen for me to gather rainbow gold--and here we were living prose again, just as before. i had struggled with my joy through all the short night, for i had imagined them suffering and angry; but i do believe that on the whole milly had enjoyed the dance, and liked to shine even by her reflected importance as the beautiful miss winship's cousin. she had been vexed by ned's admiration for me; and yet--and yet she didn't understand. the stupid! didn't see that his love is mine. there may have been a pause as i came, dazzling them like a great rosy light; but then my aunt stifled a yawn as she said, "here's nelly," and the chatter went on as before. but i didn't hear it. gliding confusedly into a seat, i had opened a note from john. "--called west on business; start to-day," it said; and then indeed i began to feel the tangle, the terrible tangle--my cousins blind, john gone, when i was counting the minutes until i could see him. oh, i must be free! it is his right to know the truth, and--what can ned say while i'm affianced? i am milly's cousin, and he john's friend. i hurried to escape. i longed to be by myself that i might recall ned's every look and word. without reason--against reason--i felt that at any minute ned might come, and waves of happiness and dread and impatience swept over me, and kept me smiling and singing and running anxiously to my glass. ned loves my beauty; i pulled down my hair and reknotted it and pulled it down again, fearful--so foolish have i grown--lest i might fail to please him; and frowned over my dresses and rummaged bureau drawers for ribbons, until milly, who had tapped at my door and entered almost without my notice, asked abruptly:-"who's coming?" "no one; john--no, he's out of town." i flushed to see her regard the litter about me with calm deliberateness. "oh, you don't have to take pains for john," she said with a short laugh. "but come; meg's down stairs." the general had followed milly up; she whisked into the room, showering me with congratulations on my success at the dance, she claimed me for a dinner, a concert--half a dozen engagements. "oh, by the way," she said, checking her flood of gossip. "who d'you suppose is to be at the charity ball? lord strathay. you'll talk with a real earl, nelly--for of course he'll ask to be introduced." "another dance!" groaned my aunt, who had trotted panting in the general's wake; "i'm sure i wish i'd never said she might go; i'm as nervous as a witch after last evening." poor aunt; she looked tired. she's really becoming the great objector. such a day as it was! i started at every footstep; my heart gave an absurd jump at every movement of the door hangings. of course i knew that ned couldn't--that we mustn't see each other until--but ned is mine; it's so wonderful that he loves me. if i were milly, i wouldn't remain an hour--not a minute!--in such a false position. yet the next day passed just like that day, and the next and the next and the next; every morning a note from john, scrawled on a railway train, and begging for a line from me. i wrote, poor fellow; so that's settled, and i'm very sorry for him. i got rid of one morning by calling on prof. darmstetter. it was three weeks since i had seen him, and he was testy. "i see much in t'e newspapers about t'e beautiful mees veensheep, but v'y does she neglect our experiment?" he demanded, following me across the laboratory to my old table. "v'ere are my records, my opportunities for observation? has t'e beautiful mees veensheep no regard for science?" "you've always said she hadn't, and pretended to be glad of it; i won't contradict," i returned. "but hurry up with your records; it doesn't need science or the newspapers, does it, to tell you that the beautiful miss winship cannot go about very freely?" "ach, no," said he humbly; for he could not look upon my face and hold his anger. "if i haf not alreaty gifen to mees veensheep t'e perfect beauty t'at i promised, i cannot conceive greater perfection. you are satisfied vit' our vork--vit' me?" "yes, i'm satisfied," i said coolly. just as soon as i could, i left him. oh, i ought to be grateful, more than ever grateful now that the bacillus has won for me the most blessed of earth's gifts--the gift of love. but i'm not; i wish i might never again see prof. darmstetter; he reminds me--he makes me feel unreal. as for his records, the experiment is finished. we have succeeded, and i want to enjoy our success and forget its processes. and why not? he knows in his heart that we have no further need of each other. my real records now are public; the charity ball last night added a brilliant chapter. the charity ball! how calmly i write that! i hope it may be the last triumph i need to win in public without ned; but i enjoyed it. there was no awkward john to spoil my dancing, no jealous milly, no over-anxious aunt. i had mrs. marmaduke van dam for my chaperon--more the great lady, with all her thin rigidity, than mrs. henry; and for companion the general, almost as young and light-hearted as i. and i was mistress of myself, strong and self-contained. instead of being confused when all eyes were bent upon me, i had a new feeling of glad self-command. i felt the rhythm of my flawless beauty, my pure harmonies of face and form, and found it natural that fine toilets should be foils to my cheap white dress, and that i should be the centre around which the great assembly revolved. i'm really getting used to myself. i danced constantly, danced myself tired, holding warm at my heart this one thought: that in the morning ned would read of my triumphs and be proud of them, and rejoice because she about whom the whole city is talking thinks only of him. my partner in the march was "hughy" bellmer, as the general calls him; i begin to know him well. he's harmless, with his drawl and his round pink face that shines with admiration. deliciously he patronized the ball. "aw, miss winship," he said, "too large, too public. people prefer to dawnce in their own houses."--the ball was at the waldorf-astoria.--"the smaller a dawnce is, the greater it is, don't ye see." "but aren't any great people here?" i asked demurely. "i am just a country mouse, and i've really counted on seeing one or two great people, mr. bellmer--besides you, of course." "the charity ball is--aw, y'know, miss winship, an institution," he explained, fairly strutting in his complacency at my deference; "and as an institution, not as a society event, ye understand, it is patronized by the most prominent ladies in the city." "how good of them!" i cried, laughing. he was so funny! but he was useful, too; he knew about everybody. some of the women i shall remember--mrs. sloane schuyler, leader of the smallest and most exclusive of society's many sets--a handsome woman with well-arched eyebrows; and mrs. fredericks, of the same group; sallow, with great black eyes, talking with tremendous animation; and mrs. terry--of the newly rich; mr. bellmer's aunt; dumpy, diamonded and disagreeable-looking. "but where are the famous beauties?" i asked eagerly. "won't they dance, even for charity, except in their own houses?" some of them were there; tall, pale, stylish girls, or women whose darkened eyes and faces mealy with powder told of a bitter fight with time. why, i haven't seen a woman whom i thought beautiful since--since i became so. "aw, miss winship, really, y'know, you have no rivals," said my partner. i hadn't supposed him clever enough to guess what i was thinking. "oh, yes i have--one," i said; "isn't there somewhere here a real live lord?" but just then we joined meg, and it was she who pointed out to me "the earl of strathay--the twelfth earl of strathay," in a whisper of comical respect and deference. he wasn't very impressive--just a thin, pale young fellow with a bulbous head, big above and small below; but i was glad to do meg a service; for of course she wished to meet him, and of course lord strathay was presented to the beautiful miss winship and her chaperons. then i danced with him. i felt as if i were amusing a nice boy; he hardly came to my shoulder. i asked him if he liked america. he wasn't too much of a boy to reply:-"like is a feeble word to voice one's impressions of the land of lovely women." and then he looked at me. oh, he did admire me immensely, and i took quite a fancy to him in turn, though it seemed pathetic that such a poor little fellow--i don't believe he's twenty-one--should carry the weight of his title. i danced with his cousin, too, a mr. poultney; and wherever i went strathay's eyes followed me wistfully. meg danced with strathay and amused me by her elation. she hadn't really recovered from it to-day. to-day! blessed to-day! lord strathay's only an earl; to-day there came to me--ned! oh, this has been the gladdest, most provoking day of my life, for i had only a moment with him. it was mrs. baker's "afternoon," and we had a good many callers; the fame of my beauty has spread. they gazed furtively at me as they talked and sipped their tea, and it was all very stupid until--oh, i didn't know how perturbed, how unhappy i'd been, until--i glanced up for a word with the general, who came late, and behind her i saw--him. he came to me as if there were no one else in the room. ah, i have been unhappy! i have known that he would try to keep away from me. useless! useless to fight with love! it's too strong for us. at sight of him joy like a fire flashed through my veins. but there were my cousins; there was meg--she looked at him impatiently, i fancied, as she has sometimes looked at john. poor john, it didn't need her surveillance to break his feeble hold upon my heart. and there they stayed. they wouldn't go. they stayed, and talked, while i shivered and grew hot with fear and gladness and the excitement of his presence; they talked--of all senseless topics--about the ball. "why, mr. hynes, we've missed you," said ethel carelessly, at sight of him. "oh, meg, tell us about last night, won't you? helen's said nothing; almost nothing at all." "oh, what is there to tell?" it made me impatient. how could i chatter nothings when ned was by my side, smiling down at me so confusedly? "most girls would find enough! you should have heard the dowagers cluck, ethel!" exclaimed the general, her face losing its vexed look at the thought. "it was bad weather for their broods. you never saw such a scurrying, pin feathers sticking every which way. the proudest hour of hughy bellmer's life was when the march started, and he walked beside helen--same parade as always--through that wide hall between the astor gallery and the big ball room; committeemen and patronesses at the head and the line tailing. you may believe the plumes drooped and the war paint trickled. nelly was the only girl looked at. milly, you should have been there? headache? you look pale beside helen." "oh, i don't hope to rival nelly's colour; she looks like--like somebody's '_femme peinte par elle-mãªme_.'" said milly with a laugh that might have been innocent. since ned's entrance she had grown white and my cheeks had burned, until there was reason for her jest. "is mr. bellmer handsome--handsome enough to be nelly's partner?" persisted ethel, impatient for her gossip--to her it's all there is of gayety. "and is lord strathay--nice?" "mr. bellmer's an overgrown cherub with a monocle," i laughed. ned shall not think me one of those odious, fortune-hunting girls. "hughy's pretty good-looking, ethie," said meg, amiably; "and the best fellow in the world; but probably not of a calibre to interest a college girl. and lord strathay"--the name rolled slowly from her tongue, as if she were loth to let it go--"is a charming fellow. just succeeded to the title. he's travelling with his cousin, the hon. stephen allardyce poultney. nelly danced with him. and did she tell you that mrs. sloane schuyler begged to have her presented? sister to a duchess, you know. we'll have helen in london next. nobody there to compare with her. just what strathay said, i do assure you." london! men of title, and great ladies and the glitter of a court! once i may have dreamed of power and place and the rustle of trailing robes, and being admired of all men and hated of all women, but now in my annoyance i longed to cry out: "why can't you talk sense? why babble of such silly things?" to make matters worse, uncle came just in time to hear the general's last remark. "i do not think our princess would leave us," he said, "even if- 'at her feet were laid the sceptres of the earth exposed on heaps to choose where she would reign.'" it was scarcely to be borne. i knew he was thinking of john, and i caught myself looking down at my hand, praying that ned might see that i no longer wore the opal ring. then came aunt frank with a headache, looking ill enough, indeed; and i was glad to jump up and serve her some tea. "milly has a headache, too," i said; and she looked from milly's vexed, cold face to mine, almost peevishly replying:-"nothing ever seems to ail you, child." after all the weary waiting, ned and i exchanged only a word. but the word was a delight and a comfort. more than once the judge has suggested for me a short absence from the city to win a respite from the newspapers; and this morning, when he saw that the _echo_ had smuggled an east side girl into the ballroom last night to tell the bowery, in boweryese, how the other half lives, her descriptions of me so incensed him that he almost insisted upon aunt's packing for bermuda at once. ned must have heard of that. "you will not go away?" he said when he took leave of me. "you know that uncle--" "you will not?" "no." i couldn't speak steadily. the low, passionate entreaty told me that he had come to receive that pledge, and i gave it. oh, now, now, i cannot be unhappy! i know that he has tried to stay away from me, and why he has not succeeded. love has been too mighty for us both. love has conquered us, and i--i shall never again be unhappy! book iv. the bruising of the wings. chapter i. the kiss that lied. east sixty-seventh street, feb. 25. he said he did not love me. it is not true. i saw love when he spoke, when he kissed my hands. he does love me, but he guards a man's honour. i have broken john's heart, given up my home, estranged my friends; i have given up even ned for love of him. but i'd have gone to the ends of the earth in gladness, i'd have given up for him all else in life--even my beauty; which is dearer than life. he'll come to me yet. milly won't forgive, won't trust. she will not try to understand. her only thought will be to hurt, to punish. she'll drive him to me again; but oh, the shame of taking him so, given to me by her severity! i won't believe he doesn't love me. what have i done to be so tortured? i didn't know it was cruelty not to break the bond with john earlier; i didn't know i gave him only a girl's passing fancy. it was when i met ned that my heart awoke. i knew that he was milly's betrothed and i had not thought of thus repaying aunt's kindness. her kindness! kind as a stone. but it wasn't ned's fault. he couldn't help himself. if he could have left me alone! if he could only have gone away! i suppose he tried to control himself, but his eyes glowed when he looked on me; and i, thinking i knew what love was, because i was affianced, did not see--did not know what the wild joy meant that his look woke in my heart. to keep faith with john and milly, should i have shunned him? but there was nothing to warn me; he never spoke of love; i never thought of it. if he had spoken earlier, i might have known what to do. it might have been the danger signal. why could he not have kept away? why did he not speak a word of love until it was too late--until--ah, i was so happy! but he does love me. there's truer speech than that of words, and his lips--that kissed me, but said he did not love--have told two stories. i know which to believe! and milly knows. she is too wise to contend with me. i shall never know what brought ned to the house--three weeks ago, but i haven't dared to write of it--i shall never know what happened before i saw him. i ran into the library with a song bubbling to my lips--for i was thinking of him--and the gladness of it was in my eyes when i found him there. he started and turned to me a face of confusion--yes, and of worship. he fumbled with a book on the table, and glanced toward the door as if he would have left me. i saw that, but i didn't think--there was no time to think, but i must have felt that a crisis had come that would decide our lives. all the fear, all the sweet shame that i had felt before him vanished. my heart beat wildly for happiness, but i was calm. at last we were alone together! i waited for him to speak. slowly he turned as my questioning eyes had willed. his were black with passion and grief. a look of pain contracted his face, and he said, jerking the words out hoarsely:-"i'm going away." the suddenness of it almost took my breath. i had expected different words. indeed his eyes had shot another message; _they_ said that he would never leave me! confused by lips that lied and eyes that confessed, i stammered:-"going--not going away? why? why should you go?" i couldn't keep appeal out of my tone, and i could see him brace himself to resist. i think i knew that, if he could, he meant to sacrifice our love to john and milly. i think i had seen this earlier; but i had thought the struggle past when he came to me and begged me not to leave the city. but perhaps, this time, i didn't understand him; perhaps i was simply confused by his distress. i thought he tried in vain to look away from me. then he moved a step nearer, slowly, as if reluctant. his face was haggard. "tell me why you are going." i scarcely knew i spoke. it was as if some will independent of my own had dictated the words. yet i did not try to hide my heart's wish; it was too late. he was my life, and in all but words--yes, and in words even--i told him so. we had confessed our love. it was his right. "listen," i said. "if anything is--is wrong, i must know it. i--i _must_ know it. tell me. i must know everything. ned, you must tell me." a vein stood out upon his forehead, but still he gazed silently at me. after a time he said hoarsely:-"i'm going because for your beauty i have thrown away the love of the woman i was to marry. for you i have lost her, and yet--i loved milly. my god, i love her!" once he had begun, the words came with fierce swiftness. he seemed to mean them to sting, to cut, to stab. it was hard not to cry out with the pain of hearing them. all that i understood was that he meant to wrench himself from me with a force that should make the breach impassable. this i felt, though still his eyes gave the lie to his words; his eyes that said i was dear as life to him. "don't think i blame you for the inevitable," he went on. "you do not know, and i pray god you may never understand, how contemptible i have been. and don't think me a fool; i'm not crying for the moon, nor dreaming that a glorious creature like you--ah, you're as far above me as the stars above the sea--to you i have been only--" "don't speak like that!" i cried. white-faced, i stared at him, tremblingly, pleadingly. there was a cloud in my brain that seemed to be coming down; it threatened to smother me--but i held fast to my courage. it was life itself for which i was fighting. "you have--you are--" the truth was at my lips, but he interrupted:-"i know you have reason to hate me, for i have done you wrong. because of my folly, your place here is not what it was; and you love burke, whom i have wronged, as i love milly, whom i have estranged. i must keep away from you. you can see that. for the sake of all, i must keep away from you." the cloud was choking me, but i put forth my strength. "you have done nothing wrong; i do not--" words failed me. i hadn't the temerity to speak john's name. and ned--could he not see?--only stood there saying:-"why i've wrecked milly's life and mine and turned your friends against you, only god knows, who made men what they are; only god knows--i don't. can you forgive me?" didn't he love me? his despair was beating conviction into me. he was pale, his lip quivered. why was he humbled and ashamed? i was palsied with doubt, and the golden moments were fleeting, were fleeting. i must act! but i felt as if i were dead and could not, though that strangling cloud still hurt me. "there is nothing to forgive," i faltered at last. "or--you must forgive me. perhaps i should understand, but--oh, i'm not wise. indeed i have not meant to--to--shall i speak to milly for you? but that would only make matters worse. they may take me--to bermuda--anywhere; or--i will leave this house; she'll forget if i go away." at the last words my tremulous voice broke almost into a scream. must i go away--go away that he may make milly happy? "you will stay here," he said, his lips quivering more and more. "why should i drive you from home? i have lost milly. she understands no more than you, and i hope she never may! you need not fear that i shall trouble you. i shall not see you again. you are maddening--no, not that--but i am mad. mad!" he turned abruptly to go, came back as hastily, caught my hand and pressed hot kisses on it. his burning eyes looked passionately into mine. he was indeed like one insane. then with a great groan of contrition he put his hands before his face and rushed blindly from the room. "ned! ned!" i cried out, but it was too late; he didn't hear me. i don't know how i reached my chamber. i fell in a heap on the floor, shivering, laughing, sobbing, moaning for death. going away! i was going away from ned! my beauty had meshed him; i almost hated it. i saw his haggard face, i heard again his voice, solicitous for milly's grief. i know now that pain cannot kill, or i should have died. going away! he did not love me. he cared nothing for my hurt, only for milly's. he loved that little white piece of putty that hadn't life enough to love any man! i heard rain against the windows and felt a sudden fierce longing to go out and fight the storm. could not a strong woman compel love? no other woman since the world began had been so fit for love, had yearned for it so hungrily. going away! yet i felt his kisses upon my hand. are men so different? what is a man, that he should love and not love? how cold the old nelly was! since coming to the city, i had never let john kiss me; yet i thought i loved him. i thought love was a brook to make little tinkling music, and it had become a mighty ocean sweeping over me, sweeping over me! but i must act at once, i thought; i must go away. i must find my aunt, must tell her--what? where could i go? not back to kitty; she had left the den. not to miss baker, who would share aunt's wrath. where could one such as i find refuge? a woman whom all women must hate for her loveliness? "ned! ned! i am alone!" i cried in my agony of soul. "you must--you will!--come back to me, come back to me." i bathed my eyes and hurried from the house to forget the thought, but it followed everywhere. the rain had not stopped, but it suited me to be drenched, to hold my face to the whiplash of the water snapped by the wind. i went to meg van dam, who had long urged me to pay her a visit. this time i was ready to consent, for she at least was glad to have me; and before i left her i had agreed to go to her. it was dinner time when i reached home, glad that it was to be home to me no longer; the house made me shudder as a dungeon might. it was so changed since morning, seen now with different eyes. the dining room was so heavily respectable, with its fussily formal arrangements--like uncle, for it's big; like aunt, for it's crotchety. i suppose there must have been a scene with ned. aunt frank was depressed, fitfully talkative. milly scarcely spoke, but in the curtness with which she turned her sullen head when poor ethel asked some question, i wasn't slow in finding a meaning. joy begged in vain for her nightly lullaby. i couldn't respond to her "thing, cothin nelly!" i'd never before noticed how like she is to her sisters. with her snubby nose and her yellow braids, she'll grow into just another white-faced doll as milly. miss baker talked persistently about bermuda; as if my exile had ever been a possibility! in all my blind whirlwind of pain, i was glad that this was the last night i should have to writhe under the click of her knitting needles, and sit opposite her large, solemn features. "a change will do you good, frances," she purred. "by either the _orinoco_ or the _trinidad_ you'll have only a two days' voyage. helen will be in her element among the coral, and milly must come home with a coat of tan." milly bent lower over her magazine; in an hour she hadn't turned a page. her thin hands, like claws, that held the book, disgusted me, fascinated me! they were the hands that ned had kissed, as he had mine; clasped and pressed, as he had--how could he! i called aunt to me at bedtime, and told her i'd trespassed upon her kindness too long, and that mrs. van dam was pressing. "but we can't let you go," she said, even while the wonder whether she might not shone through her face. "you and meg have become friends, i know, but bake and i feel responsible to your mother." of course we understood each other, but neither cared to speak the truth. she had no pity, in her feeling for her own child, for the hurt i might conceal. and i don't want her pity! at least i shall no longer have to tear my heart out, meeting ned in her house. the parting was easier than might have been expected, for we all rose to the occasion. uncle had been drilled over night, and his perplexity and aunt's preparations for leaving home amused me. the trip to bermuda had been proposed for my sake, aunt had only half desired it; but now she forgot her fears of winter storms, seasickness and shipwreck, and clutched at the excuse to whisk milly out of reach of ned hynes and out of sight of me. her tone was dulcet sweet. "we can't blame you for preferring new york, when the van dams are so lovely to you," she said complacently. "but ethel is delicate. bermuda'll do her a world of good; though of course it's not fashionable.'" "i'm sure you'll have a lovely trip," i said. "you must let me help you pack." she was turning the house topsy-turvy in her zeal to sail by the next boat, the very next day. she succeeded; and when she left the house i left it, too; to come here; to the general; to a house that would two months ago have seemed a palace such as i could never dream of living in. it would suit me better to be independent, to be sometimes alone, to feel that i shouldn't have a shrewd woman's eyes so much upon me. but for the present--it is my refuge! at christmas i should have broken down and sobbed when i saw the last of the bakers, instead of dropping honeyed sentences and undulating out of the room--like--like--. he called me once the goddess glowing in her walk. i have changed this winter, mentally as well as physically. chapter ii. the irony of life. i've been feverishly gay since i came to meg. i have walked between stormwinds--grief behind and grief that i must enter. i've dined and danced, and i've clenched my hands lest i might shriek, and i've longed to hide away and die. but i won't die. i'm not like other women--a silly, whining pack, their hearts the same fluttering page blotted with the same tears wept in hell or heaven. love is a draught for two--or one; wretched one!--to drink. my life is for the world. oh, i've been a child, caring only for the lights and the pretty things and the music; but i'm not blind now. i understand many things that were hidden from the plain girl from the west. i have lived a year in every day. i see as they are these people i have thought so kind. so rich i call them now; so smug, so socially jealous. there's meg van dam, now; surely she knows why i have come to her, and she was milly's friend; yet she fawns upon me. i thought her a great person, but now i know she's eager to rise by hanging at my skirts, and i amuse myself with her joy that i've rejected ned, as she thinks; with her talk of strathay, her dismay at john burke's wooing. john's so persistent. he called to see me the very day--almost in the hour i came here; the hour i was pacing the dainty little room meg assigns me, picturing the scene on board the bermuda boat, wondering if ned had gone to the dock on the chance of a parting word with milly, torturing myself with the vision of a lovers' reconciliation. when john's card was brought, i was tempted to refuse to see him. but at the thought that he would know too well how to interpret reserves, i went down, nerved to meet him with a smile. "why, john," i said with my most pleased expression, "back from the west so soon? you've heard the news, i suppose--my cousins sailed this morning." he had turned from the window at the rustle of my dress, and the grimness of his square-set jaws, warning me of a coming struggle, relaxed into a look of perplexity. men have so little insight; he could not see that, as i sank, still smiling, into a chair, my breath came in gasps that almost choked me. after a moment's silence he said sharply:-"helen, we must be married." "married! didn't you get my letter? john--" "listen!" he interrupted. "i must have the right to take care of you. you need me." "indeed?" my tone was purposed insolence; i met his look with bravado. i hated him because he--because i--because he dared to know--because he offered to come to my relief when my aunt--ned--perhaps he thought me deserted--lovelorn. his awkward figure woke in me a sudden physical repulsion. "_i_ need _you_?" i repeated with a cool laugh. "and except the good deed of providing me with a husband, what services do you propose to--" "nelly," he said, disregarding my taunts, "i have just come from the _orinoco_. when i reached the office this morning and heard that the party was starting, i assumed that you would be with it and hurried to the pier. if i'd missed the boat, i might not have learned the truth until--when? why have they gone without you? what does it all mean?" i pulled a flower nonchalantly from a vase beside me, but i felt my cheeks burn and grow white with deadly cold and fever. "didn't mrs. baker tell you," i said, "that 'nelly dear' thought bermuda unfashionable? you got my letter?" "no; you did write, then? you so far recognised the claim of your promised husband--" "not now; not one minute--" in a blind frenzy of rage i held out his ring; but he knew the master word to my heart. i stopped short as, ignoring what i said, he hurried on. "why wasn't hynes at the boat?" he demanded. "did he know what i didn't--that it was not the place to seek you?" he grasped my wrists, he looked into my bloodless face--caught the defiant, exultant look that flashed upon it at the news he gave; then he dropped my hands but immediately seized them again. "if he dares come near you, he shall answer! speak!" he said. "is it for his sake that you've stayed here?" "if you will let me go--" he loosed his grasp and i ostentatiously chafed my wrists. i was in a fury. i was driven to madness by the thought that john might force a quarrel upon ned--the man i had rejected and the man that had rejected me! "i'll never marry you nor any poor man!" i cried out. "what have you to offer me? what can you do? oh, yes, you can come and insult me, and talk to me of love--love! the love that would make me a poor man's drudge!" again i thrust his ring at him, the opal spitting angry blue and orange fires. i thought he would have struck at it. heaven knows what mad instinct was at the back of his brain. i believe every man's a brute when the woman he loves defies him. i think his fingers tingled for the cave man's club. at any rate, i shrank in terror from his eyes. but quickly the red light sank in them, and a puzzled look grew there instead, turning them very soft and pitiful. "nelly, i cannot think you serious," he said. "we have always talked of marriage, and--is it an insult to press you for the day? heart of me, i've been so much worried about you! are you very sure that you have chosen the wisest part? if you are, i can only leave you to think it over, perhaps to--" "don't preach!" i flung out at him a torrent of abusive words, resolved that he should think about me what he chose, so long as it was not the truth. he had no plea for himself; he saw that it would be useless. i stabbed him the more viciously as the anger died out of his face and left it only grave and pained. he looked older than i had ever seen him before; and on his temple, where he turned toward the window, gleamed a little streak of gray. "but, nelly, what will you do?" he said at last. his tone was as level as if he were discussing some trivial matter. he had given up the fight, and, paying no heed to my unkindness, had fallen back upon the old habit, the instinct of looking out for me, smoothing my way after his own fashion that is so irritating. "you can't stay among these--these strangers, can you?" he continued. "are you going home?" "to the farm? never, i hope. mrs. van dam, my chaperon, has many plans for me--better form than talking things over with a man. in the spring we may go abroad." he tried--poor, foolish fellow--to read from my face the riddle of a woman's heart before he answered:-"i'm afraid i don't altogether understand you, nelly." presently he left me, wondering, even as i wonder now: why don't i care for john? he's a strong man and he loves me. just another of nature's sorry jests, isn't it? it was all so hopeless, so tangled. i leaned against the mantel, relieved by his going, but unutterably lonely. just for a moment i feared the brilliant future that stretched in vista--without love, it looked an endless level of tedium and weariness. my bitterness towards john melted and the years we had known each other unrolled themselves before me--happy, innocent years. i felt his strength and gentleness, and of a sudden something clutched at my throat. sob followed sob; i shook in a tearless convulsion. only for an instant. then i, too, turned to leave the room, but fate or instinct had brought john back and i was startled by his voice:-"nelly, tell me!" he did not come near me. there was no gust of passion in his tone, yet i felt as never before the depth of his tenderness. he had not come back to woo, but as the old friend, ambitious of helpfulness. "helen," he said, "how can i leave you, who need protection more than any other woman, so terribly alone?" i didn't fear i might be tempted, but i quavered out:-"john, go away. i've wronged you enough. i never loved you; i've no faith in love. i never loved you at all, and--you must have seen, lately, that i have changed--that i've become a very--a very mercenary woman. i can't afford to marry a poor man." my lips quivered, for this was the cruelest lie of all; i have changed, but i'm not money loving. and i couldn't deceive him. he smiled queerly, but he must have thought time his ally, for he only said:-"money can buy you nothing; you might leave gewgaws to other women. but you are less mercenary than you think yourself; and you will always know that i love you; let it rest with that, for now." so he went away the second time, leaving me with my hands clenched and my teeth set--so fierce had been my fight to seem composed. as i sank breathless into a chair, and my tense fingers relaxed, out from my right hand rolled the little opal ring. i hadn't returned it, after all; had been gripping it all the time, unknowing. at sight of it, i burst into hysterical laughter. and that madly merry laughter is the end. i should go crazy if i yielded to love that i can't return, and i should despise him if he accepted. a husband not too impassioned, a fair bargain--beauty bartered for position, power, for a name in history--that is all there is left to me, now that love has vanished. the farm! i couldn't go back, to isolation and dull routine! i told john i might go abroad. why not? i might see the great capitals, and in the splendour of palaces find a fitting frame for my beauty. there may be salve for heartache in the smile of princes. at any rate, the seas would flow between me and ned hynes. i had forgotten my ambitions. i'd have said to ned: "whither thou goest i will go;" but if what he feels for me is not love--if in his heart he hates me for the witchery i've put upon him-i could go abroad with a title, if i chose. if love lies not my way, there is strathay. how listless i am, turning from my sorrow to write of what to most girls would be a delight--of that pathetic little figure, toadied and flattered, but keeping a good heart through it all; of his marked attentions, which i permit because they keep other men away; of his efforts to see me--for the van dams' position isn't what i imagined it, and we are not invited to many houses where i could meet him; of meg's rejoicings over a few of the cards we do receive. oh, i win her triumphs, triumphs in plenty! because the earl admires me, hasn't she once sat at the same table with mrs. sloane schuyler, who refuses to meet intimately more than a hundred new york women; and hasn't she twice or thrice talked "autos" with mrs. fredericks; and isn't she envied by all the women of her own set because the earl and his cousin shine refulgent from her box at the opera? triumphs, certainly; doesn't mrs. henry wrangle with meg over my poor body, demanding that i sit in her box, and that i join peggy's badminton club, and bring the earl, who would bring the youths and maidens who would bring the prestige that would, some day, make a newport cottage socially feasible? that's her dream, meg's is mayfair; she thinks of nothing but how to invest me in london and claim her profit when i am strathay's countess, or mistress of some other little great man's hall. oh, i understand them; mrs. henry's the worst; oily! i wonder if london is less petty than new york; if i should be out of the tug and scramble there. but i mustn't judge new york, viewing it through the van dams' eyes. if i did, i should see a curious pyramid. at the top, a sole and unapproachable figure, the twelfth earl of strathay, just out of school; next a society, two-thirds of whose daughters will marry abroad, and to all of whose members an earl's lack of a wife is a burning issue; hanging by their skirts a thousand others, like the general and mrs. henry, available for big functions, pushing to get into the little ones; hanging by these in turn, ten thousand others outside the pale, but flinging money right and left in charity or prodigality to catch the eyes of those who catch the eyes of those who nod to earls; and after them nobody! and the problem: "how high can we climb?" why, there are twenty thousand families in new york rich enough to be elect, if wealth were all. i could almost marry strathay to save him from the ugly millioned girls! how they hate me! i know what love is like, now; strathay means to speak. if ned would only--but three weeks--three long, long weeks, and he doesn't--oh, i won't believe that, deep in his heart he does not love me. it's not time--not time, yet, to think about the little earl! at any rate i won't be flung at his head; last night i taught meg a lesson she'll remember. she meant to bring him home to supper after the opera, where, in spite of my first experience, we're constant now in attendance; but, to her surprise, then dismay, then almost abject remonstrance, i prepared to go out before dinner to inspect the new studio kitty and cadge have taken. "be back in good season?" she pleaded. "how _could_ you make an engagement for the night when strathay.--not wait for you! why helen, you can't--what would strathay think if i allowed you to arrive alone at the opera?" "then can't you and peggy entertain him?" "peggy?" she looked at me with blank incredulity. "you wouldn't stay away when strathay--why, helen, you didn't mean that. drive straight to the metropolitan when you leave your--those people, if you don't wish to come back for me. where do they live?" she groaned despairingly. "top of a business block in west fourteenth street." i thought she would have refused me the carriage for such a trip, but she didn't venture quite so far as that; and the hour i spent with the girls was a blessed breathing spell. "what a barn!" i cried, when i had climbed more stairs than i could count to the big loft where i found them. "girls, how came you here?" "behold the prodigal daughter! shall we kill the fatted rarebit?" and kitty threw herself upon me; while cadge, waving her arms proudly at the navajo rugs, stuffed heads of animals and vast canvasses of indian braves and ponies that made the weird place more weird, replied to my query:-"borrowed it of an artist who's wintering in mexico; cheap; just as it stands." then they installed me under a queer tepee, and we had one of the old time picked-up suppers, and for an hour my troubles were pushed into the background. the girls are in such frightful taste that i really should drop them, but they're loyal and so proud of me! "princess," said cadge, "time you were letting contracts for the building of fresh worlds to shine in. you're the most famous person in this, with all the women thirsting for your gore; and you've a real live lord for a 'follower.'" "that's nothing." cadge thinks me still betrothed to john, so she affected to misunderstand. "nearly nothing, for a fact," she said; "it isn't ornamental, but we seldom see specimens and mustn't judge hastily. and it is a lord.--see the hand-out he gave me for last sunday--full-page interview: 'earl of strathay discusses american society?' "some english won't stand for anything but a regular pie-faced story, but strathay's a real good little man." "you said he had sixty-nine pairs of shoes," said kitty reminiscently. "no; twenty-nine." "what's his lordlets doing in new york?" inquired pros., who was there as usual, a queer and quiet wooer. "tinting the town a chaste and delicate pink, assisted and chaperoned by his cousin, the hon. stephen allardyce poultney. ugh! glad the _star_ doesn't want an interview with _his_ geniality; don't like s.a.p. esq.," said cadge energetically. "but, helen, now you've got people where you want 'em, you play your own hand. you don't want any van dam for a bear leader. that crowd's been working every fetch there is to get in with the top notchers, and they just couldn't. knowing you is worth more to them than endowing a hospital. you're a social bonanza." perhaps i shouldn't have let her talk so about meg, but, after all, she told me nothing new. "did i send you a marked paper with the paragraph i wrote about the important 'ological experiments you couldn't leave, even for the 'land of the lily and the rose?'" she proceeded. "don't wonder you didn't want to go to bermuda, everything coming so fast your way. i crammed your science into the story because it's good advertising. don't really study at barnard now, do you? i wouldn't; would you, kitty?" her white, mobile face gleaming with animation, cadge declaimed upon one of her thousand hobbies:-"what's women's science good for but dribbling essays to women's clubs? if some 'chairwoman of progress' were to grab off the princess, does it take science to give 'em 'fresh evidence that woman was evolved from a higher order of quadrumanous ape than man?' we all know what the clubs want, and if they get it, they'd vote any one of us as bright a light as haeckel.--pros., you saved any clippings for the princess?" pros. gave me a quantity of articles about my beauty cut from out-of-town and foreign papers. i believe i'll subscribe to a clippings bureau. i hadn't thought of that. i stayed and stayed; it was so pleasant in the eyrie; but when at last i rose to go, kitty sighed:-"why, you've only been here a minute, and in that gorgeous dress, you're like a real princess, not my chum. i shall suggest a court circular--'the princess helen drove out yesterday attended by gen. van dam.'--'her serene highness, princess helen, honoured the misses reid and bryant last evening at a soiree.'--leaded brevier every morning on the editorial page. oh, nelly, can't i have your left-off looks? a homely girl starves on bread and water, while a pretty one wallows in jam." "princess must be wallowing in wealth," said cadge, inspecting my evening dress; "suspect she didn't dress for us; it's opera night. stockholders share receipts with you? beauty show in that first tier box must sell tickets." "wish they would divide; i'm as poor as a church mouse," i said, laughing. i didn't go to the opera, though the girls had cheered me up until i hurried home prepared to do meg's bidding; but she had gone--angry, i suppose--and i didn't follow. i gained nothing; the opera gives me my best chance to see and be seen. i might as well have had my hour of triumph, the men in the box, the jealous glances of the women. i might as well have scanned with feverish expectation the big audience that turns to me more eagerly than to the singers, searching--oh, i'm mad to think that ned might come there again to look upon me. i didn't even escape the earl. meg and her husband came home early, bringing him and poultney; we had the supper, and, for my sins, i made myself so agreeable that meg forgave me, almost. it was easy; i just let the poor boy talk to me about his mother and sisters, and watched his face light up as he spoke of them in a simple, hearty way that american boys don't often command. he is really very nice. one of his sisters is a beauty. "but not like you," he said. he's as boyishly honest as if he were sixteen; and as modest. to be countess of strathay would be a-of course mrs. henry and peggy were here, smiling on mr. poultney, strathay's cousin. oh, i'm useful! i believe mrs. marmaduke is the only van dam who's kind to me without a motive; they're not knickerbockers at all, as i supposed. cadge is right; i gain nothing socially by remaining with meg; and her guesses come too close to my heart's sorrow. she watches and worries, forever concerned lest some "folly" on my part interfere with her ambitions. why, i'm frantic at times with imagining that even the maid she lends me--an english "person"--reports upon my every change of mood. oh, i ought to be independent, independent in all ways. with a little money i could manage it. there's a mrs. whitney, a widowed aunt of meg's husband, who lives alone in an apartment where a paying guest, if that guest were i, might be received. meg would raise an outcry, of course, but i can't keep on visiting her indefinitely; and i should still be partly in her hands. but i have no money. my allowance is the merest nothing, spent before it comes. why, i owe meg's dressmaker, for the dress cadge admired and for others--mrs. edgar was cheaper; i must go back to her. and in the nicaragua, where mrs. whitney lives, the cost of--but it wouldn't be for long. if ned doesn't-i won't think about strathay. i must wait. it's my fault that i haven't plenty of money. i've been so unhappy that i haven't explained to father how my needs have increased, how my way of life has changed. but i'll write to-night; he refuses me nothing. he must send me a good sum at once; as much as he can raise. mrs. whitney's a harmless tabby--a thin, ex-handsome creature struggling to maintain appearances; but i can put up with her. i will go to the nicaragua. i'll go at once. chapter iii. the suddenness of death. the nicaragua, march 29. how could i have known that he would die? i had never seen any one die. it was as if life were a precious wine rushing from an overturned glass that i could not put right again. i did not dream a man could be so fragile. for weeks i have not added a word to this record. but now i have looked upon death, and i must write. there is no one to confide in but this little book, stained by so many tears, confident of so many sorrows, so many disappointments. prof. darmstetter is dead. dead, but not by my fault. i was not the thousandth part to blame. yet i tremble like a leaf to think of it. i shall get no sleep to-night and to-morrow look like a fright to pay for it--no! i can never do that now, thank god! thank god for that! yes, i'm glad; when i try to be calm, i am glad he's dead--no, not that--sorry he's dead, of course, but glad that my rights are safe--when i am calm. but i can't be calm; it was too horrible! it happened yesterday in the laboratory; we were alone together. i have seldom been to the laboratory of late, but i had begun to suspect that the professor was planning treachery, preparing to try the bacillus upon other women. he had been so impatient because i had not gone often enough, that he might make his records, his comparisons, his tests--i don't know what flummery. all at once he ceased his importunities; some instinct taught me that he was about to seek a more tractable subject. i was resolved that if he did contemplate such injustice, i should put a stop to it. and i went to watch him. was that wrong? why, he had promised me that i should have pioneer's rights in the realm of beauty. sole possession was to be my reward? i had the right to hold him to his promise. but i didn't think-yesterday i spoke to prof. darmstetter. that was how it came about. he had looked disconcerted at my appearance in the laboratory, and my suspicions had suddenly grown to certainty. i said to him:-"i wish to see you alone." a guilty look came to his face. i was watching him as he had watched me before the great change, and when he started at my words i knew he was thinking of playing me false; his conscience must have warned him that i had read his thoughts. but he knew that my strength was greater than his and he bowed assent. when the other girls had gone--some of them with frightened looks at me, as if mine were the devil's beauty they tell about--and when prof. darmstetter was ready to begin his own work, i faced him with a challenge:-"prof. darmstetter, you are about to break your word." "you are mistaken," he said; but he could not face my look. "i am not mistaken; you are planning to try the bacillus upon other women, and you promised that i should be first." "and so you are! i dit not promise t'at you should be t'e only beautiful voman all your life, or ten years, or von year. you haf t'e honour of being first. it is all, and it is enough. you shall be famous by t'at. i am an old man and must sometime brint my discofery for t'e goot of t'e vorld; but first i must make experiments; i must try the bacillus vit' a blonde voman, vit' a brunette voman, vit' a negro voman--it vill be fine to share t'e secrets of gott and see v'at he meant to make of t'e negro." if his enthusiasm had not run counter to my rights, i might have admired it. "i must try it vit' a cripple," he went on, "vit' an idiot, vit' a deaf and dumb voman. i must set it difficult tasks, learn its limitations. t'en i must publish." "you shall do nothing of the kind. you are not a very old man and i am young. i have your secret safe, and it shall not be lost to the world even if you die. i shall see that your name is coupled with the bacillus as that of its discoverer. do you think i care to rob you of your honours? i value them little, compared with the beauty you have given me. think what you promised me! that i should be first! and i have had the perfect beauty only a few days and already you are planning to make it cheap and common. this injustice i will oppose with all my might, but i will be fair with you." "fair vit' me!" he shouted. "vat do you mean? t'at i shall die unknown, vit' t'e greatest discofery of all time in my hands? you call t'at fair? it is not fair to me, because i haf hungered for fame as you for beauty. but t'at is not'ing; t'at is for me only, and i am not'ing. it is not fair to t'e vorld to vit'hold t'is precious gift one hour longer t'an is necessary to experiment, to try, to make sure. to keep t'is possession all to yourself vould you deny it to millions of your sisters?" "yes, i would; and so would they, in my place," i cried. "i care as much for my beauty as you for your fame. and i hold you to your promise. i was to be first, and i shall be first. i haven't yet begun to live. you have barely finished your experiments, and now you're planning my ruin. i will not be balked." "i vill not be balked by such selfishness," screamed prof. darmstetter, his parchment face livid with rage; "_i_ vill be master of my own vork." my beauty! my hold on life and power and success and love! my only hope of ned, if he loves me--and god knows whether he does or no! see such beauty multiplied by the thousand, the million? never! i forced myself to be calm. my anger left me in a moment. i knew how useless it was, and i remembered that he himself had armed me for my protection. i smiled and held out both my hands to him, and i could see him falter as he looked. "look at me!" i said. my voice was a marvel even to myself, so rich and full and musical! "look at me! of what use was it to make me beautiful if you are now to make me unhappy? ah, i beg of you, i implore you, don't be just, but be kind! let me have my own way and see--oh, see how i shall thank you!" his face changed as i moved toward him with a coaxing smile, and dropped my hands on his shoulders. the tempest of his wrath subsided as suddenly as it had risen, and he stood short-sightedly, his head thrust forward, peering into my eyes, helpless, panting, disarmed. "you will not--ah, you will not!" i whispered. "ach, du!" he murmured. "du bist mein frankenstein! ich kann nicht--ich--ich habe alles verloren, verloren! ehre, ruhm, pflicht, redlichkeit, den guten namen! verloren! verloren!" a touch of colour that i had never seen there before grew slowly in his cheeks. it was the danger signal; but i did not know; indeed i did not know! "come," i said, shaking him lightly, playfully; "promise me that you will not do it for a year." "delilah!" he whispered from behind set lips, his breath coming quicker, a hoarse rattling in his throat. then he snatched my hand and began pressing kisses upon it--greedily, like a man abandoning himself to a sudden impulse. but the next moment, before i could move, he threw back his head and tottered to a chair, where he sat for an instant, breathing heavily. just as i sprang toward him his frame stiffened and straightened and he slipped from the chair and fell heavily to the floor, where he lay limp, unbreathing, sprawled upon the bare boards in all the pitiful ugliness of death. i was terribly frightened. for a moment wild thoughts raced through my brain--foolish impulses of flight lest i be found with the body and somehow be held responsible. then, with scorn for my folly, i ran out into the hall, crying for help. the janitor rushed in, and seeing what had happened, went for the nearest physician, who came at once and knelt by the fallen man's side. but before he closed the staring eyes, rose from his examination of the prostrate figure and slowly shook his head, we both knew that prof. darmstetter was dead. "his heart--." he began, turning for the first time toward me, whom as yet he had not noticed; and then he started back and stood open-mouthed, transfixed, staring at me--at my beauty. in that sweet instant, call it wicked or not, i was glad that darmstetter was dead! i could not help it. so long as he lived, i was not safe. i did not blame him for planning to experiment with others, any more than i would have blamed a cat that scratches or a snake that stings. i will be just. his love of learning overbore his honour. he could not have kept faith. i should never have been safe with him in the same world. yet am i sorry for him. i owe him much. in the doctor's wondering gaze at me over the body of my beauty's creator i felt anew the sense of power that has inspired me by night and day since my great awakening. i have had bitter experiences of late; this has been the worst, yet in a way the most fortunate. by no fault of mine i am relieved of the danger of seeing beauty like--like this too common. and i will be fair to the dead man, though he was not fair to me: if there is a god above, by him i swear that i will write out the secret of the bacillus this day, so that it shall not be lost if i too die suddenly, as he-i will devise it to humanity, and john burke shall execute the will. poor fellow! poor john! i can't see that i was wrong. i did not know, prof. darmstetter himself probably did not know, that he was liable to such an attack. even if i had known--i had the right to defend myself, hadn't i? it was not like the nelly winship i once knew to use such weapons against him; but that nelly is as dead as he, and this glorious vision of white and rosy tint and undulant form shall be rival-less for years; marvel of every land, the theme of every tongue. i sit alone in this huge palace in which i have come to live--feeling that at last i have a home of my own, where no one can overlook my thoughts--i sit alone and think of the future; and it is rosy bright, if only i could forget--if only i could forget! in all the world i am the sole guardian of the secret. i shall be the most beautiful woman for years and years and years; blessed with such beauty that men shall know the tale of it is a lie, until they, too, come from far countries to look upon it; and they shall go home and be known as liars in their turn, and always dream of me. when i am old and gray, i will tell the world how darmstetter died, on the eve of publishing his discovery. perhaps i shall cling to it until i, too-ah, i can see that ghastly thing, the dead, hideous eyes staring up at me! shall i be like that some day? as ugly as that! it was not my fault, dead, staring eyes; not my fault! chapter iv. some remarks about cats. the nicaragua, april 27. i've been sitting for my portrait to van nostrand. it is an offering to the shades of prof. darmstetter. i must preserve some attempted record of my beauty for his sake; though the bacillus couldn't have made, if he had lived, another woman as beautiful as i. it isn't conceivable. i believe i'm a little tired with that, and with rearranging mrs. whitney's flat, and a little worried, too, about bills, the money from father comes so slowly. not that i need mind owing a trifle at the shops; half the women run accounts; but it's embarrassing not to have ready money. why, i have to buy things to ward off gifts; meg simply won't see me go without. perhaps i'm depressed too, because to-day has been a succession of petty squabbles, and i hate squabbling. this morning came aunt frank. i knew she had returned from bermuda, so i wasn't surprised to see her dumpy figure appear in mrs. whitney's parlour, followed by uncle timothy's broad back and towering head. i did with zest the honours of the apartment. it was sweet revenge to see mrs. baker's nervous discomfort at meeting me, and to watch her stealing furtive glances at my beautiful home. "well, nelly, dear," she said, "you look very cosey, but we expected that, after your visit to mrs. van dam, you would go to marcia until our return." "oh, i couldn't think of troubling either of you," i said sweetly; "i have friends to whom it is a real pleasure to advise me." that shot told. "you don't know what anxiety you've caused, leaving us for--for strangers, that way," she retorted, bridling; "but since you _would_ go, i'm glad everything's turned out so--been having your portrait painted? why, it's a--it _is_ a van nostrand!"--she had spied the painting.--"it's like you, rather; but--doesn't he charge a fortune?" then she rattled on, about the rooms, about bermuda lilies and donkey carts, trying now and again to pry into my plans and urging me, not too warmly, to return to her, until she had reached the limits of a call of courtesy. i think it was with real relief that she rose as she received my final refusal. uncle, who had sat silent in kind, or blind, perplexity, was unfeignedly glad to go. "run in often, won't you?" she said, at parting. "i hear--but perhaps i shouldn't speak of that. is--is lord strathay like his pictures?" fussy! she'd gladly wash her hands of me, yet thinks she has a duty. but i was glad, for once, to see her. it's not for nothing that i have run society's gauntlet; i can aim confetti with the best of them; innocent-looking but they hurt. scarcely had they gone when in rushed the general and my prim duenna, mrs. whitney; they'd been waiting until the coast was clear. it was with something like a scream that the two flew at me, crying in one voice:-"have you _really_ refused to be one of peggy's bridesmaids? why didn't you consult _me_?" peggy despairs of mr. poultney; she's going to marry some person in standard oil, and her wedding will be a function. "yes," i said, ignoring the latter question. "but why--_why_--" mrs. whitney squeaked and panted, and her breath failed. "because--was it because ann fredericks was asked too?" meg demanded. "yes, if you must know." "but what has ann done?" said meg. she planted herself in front of me, her hard, handsome eyes blazing with impatience. "she's as homely as the sunset cox statue and as uncivil to you as she dares; but she's only a cousin of _the_ frederickses, you mustn't mind her. what has ann done, helen?" "she weighs two hundred and they call her 'baby'! she's a fat slug on a currant bush! i won't talk about her." i dashed into my room but meg's staccato reached me even there. "just like helen! imagine mrs. henry's state of mind." "and ann's," said mrs. whitney. "oh, ann's in mortal terror. but how can helen expect pasty girls like ann fredericks--out last fall and already touching up--to forgive her beauty? trouble is, every girl who comes near helen knows she makes her look like a caricature." meg paced the floor a minute, then slapped herself into a chair. "oh, i've seen the women scowl at her," said mrs. whitney. "scowl?" said meg. "why, i've seen a woman actually put out her foot for helen to trip over. old women are the worst, i do believe; some of the young ones admire her. what do you think old mrs. terry said--hughy bellmer's aunt--at the last of her frightful luncheon concerts, where you eat two hours in a jungle of palms and orchids, and groan to music two hours more in indigestion. 'a lovely girl, my dear mrs. van dam,' she said; 'a privilege to know her. pity that so many of our best people fight shy of a protã©gã©e of the newspapers.' _that_ from mrs. terry, with her hair and her hats--" "and her divorce record," added mrs. whitney. "she fears for her nephew; as if helen would look at him! but the newspapers _have_ hurt helen. i wish she'd announce her engagement; she has the cards in her hands, but she's got to play 'em; and poor strathay's so devoted!--why didn't you shade the lights tuesday at your dinner? in that glare we were all worse frights beside her than usual." "i hate murky rooms!" i cried, breaking out upon them, for i couldn't stand it any longer. "it's your 'rose of yesterday' who insists on twilight and shaded candles. i enjoy electricity!" meg gazed at me in despair. "helen, are you really bent on making enemies?" she asked. "what _did_ ann fredericks do?" i couldn't have answered; it would have been no answer to say that she angers me with a supercilious stare; but the trouble of replying was spared me, for mrs. henry appeared that minute in the doorway, greeting me in her nervous puffy voice:-"how _well_ you look!" she said. "_such_ a treat to get a peep at you! peggy really must try your dressmaker--but she's _so_ disappointed! you _must_ let me beg of you--_just_ like an own daughter and peggy couldn't think more of a sister! you _will_ reconsider--" something in the way she thrust forward her head reminded me of how her tiara slipped and hitched about, on the night of her dance, and how ned and i giggled when it had to be repinned. "i'm afraid peggy should have consulted me earlier," i said with a spite born of the recollection. it would have been more than mortal not to take offense at that. mrs. henry's face grew red, and after a few perfunctory words she and meg left, and mrs. whitney went out with them. as mrs. henry backed into the hall, she almost collided with kitty, who had just come up. "talking wedding?" that tease asked, following me back into the parlour and pirouetting before a mirror. "chastening experience for once in a way to see mysel' as ithers see me. big wedding, won't it be? florist told cadge he was forcing a churchful of peach and apple blossoms. you're a bridesmaid, ain't you? that _was_ mrs. henry? know i've seen her here. looks apoplectic; and there's too much musk in her violet." "that was mrs. henry, but i'm not on peggy's list. how are the beastesses' noses and toeses?" "ambulance rung for." kitty darted to another looking glass. "regular hall of mirrors, ain't it? helen, why are photo-engravers--but say, i've seen a list of bridesmaids; ann fredericks was one, cousin of _the_ frederickses; great for helen, we all said--pros. and cadge and--" "has the list been printed?" kitty looked puzzled. "what are you cross about?" she said finally. "i don't wonder you get tired of such doings, tugging a ton of bouquet down a church aisle, organ grinding lohengrin. if ever i marry, i sha'n't ask you to stand up with me; i propose to be the central figure at my own wedding; cadge can do as she chooses." "why, kitty! cadge and--why, pros., of course." "in june. came to tell you." for a moment kitty's eyes danced, then the mist followed the sunlight, and the poor little creature buried her head in my lap, sobbing. "oh, what'll i do," she cried, "when cadge takes away my brother and my brother takes away cadge, and you--they say you're going off with that englisher to be a countess--not that i ever see anything of you now." "oh, hush, child; don't you know you're talking nonsense?" kitty took me at my word. "earl's lady is a countess, ain't she?" she asked, her voice still shaky. then she sat suddenly upright and put back her red curls from her brow, winking vigourously. "oh, if you do live in a castle, put in bathtubs and gas; and if you go to court, please, princess, hide a kodak under your bouquet for me and--" crying and laughing by turns and tossing back her flaming locks, she started for the door. "helen," she said, turning as she reached it, "i have such bad symptoms! am i really the only girl that's jealous of you?" "the only one that isn't jealous, you--you dear!" i exclaimed; and i believe it's almost true! kitty paused in the hall, playing with the roses in a bowl upon the table. "we hear something of how the dowagers adore you. but let 'em wag their double chins; you'll scat the old cats from their cushions!" she said. at the impetuous outflinging of her hands, the floor was strewn with pink petals. "cats?" repeated mrs. whitney, who just then made her appearance, "are they a hobby with miss reid?" "i'd drown 'em," cried kitty, vanishing, "nine times!" oh, i'm weary of these bickerings; so womanish! every creature whose rival i could possibly become is my enemy. i don't blame them. what chance have they while i am present? women who agree about nothing else make common cause against one who surpasses them. they are like prairie wolves that run in packs to pull down the buffalo, and i shall pity them as i would pity wolves. they shall find that i have a long memory. i have decided. i shall marry strathay. february--march--april--three long, long months, and still ned doesn't come, does not write. yes, it's time to act; thank god, i've still some pride! while darmstetter lived, i couldn't have left new york; but now, now that i am safe, why should i stay here, flatting with a shrew, provoking the van dams, to whom i owe some gratitude, wasting my life for a man who--who said he didn't love me? milly's at home again; let ned return to her, if he chooses. i shall marry strathay. meg shall be friend to a countess. then i shall be quits with her and with mrs. henry and with peggy. and the "best people" will no more fight shy of me--though they don't now; they don't need to. except mrs. schuyler, who has snubbed me just enough to leave herself right, whatever happens, few of them have ever met me. i owe no thanks to mrs. whitney, with her prunes and her prisms and her penny-pinchings. i must secure my future. and there's only one way--strathay. i've been foolish to hesitate. he tried to speak yesterday, after the flower tea--for that's the extent of my social shining now; i am good to draw a crowd at a bazaar!--and i should have let him; i meant to do so. but i can't blame myself for being sentimental, weak, and for putting him off; i was tired out. what an ordeal i'd undergone! what black looks from the women! they'd rather have starved their summer church in the adirondacks than nursed it with my help! but he must have understood; i think he saw everything that happened. the girls at my stall were sulky because no one bought of them, while i was surrounded; and one, in lifting a handful of roses, drew them towards her with a spiteful jerk that left a long thorn-scratch across my hand. i pretended not to notice. then in a minute i cried:-"why, see; how could that have happened?" and i laid my perfect hand beside hers, ugly with outstanding veins, that she might note the accident--and the difference. people giggled, and she snatched her hand away, blushing furiously. i was in high spirits, with a crowd about me. i knew how tall and graceful i looked behind my flowers; and to tease mrs. terry, i pinned bellmer's boutonniere with unnecessary graciousness, and smiled at her while he sniffed it with beatitude beaming from his moony face. "awf'ly slow things, teas," he said regretfully, as she bore him off'; "awf'ly slow, don't you think?" really the man's little better than a downright fool; if he were poor, no one would waste a better word upon him. as he went, i caught sight of a slight figure, a pair of jealous, worshipping eyes. poor strathay had seen the incident; had perhaps thought-i took pains to be cordial to him, when he had made his way with poultney to my side; and to mr. poultney, too; though i don't like him much better than cadge does, with his cold eyes and his thin smile, that seems to say: "hope you find my schoolboy entertaining." an earl is always entertaining! yet i ran away from him. i left the tea early. i wanted to think. all the way home in the carriage i marshalled arguments in his favour. i saw myself at court, throned in my brilliant circle, flattered by princes, consulted by statesmen, the ornament of a society i am fitted to adorn. i saw a world of jealous women at my feet and ned convinced that i had been playing with him. i even rehearsed the scene we should enact when strathay should speak; i foresaw the flush upon his face, the sparkle of his eyes when i should tell him that i would try to love him. he must have slipped his cousin's leash, for he was at the nicaragua almost as soon as i was. but there at home, with the boy's eyes fixed on mine, with the tremour of his voice telling me how much he cared, i couldn't listen. i made talk with him, for him. i gave him no chance to speak, determined as i was that he should speak. i was conscious of but one desire--to put off the avowal. at last he said: "sometimes i fancy you're not happy." his voice was tense. he was leaning forward in his eagerness; he looked so zealous to be my champion--so honest! i tried to smile. i really liked him. happy! out of memory there came to me a picture: i was creeping to ethel's bed at night, whispering to her that i was the happiest girl in the world; she kissed me sleepily, and said she was happy too, and then i groped my way back to bed, and lay there in the dark, smiling. that was years ago. three months? years, long, long years ago! now it flashed across me that lord strathay loved me as i had loved ned. that gave me a measure of the gift he was to offer. i felt ned's kisses on my hands, bidding me be honest.--i felt other kisses, too; i saw--good god, how long must i see?--a gray old face--the face of darmstetter! happy! i closed my eyes to shut out the vision. i shuddered. "you--really, i'm afraid you're very tired," he said, after waiting a little. "yes; tired," i gasped; "that's all." but i knew i must marry him. i controlled myself. i smiled; i waited. i wished him to go on, but he was peering into my straining eyes with anxious sympathy. "i'm afraid you're too tired to talk with me to-day," he said; "but--you will let me come again?" "yes." such a relief! though what was to be gained by waiting? what must be must be. indeed an older man might have seen the wisdom of speaking at once. but strathay looked wistfully at me for a moment, then turned away with a big, honest schoolboy sigh; and something like a sob broke his voice as he whispered:-"i--i would do anything to serve you." then he went away. perverse! i _will_ marry him. other women take husbands so. i like him; i should like him even if he were not an earl--and his name a career. i shall make strathay as fine a countess as any cold, blonde english girl, and he'll be proud of me, and every man will envy him. i shall wrong him less than i should have wronged john burke. i should have hated john if i had married him, for he'd expect love, where strathay will be content to give it. why, the one honest thing i've done was to break with john. i wish i could afford to keep on being honest! chapter v. the love of lord strathay. may 5. lord deliver me from the well-meaning! because of one pestilential dun, i've done what the weary waiting for money, money, money would never have driven me to do. i've been to uncle, unknown to his wife, to ask advice. i might have known better. it was with a wildly beating pulse that i entered the familiar little private office, thinking that ned might be on the other side of the partition--near enough, perhaps, to hear me; that he might at any moment rap upon the door and enter the room as he used to do, upon such flimsy errands! i wondered how he would look, and what he'd say if he came; but he never did come, though the talk was long enough, mercy knows; long and profitless. it was hard, with that cold sinking at my heart, to talk to the judge, as he sat with his keen eyes fixed upon me, leaning back in his chair, at times frowning absent-mindedly. "i've come to tell you--i've written home for money," i began breathlessly to explain. "but they don't understand, of course--it isn't half what i need, now. i really don't quite know what to do. and so i came to--" my words died away into unintelligibility. "anticipated your allowance a little? well, well, how much do you need?" he asked indulgently. "i don't exactly know; not much," i cried eagerly, "i haven't asked father to send it all at once. two or three thousand dollars would be a great help--for the present." "two or three thousand! is it little nelly winship who is talking about thousands? and what important scheme has she in mind?" his tone was playful. "to pay my bills.'" "bills aggregating thousands?" he dropped his paper cutter sharply. "is it possible that in so short a time--if the recital be not too painful, pray explain." "oh, it's simple enough; the dressmaker would say: 'do let me make you this, it's such a pleasure to fit you;' or, 'that would be the rage, if you'd introduce it.' and mrs. van dam begged me to buy a hat from a protegee just starting in business, because it would be a help to have the beautiful miss winship for a customer. it did help the milliner, too, for i bought three and they were printed in the papers. but she wants her pay just as if it hadn't been worth the price twice over as an advertisement. and all the things for the flat--" "furniture?" "why, yes; we've rearranged the place and i've contributed a little. uncle timothy, you can see--i need more money than other women. i can't walk without attracting notice, and cab hire or a carriage by the month--and--and i can't shop for myself, you don't know what a difference that makes; and--oh, everything is different! why, i've just had my portrait painted. but father isn't a poor man." "he is poor, measured by new york standards. and he is sending you a great deal of money." "yes, but--i must have a _lot_ more." the judge frowned slowly, considering what he had heard. finally he said, slowly shaking his head:-"doubtless we should have warned you, upon your coming to new york, but i did not anticipate that one of your substantial western stock would develop habits of extravagance; nor were they apparent while you were with us. i cannot think it was altogether our fault, and certainly it was not your father's. i am not unmindful of the recent unsettling experiences which furnish excuse for confusion of ideas; but, nelly, i appeal to a head that should be logical, even if--i have never thought it giddy with adulation--to see the facts as they exist. you must yield to your aunt's wish and return to her or to marcia--" "impossible!" "--you must bring me your bills; doubtless we can give up the furniture--" "give it up!" the coolly spoken words struck to my heart. why, we had just finished arranging it! but he misunderstood my exclamation, and added:-"i comprehend your reluctance, and i confess that i should little like to advise returning goods bought in good faith, if there were any chance of payment; but--let me see; are you of age?" "why, yes; just twenty-one." "is it possible? how time passes, to be sure! yet--ah, the point is not important; the tradespeople should not have trusted you. consider that you are unable to pay; the less of two evils is to return the goods as soon as possible, that they may be received undamaged." "oh, it's not so bad as that?" i said hastily. "nearly everybody is willing to wait, and i--you know aunt frank doesn't want me, and i should be a--white elephant to miss baker. i must live somewhere. it's not my fault if my only friends are rich, and if i--but why can't father--" "i do not believe your father can pay your debts," he interrupted, "in addition to the generous sums he has already forwarded, unless--surely you were not suggesting that he should mortgage the farm in order to--pay for paintings?" "i didn't mean that at all!" i cried; "i never thought of that. but how _do_ people--" "you and i must do what is to be done, if possible without distressing him," he said; "your father is not so young as he once was. if you have bought things for which your allowance will not pay, although"--he hesitated a moment, "--the situation is--ah--trying to mrs. whitney. i suppose her half of the common stock is secure?" "her half!" "has she been leaning upon your slender purse?" he asked not unkindly. "why--she saves money by me and i increase her social importance. of course she had furniture, but it was old and--and--" i could not find the words to explain to a man my horror of ugliness. he wouldn't have understood. "well, well, it makes no difference now. i must arrange matters for you, and i think you will agree, upon reflection, that the first step must be to give up whatever we can." "but, uncle--" i tried to speak calmly, to show him the situation--"mrs. whitney is a van dam, and they befriended me when--why, they would never forgive me; it would be ruin. and even from the practical standpoint--you wouldn't like to have your lawbooks sold, would you? well, people have introduced me--and pretty furniture and pretty clothes and not to have any scandal or any talk--oh, you can see!" "in the light of reports that reach me," said the judge, "i might suppose that you"--he hesitated a moment, then continued, in an attempt at a bantering manner, "that you refer to your luxuries as preliminary to--ah--matrimony, which is said to be the only gainful occupation that my sex leaves almost exclusively to yours, and in which fine clothing is undoubtedly an adjuvant. but observation leads me to think that it is a business less profitable than is often imagined. hm!" he drummed on the table, and when he continued, he seemed talking to gain time, considering what he wished to say. "i grant you," he said with his cumbrous playfulness, "that the sensibility of flesh and blood to beauty is as broad a fact as the effect of heat or cold. it is so universally recognised that we take a pretty girl, like original sin or the curse of labour, as a _chose jugeã©_. her sway must have begun with the glacial drifters and the kitchen middeners and the engis skull man, when they and the rest of the paleoliths were battling with the dodo and the dinornis and the didifornis, and had no time for the cult of beauty except by proxy. did it ever occur to you that we men drove a hard bargain with your sex when we compelled you to beauty, made you carry the topknots and the tail-feathers? men propose marriage, women adorn themselves to listen. let women choose their mates, and they might go as plain as peahens; and men would strut about, displaying wattles, combs and argus-eyed plumes." "women would be less beautiful if they proposed?" "some could not be, i fear." he pulled down his brows, considering the proposition, then shook his head positively, with a little sigh. "you will remember--was it not darwin who said that women, in order to attract men, borrow the plumage of male birds, which these have acquired to please the females of their kind? beauty must be the first law of life to the sex that has not the privilege of choosing. under the circumstances, it is surprising how much of plainness women have preserved. possibly because of the extraordinary directions which beauty culture may take. burton asserts that the somali choose wives by ranging the women in line for inspection; she wins a husband of note who projects farthest _a tergo_. yet among famous greek statues there is also a steatopygous venus." the office boy came to the door, and his knock woke uncle out of his revery. he excused himself to his caller, and, returning to me, went on:-"i have been--ah--i admit, rather evading the personal question. i wish, without seeking embarrassing confidences, to remind you that young people are apt to think bad matters--other than business matters--worse than they are. i am not asking questions, but, when i was younger, cynicism usually hid but ill the scars of heartache. do not, i pray you, throw yourself away in the gloom of momentary unhappiness." did he guess--about ned? that i was the one most hurt there? he should never know that i winced. i shrugged my shoulders, ignoring his fatherly glance, and faced him with a stare meant to be brazen. "you do not at the present time believe in sentiment?" he said. "then i shall adapt my argument to your whim of practicality, and speak of the rumours which connect your name with that of young lord strathay." "oh; that boy!" "i presume you are right; he does seem to have fallen deeply in love with you. but--if indeed, you are dazzled by the glamour of a title--do not be too confident of his fealty. i know men better than you know them, my dear. man loves beauty, but he does not always want to marry it. the rare white swan is admired, but the little brown partridge, clucking as she marshals her covey of chicks, is the type of the marrying woman. again, no man is master of himself. that strathay wishes to marry you, i can understand; but, perhaps, when he is not under the spell of your presence, he falls to wondering how you will pronounce the social shibboleths, and may let 'i dare not' wait upon 'i would.' it is idle to deny that, admitting as one must the existence of lines of social cleavage in modern life, it is often a mistake to overstep their boundaries in matrimony; though as to international alliances--" "oh," i said, interrupting his prosings with a light laugh, "you mustn't take the matter _au sã©rieux_." "i take it so because it is serious." the judge's eyes and his tone were very grave. "forgive me if i remind you that these _obiter dicta_ have grown out of a discussion of your money affairs, wherein you are bankrupt. if--and i ask your pardon if the supposition does you wrong--if you are relying on a brilliant marriage to help you out of financial difficulties--" he hesitated a moment, then went on slowly: "perhaps i ought to warn you that, if at any time this does become a serious matter, you will have powerful opposition. i had not intended to tell you--though now i deem it best--that mr. stephen allardyce poultney has lately done me the honour to call; and--" "lord strathay's cousin?" i thought he could hear the thrumming of my heart. this was why he had beaten so long about the bush! "was he--was he speaking about me?" i felt a sudden chill of apprehension, and almost feared to hear the answer. "he was; he came to the point with a refreshing directness worthy of a business man, and said that he wanted to know all about you." "and you--" "i need not trouble you with our conversation. in view of the attentions which his lordship has been paying you, his cousin felt it a duty, he intimated, to make inquiries. he did not care a button, i inferred, for your position here, as it could not affect lord strathay's in england; but he had read the newspapers with pardonable perplexity, and asked if you were really the only daughter of a bonanza farmer. i did not feel it necessary to enter into particulars, but informed him that your father was rich in honesty and in the possession of a daughter good and beautiful enough for any lord that lives. he thanked me and said 'quite so,' as englishmen usually do say when they disagree with one. he added that he would try to get the poor beggar--for so he referred to his kinsman--away fishing. "you will note that, in the higher social strata, the choice of matrimonial partners has progressed beyond the personal selection so confidently assumed by the scientists, and has become a matter for relatives to--" "and my only relative in new york," i said slowly, wondering how fatal was this unexpected news, "has made it impossible for me to achieve a success that was almost within my grasp." i don't see that the remark was so very terrible, but he looked at me with an odd air of astonishment and consternation. then he seemed to consider it best to treat my natural disappointment as a joke. "not very serious is this conversation, as you have reminded me," he said. "you don't wish me to tell that which is not?" "why, naturally--no." i was stunned, but i forced a laugh. "but it _is_ funny. why--i was nearer landing the prize than i supposed, wasn't i?--that is, if i had wanted to land it?" "um--yes; it was rather close. but in this world you'll find strong men often dissuading weak ones from action briefly meditated." he gazed at me solemnly, portentously, critically. "yes," i said, trying to speak with careless ease; "one lord gone, but there are others. don't be too hard upon strathay, though. he's not so bad. his estates are not heavily encumbered, and he's as likely now to wed a music hall singer as a daughter of the beerage. perhaps such a marriage as he might have offered is not the best in life, but it is something that women who love their daughters as well as you love yours are glad to arrange for them. i should have made strathay a very decent wife--" but at the word i stopped; something in the sound of it shattered my cool philosophy. "of course, of course," uncle assented. then after a pause he went on, hesitatingly:-"nelly, these are not matters for a man to discuss with you. why don't you run in and talk with your aunt?" i hadn't the least intention of calling, but i answered him according to his folly. "i must, some time; but i'm so worried--" "ah, yes; those debts. could you not, if you are determined not to come home to us, seek less expensive apartments? you know that for any wants in reason your aunt and i--" "i--i can't, just yet," i faltered, with a dreary vision before my eyes of such a boarding house as that from which kitty rescued me. "very well, nelly, but think about it; you will see that to go on as you are doing would be only throwing money into a bottomless pit. but bring me your bills to-morrow; i must have facts and figures, if we are to straighten your affairs. now--you need money--" he was fumbling for his check book. badly as i needed help, instinctively i cried:-"oh, no; not that!" "quite sure? it is the situation that troubles you and not the butcher, the baker--" "quite sure." "i desist. but sleep on what i have said. remember that i am in your father's place, that i--your aunt and i--are very anxious about you." he took my hand, seeming as perplexed as i am myself. he looked affectionate enough, but so futile. so i came away heartsick. it's useless to argue with judge baker. he's a plebeian from his thick shoe soles to his thin hair; but he's honest. and yet--if he had been less ponderously precise--he might have said: "why, really, i don't exactly know. mr. winship is a well-to-do man. it has been years since i knew, but i can ascertain and--" or he might just have told the plain truth--that father has a large western farm. englishmen think all western folks are rich. why, i believe meg van dam would dower me if i were to marry strathay. i could make it worth her while. it wouldn't be the first arrangement of that sort in new york, either. if only strathay had seen me once more, no power on earth could have prevented an avowal; and marriage with a peer of england would have given me a station befitting my beauty. but perhaps it's not too late. strathay may not heed his cousin. if he comes wooing again, i shall not be so silly as i was the last time. strange that i have not seen him. can he have gone already? i might do the london season by borrowing from meg. it would cost a fortune, and--unless strathay does propose--perhaps even she wouldn't care to finance me now. i wish--oh, i wish i could get out of my dreams the ghastly form of darmstetter, as i saw him dead at my feet! he haunts me all day long, and all the night i dream of him! and i wish i had not broken john burke's honest heart--how wistful he looked, as he waited for me at the door of the office and helped me to my carriage! perhaps ned wasn't in the building; perhaps--he may have avoided me. i wish i had not brought him sorrow, and i wish-no, i don't! i just hope milly is even more wretched than i am! father really might mortgage. i could easily pay it back. i wonder i never thought of that. i'll ask him. i will not take my bills to judge baker--to be lectured on the dodo and on lines of social cleavage--as if any man could be a match for me. i'll never go back to aunt frank! there is bellmer, now--and strathay must soon return to new york, to sail. chapter vi. little brown partridges. may 20. i wonder if i couldn't _earn_ money. for the last week--nothing but trouble. no check from father. hugh bellmer i have not seen. strathay has really gone, spirited away by that superior cousin. and mrs. whitney has deserted me--oh, if it were not for money troubles, i wouldn't mind that, cruel as was the manner of it! of course the newspapers soon learned that strathay had left town. trust them for that; and to make sensational use of it! the first i knew of it, indeed, was when one day cadge came bursting into the room. "isn't it a shame?" she began in her piercing voice; as ever at fever heat of unrest, she waved at me a folded newspaper. "emphatically; but what is it?" "that fierce tale of the _echo_; haven't seen it? we couldn't print a line. big tom says the chief has put his foot down; won't have stories about women in private life, you know--without their consent. but why didn't you--why can't you give us a whack at it?" "because there isn't a word of truth in the whole disgusting--what does it say?" i had seized the sheet from her hands and rapidly glanced over the staring headlines. eagerly she interrupted me:-"oh, isn't it the worst ever? but i see how it happened. they must have sent out a leg man to get facts, and when no one would talk, they stirred this up in the office. but--not to print, now--what _are_ you going to do with his lordship? honest, princess?" "nothing; there's absolutely nothing between us. he's a nice fellow, and i like him, and we're good friends; that's all. i--i knew he was going; fishing." "well, i'm glad of that. but so must i be going." and she whisked out of the room, leaving in my hands this astounding outrage upon truth and decency: by edward pepper. helen winship is the most extraordinary woman living; the most beautiful woman in the world; a scientist of national repute; she has just passed through a tragedy which has left an impress upon her whole life; most wonderful of all, she is the only american girl who has ever refused a titled lover. this is her life story, told for the first time:-_chapter i.--death:_ a woman's scream of agony! a strange scene, like an alchemist's den, the light of falling day reflected from test tubes and crucibles, revealing in dark corners uncouth appliances, queer diagrams, strange odours. upon the floor the inert figure of the foremost of new york's chemists; above his prostrate form, wild-eyed with horror at seeing his dramatic death, a beautiful woman, the most beautiful in the world. this was the end of prof. carl darmstetter; this was how the legacy of science came to helen winship. to carry it out, she has refused a title. _chapter ii.--love:_ born upon a western farm, helen winship's father is a yeoman of the sturdy stock that has laid the world under tribute for its daily bread. early she made the choice that devotes her life to science. she was the confidant of the dead chemist, whose torch of knowledge she took up firm-handed, when it fell from his nerveless fingers. she is vowed as a vestal virgin to science. strange whim of destiny! across this maiden life of devoted study came the shadow of a great name which for two hundred years has been blazoned upon the pages of england's history. in the loom of fate the modest gray warp of helen winship's life crossed the gay woof of a lord of high degree, and left a strange mark upon the web of time. love came to her--many times; but came at last in a guise that seldom woos in vain. _chapter iii.--sacrifice:_ who has forgotten the memorable scene in the metropolitan opera house, when the beautiful miss winship took the vast audience by storm, causing almost a panic, which was exclusively reported in these columns? it was followed by a greater sensation. rumour ran through the ranks of the four hundred, and the rustle of it was as the wind in a great forest. for one of the proudest titles from beyond the sea, before which the wealth and fashion of the city had marshalled their attractions, had passed them by to kneel at the feet of the lovely scholar. the earl of strathay is the twelfth earl of his house. he is twenty-one years old. his mother, the countess strathay, famous as a beauty, has been prominent in the "prince's set." witley castle, his seat, is one of the show places of england, though financially embarrassed by the follies of the late earl. it was lord strathay's intention, upon landing in new york to go west in a week; but he looked upon the fair investigator, and to look is to love. he laid his title at the feet of the lovely daughter of democracy, but with that smile whose sweetness is a marvel to all men, she shook her beautiful head. she was wedded to learning. fretted by the pain, he plunged into the wilderness to hide like a wounded deer. what shall be said of this beautiful woman, for whom men sigh as for the unattainable? that she is lovely as the morning? all new york knows it. that her walk is like a lily's swaying in the wind, her voice is the sweetest music that ever ravished ear, her hair a lure for sunbeams? it is the commonplace of conversation at every smart house. for this lovely woman of science is no ascetic. she moves by right of beauty and high purpose, in the best society. this farmer's daughter walks among the proudest in the land, and none there is to compare with her. like the admirable crichton, no art is to her unknown, no accomplishment by her neglected. her eager soul, not satisfied with dominion over the realm of beauty and of love, would have all knowledge for its sphere. amusing, isn't it?--to one who is not the heroine of the tale! the tragedy of darmstetter revived, my scientific attainments--but oh, the worst--the worst of all--is the wicked lie that i am in the "best society." why, the very day before, we had been "at home," mrs. whitney and i, and hardly a soul that counts was here. mrs. van dam had a convenient headache; i haven't seen her since peggy's wedding. if she had not been so very civil--she and mrs. henry--i might think that even then she suspected that strathay-there were a few correct, vapid young men in gray trousers and long frock coats among our guests that day, but none worth serious attention. and the women! one creature tucked tracks under the tea cloth, whereat mrs. whitney's pinched nose was elevated. ethel saw the action--in spite of her mother and sister, the poor girl clings to me; i suppose it's natural that _she_ should love beauty--and hopping round the table at the first chance, she pulled out one, chuckling mightily. "'favour is deceitful and beauty is vain,'" she quoted in undertone; "oh, nelly, take your share of the unco guid and the riders of hobby horses, and be thankful it's no larger." ethel doesn't know how great it is. there was the woman who insists on gloating over me as a proof of the superiority of her sex; the woman who had written a book, the woman who would talk about karma, and the woman--there was more than one--who would talk about the earl. after they had gone, mrs. whitney's disgust was as plain as her horror of their appetite for cake and other creature comforts. but the storm broke in earnest a day or two later, after the last reception we shall ever hold together. i can't describe it. i don't understand it. women are fast leaving the city; it was too late for an "evening." but that made no difference; i do not deceive myself. i am pressing with my shoulders against a mountain barrier--the prejudice of women--and it never, never yields. active opposition i could fight; but the tactics are now to ignore me. in response to cards, i get "regrets," or women simply stay away. men--ah, yes, there are always men, and many of them like as well as admire me. but there is a subtle something that affects every man's thought of a woman of whom women disapprove. they don't condemn me--ah, a man can be generous!--they imagine they allow for women's jealousies; but deep in their hearts lies hid the suspicion that only women are qualified judges of women. they respect me, but they reserve judgment; and they do not wholly respect themselves, for in order to see me, they evade their lawful guardians--their wives and mothers. it may have been the wine--i overheard two young cads making free of my house to discuss my affairs. "mrs. terry really dragged hughy out of town?" one of them asked, assuming a familiarity with bellmer that i suspect he cannot claim. "guess so; he's playing horse with old bellmer's money; always wrong side of the betting." "needs keeley cure. good natured cuss; wonder if the winship'll get him." "lay ye three to one--say twenties--that he gets away, like that strathay--" i addressed some smiling speech to the wretches, but through the whole evening my cheeks did not cease to burn. when the last guest had gone, tired and hysterical as she was, mrs. whitney began a long tirade. "it must be stopped! it must be stopped!" she cried, pacing back and forth. the blaze of anger improved her. she must have been a handsome woman once--tall and slender, with fine dark eyes that roll about dramatically. "i don't see what there is to stop," i said, perversity taking possession of me, though at heart i quite agreed with her estimate of the evening. "the object of an entertainment being to entertain, why shouldn't the men i know come to ours? if they stayed away, you'd be disappointed; but when they come, as they did to-night, you're frightened, or pretend to be." "i'm not frightened; i'm appalled. i don't mean mr. burke, though he's a detrimental--and, by the way, he was as much distressed to-night as i was. i mean the men who have families--wives and daughters! why didn't they bring 'em--or stay away?" "i'd thank john burke to mind his own business," i cried hotly. "he doesn't have to come here unless he wants to." "there is only one way," she went on, as if speaking to herself, pacing the floor and fanning herself violently--for her face, and especially her nose, was as red as a beet; she really laces disgracefully--"there's only one way; i must fall ill at once. i must have nervous prostration, or--it's nearly june. i shall leave town. heavens! what a night!" "you're assuming a great deal. our arrangements were made by two, and are hardly to be broken by one. you can't agree to matronize me--let me buy furniture for you, and then abandon me, cut off my social opportunities--leave me--" "social opportunity! social collapse! disgrace! why, your prospects were really extraordinary. but now! where was meg to-night? where was mrs. marmaduke? why did my own sister-in-law stay away?" "i don't know; do you?" her harangue begun, she couldn't stop. "where's strathay?" she demanded. "gone; and no announcement--what was the matter? needn't tell me you refused him! and why is the letter box always full of duns? can't you pay your bills? why didn't you say so earlier? would have saved us both a deal of trouble!" "i didn't tell you i had money." "you played the part, ordering dresses fit for a duchess, and things for the flat. you spent enough on a wedding gift for peggy--or was it a promise to spend?--to support a family a month--peace offering because you'd abused her!--of course if you'd made the great success everybody expected, you'd be on the top wave, and so should i. i don't deny i thought of that. but now--an evening like this--no women worth counting and a horde of men--well, it's bad enough for me, but it's worse for you. no one'll say i brought 'em." "oh, no," i assented. "it comes to this, then," she went on at full heat, flushing and fanning herself still more violently; "either you or i must leave this house, and at once." "well, i sha'n't." and so she did! whose fault was it that we were left in such a predicament--that of the inexperienced girl, or the chaperon's? what is a chaperon for? mrs. whitney has treated me shamefully, shamefully! here i am all by myself, and i don't know what to do. ah, well, i must play my own hand. she shall regret this night's work, if i marry rank or money. it is so strange how every one prospers except poor, baffled, loveless me, who have the greatest gift of all. i wonder if it is really nature's law that the very beautiful must suffer; if this is her way of equalizing the lot of the poor and plain and lowly; her law of compensation to make the splendid creatures walk lonely and in sorrow all their days while plain ones coo and are happy. was uncle tim right about the little brown partridges? if i were superstitious or easily disheartened, i should say--but i am neither! i shall succeed. i will take my place by right of beauty or die fighting! if i see lord strathay again, he shall marry me within a week. they shall call it "one of those romantic weddings." i can't live here alone. i have nothing to fall back upon; nothing but a father who doesn't answer my letters, and judge baker who lectures me in polysyllables, and john burke--poor old john; what a good fellow he is!--who simply loves me; and mrs. van dam, who was my friend as long as she hoped to rise by my beauty to higher place, but who has headaches now; and mrs. marmaduke-i don't understand her desertion. ah--yes, there is another, my constant companion now. he is an old man, thin and sallow. he lies prone on the floor, staring at me with dead, sightless eyes. he whispers from muted lips "delilah!" and the sound of it is in my ears day and night; day and night! my god! it will drive me mad! chapter vii. letters and science. may 29. i've revised my opinion of the newspapers. the star has done me a good turn, a great service. i had tried to borrow money of cadge, for the third time, and she told me she had none--which was true, or she would have let me have it. then she said:-"why don't you sell a story to some paper--either something very scientific, or else, 'who's the handsomest man in new york?' or--" "i think i ought to get something from them, after all the stuff they've printed; but how? to whom do i go?" "nobody! heavens!" cried cadge. "want to create an earthquake on park row? you're a disturber of traffic. let me manage. i know the ropes and it helps me at the office to bring in hot features. they might give you fifty for it, too." and i actually did get $50 for digging out of the text books an essay on rats as disseminators of bubonic plague; they only used a little of it, but the pictures and the signature and the nonsense about me as a scientist were the real thing, cadge said. the money, the money, the money was the real thing to me! it has given me a breathing spell--. that and the hundred for signing a patent medicine testimonial; but i had to sacrifice more than half i got from both sources to pacify greedy creditors. and a month between remittances, and so little when they come! father _can't_ refuse to mortgage; why doesn't he write to me? the day i took the article to cadge i had a long talk with her and with pros. reid, who spends at the eyrie every hour he can spare. one must have some society or go crazy, though perhaps they aren't exactly what i'd choose if my kingdom had opened to me. pros. has shrewd eyes that inspire confidence--gray eyes with the tired night work look in them. he talks amazing slang at times, at others not at all; and i wish every one might be as kind and thoughtful. i could think of nothing all the evening but my bills, and at last i was moved to ask him abruptly:-"what can a girl do to get money, pros.?" "'pends on the girl." "this girl; a somewhat educated person; and grasping. one who wants much money and wants it right now." "princesses don't earn money; they have it." "suppose the princess were enchanted--or--or something? oh, you may not think me serious, but i really don't know what i shall do, if my ship doesn't come in pretty soon." he looked quizzically at me; he thinks i plead poverty as a joke; cadge would never tell him how i have tried to borrow. "'twould be a hard case, supposing it possible," he said, "because you would want a good deal of money, and because you'd be a bother to have 'round--too beautiful. you couldn't sell many newspaper stories, because you'd soon cease to be a novelty as a special, and would get a press ticket to city hall park. reporting's another coloured horse altogether--poor pay, and takes training to get it. beauty's a disadvantage even there; too much beauty. tell you what you could do, though, if ever you _should_ want to earn money--go on the stage." "girl i knew," said cadge, "made a pot of money going round to summer resorts, giving women lessons, energizing and decomposing; kind of delsarte; said it made her 'most die--to see 'em rolling on the floor like elephants, trying to get lean, and eating 'emselves fat four times a day, with caramels between--and not be able to laugh. might try the barnard girls. it can't be sure beauty to be up there; i've seen some of 'em. say now; that's not so bad--'how to be helen; in twenty lessons.' or say, princess; answer the great question: 'does soap hurt the skin?'" she grinned. cadge fancies, i suppose, that by any mail i may get a big check from home. "you display almost human intelligence," said pros, admiringly; "stage's better, though." "but, mr. reid, that's too public." "inherited instinct; no more public than--than being a beauty." he gazed at me with mild audacity,--"money getting's prosaic, off the stage. most girls who want cash become tiddlety-wink typewriters at eight per; bargain price; fully worth four. now that isn't your class; if $8 a week would satisfy you, which it wouldn't, do you suppose there's an office in town that'd have you? men won't subject their clerks to the white light of beauty; wives won't stand for it, either. there are places where no girl can get work unless she's pulchritudinous. catch the idea? a pretty london barmaid can't draw more beer than an ugly one, but draws more custom. what's a princess to do with such jobs? you'd be like the man who wouldn't be fool enough to marry any woman who'd be fool enough to have him--in getting work, i mean. this is the other side of all that rot about woman's century and woman's widening sphere. never go into an office, miss winship; my wife won't, when we're married." "'cause she'll be in one already," interrupted cadge; "why, if i had to mope 'round all day in a flat, i'd be driven to drink--club tea. imagine it; cadge bryant a clubwoman!" "clubwomaning is exciting enough, election time." "but men get money," i persisted. "isn't there anything a girl can do?" "i've a sister," said reid, "--other sister out in cincinnati--who wants a profession; law's the one i'm recommending. it's so harmless. course she'll never have any practice; she won't get out and hustle with the greasy yahoudis who run the bar now-a-days. no, so long as my sister has the career fever, i say law, every time. cadge, why don't you study law?" "the dear boy does so enjoy talking nonsense," cadge explained indulgently. "in ordinary business," reid went on, "pretty women are only employed as lures for men. swell milliners have 'em to overawe with their great grieving eyes the hubbies who're inclined to kick at market rates for bonnets. now there's dry goods, chief theme of half the race. you'd think there'd be a show there for a pretty girl; well, there ain't. it's retail trade; one girl can sell about as many papers of pins in a day as another." "some pretty cloak and suit models get big wages," said cadge. "yes, in the jobbing houses. that's wholesale trade, and every dicker counts. have to corset themselves to death, though." "it's a fact," cadge put in. "many's the filler i've written about it. girl has to destroy her beauty to get a living by her beauty." "sure! fashions not made to fit women, but women to fit fashions. then those girls have an awful time, if they're careful about their associates. why, it's getting so a model is expected to sell goods herself--held responsible if she doesn't. no sale, no job next week. see the situation," pros. added, "--on the one hand the buyer, a vain man away from home, with thousands to invest; on the other a girl who must get that money for her firm. well, of course it's not so bad as that, but----" "but _i_ wouldn't corset myself redfern shape and go into such horrid places for the world," i cried. no more than judge baker, or father, or any one else, could reid see my situation. what do i care about earning $8 a week--or $80? i must have a great deal of money, at once; to pay my debts and to live upon. men get money quickly--in wall street or by inventions or---"course not," said pros. "you're the princess; and princesses may be honorary presidents and ask questions and take an interest, but they don't do things." "pros. is right about the stage," said cadge; "that's the best sort of wholesale business. you sell a chance to look at you to fifteen hundred people at once; and folks can't paw you over to see how your clothes fit, either. i'd like it myself, but i'm too--well, after all, i might do; i'm at least picturesquely ugly." and so the antiphony of discouragement ended in a laugh. i wonder--women on the stage do get big sums, and they often graduate from it to society. if even a music hall singer can become a duchess---bellmer's father made his money in sugar, they say. if i had it, i could storm any position. i suppose mrs. terry has shooed him off on that automobile tour i heard about; but he must come back--and so must strathay. i can't wait long, i'm not safe an hour from human vultures hungry for money, though i've none to yield them. i must do something. no sooner had mrs. whitney vanished from the flat in a whirlwind of tears and reproaches than in came the furniture man, as if he had been watching the house, to threaten that, unless i pay at once, he will take away everything. he was not rude in words, but oh, so different from the oily people who sold me the things. his ferret eyes searched the apartment; he seemed counting every article. "the furniture's safe," i said; "it won't walk away." "of course it's safe," he answered with a suspicion of a sneer; "but when'll it be paid for?" "i don't know; go away!" i said. "i've written to my father." the fellow looked at me with open admiration. "better 'tend to this thing; better write again to--your father," he said and walked off, leaving me cold and tremulous with rage. i must have imagined the pause, the inflection; but he has me under surveillance. like a thief! i flew to the dining-room and swallowed a glass of sherry, for i was faint and quivering; but before i had turned from the sideboard cadge bounced into the room, tearing through the flat to find me, and stopped to stare, open-eyed. "drop that!" she cried. "oh, don't preach! i've just been having such a time!" "everybody has 'em; i've had fifty a year for fifty years. and i don't mind your drowning sorrow in the flowing bowl, either. but do it like a man, in company. honest now, helen." she changed the subject abruptly to the errand that had brought her; but, before she went away, she looked curiously at the sideboard and said:---"helen, you really don't----" "mercy, no! scarcely at table, even. why i used to be shocked to see how things to drink are thrust upon women, even in department stores. but they're not all deadly; there's 'creme de menthe' now--the pep'mint extract ma used to give me for stomach-ache." cadge laughed with me, but she turned quickly grave again. "mind what i tell you, princess," she said, "and never, never drink even 'pep'mint extract' in the house like that, alone; if you do, i see your finish; reporters learn a thing or two." she's right--for ordinary women. but i told her the truth; i don't care for wine. i've seen girls flushed at dinner, but i know too much of physiology, and i care too much for my beauty. still, in emergencies---emergencies--oh! i could have named to her the very day i first tasted wine. it was here in the nicaragua, the day darmstetter---well, well,--i mustn't think about that. i can't understand why i don't hear from father. impossible to make him see how different are my present tastes and pressing needs from those i brought from home. i hope he won't delay long about the money. my position is becoming intolerable. i owe the butcher, grocer, furniture dealer, photographer--and the milliner is the worst of all. the money i got from the _star_ is filched from me by people who need it far less than i. why, i even owe money to the maids, and i can't discharge either of them, because i'd have to pay her. but they must somehow be sent away. i wonder if father couldn't sell the farm. that would bring more than a mortgage; but it might take months, and even then i need in a single year more than all he has in the world. will any woman who reads the story of my life--the real story which sometime i shall write, leaving out the paltry details which now harass me--will any woman believe that the most beautiful woman in the world in the wonderful year, of the finding of the bacillus actually thought of tramping the streets, looking for work, like a story heroine seeking her fortune? i shall have to do something--anything! but i can't work; i'm not calm enough, and it would ruin my beauty. the luck must change! sometimes i see more clearly than the sordidness of this horrible existence, a big palace with a terraced front and a mile long drive straight to the park gate, past great trees and turf that is always green; and long rows of stately ladies looking down on me from their frames on the lofty wall beside soldiers that have stood silent guard there three hundred years. i can see a beautiful woman courtesying to a queen and all the world reading it in the morning paper; and a big town house with myriad lights blinking through the fog outside, where shivering wretches watch the carriages drive up to my door. for twenty--no thirty years--i might be the one inimitable and wholly adorable being, clothed with rare garments, blazing with jewels, confidant of statesmen, maker of the men who make history. history! i should _be_ history! i could do it all myself--i have never had a chance, never yet the glimmer of a chance, but i could do anything, conquer anything, achieve anything! it is so little that i ask--the money to live upon, and a chance, only the chance--it is maddening to be denied that!--and fair play to live my life and carry out my destiny. there was a time when i wanted less, expected less; like cadge with queer, devoted pros. or kitty reid, her hair blowing about her face, happy with her daubs, messing about in the studio. was i happier when i was like that? i would not go back to it! i would not barter my beauty for any other gift on earth. i shall fight and fight to the last ditch. i don't propose to be a pawn on the chess-board. if it comes to that, i shall know what to do! chapter viii. a chaperon on a cattle train. june 4. this has been one of my worst days, and i have for a long time had no days but bad ones. three things have happened, either one of which would alone have been a calamity. together they crush, they frighten, they humiliate me! this morning came this letter from father:-hannibal, may 31. "dear nelly:-"i take my pen in hand to tell you that we are all well and hope that you are the same. it was a very cold winter and we were so put to it to get water for the stock after the dry fall that i am thinking of putting down a driven well this summer if i can find the money. ma has a sprained wrist which is painful but not serious. john burke sent home some little items from the papers. we are glad that you have been having a good time. we were glad that you had gone to timothy's house, though john burke said the girl you were with before was very nice. but twas right not to stay long enough to wear out your welcome. i do not see how i can get so much money. i have sent you all i had by me and we have been pinched a good deal too. i had a chance of a pass on a cattle train and ma said why don't you go east yourself and see nelly. but i said no school's most done and she'll be coming home and how can i leave? shaw said she we can tend to everything all right so maybe i will come. i have written to timothy and will do as he says. i have a feeling daughter that you need some one by you in the city. ma sends her love and asks why you don't write oftener. we wouldn't scarcely know what you was doing at all if it wasn't for john. "your loving father, "ezra d. winship." it seems i'm to have a new chaperon. he's a little stiff in the joints and his face is wrinkled and his talk is not that of society and he's coming out of the west on a cattle train. good lord! oh, yes, he'll come. uncle timothy'll urge him to take me back to the farm. i won't go back! as soon as i had read this news i started for the imperial theatre to see the manager. i walked, for i have no more credit at the livery stable; and i was grimly amused to see in the shop windows the "winship hats" and graceful "winship scarves" that are coining money for other people while i have scarcely carfare. the unusual exercise may have tired me, or perhaps it was some lingering remnant of the old farm superstition against the theatre that made me slacken my steps as i neared the office. i remembered my father's tremulous voice cautioning me against play-houses before i started for the city. "now don't ye go near them places," he said, wiping his nose and dodging about the corners of his eyes. "they're bad for young girls." why do i think of these things? if he cares so much for me, why doesn't he get me the money i asked for; instead of coming here-on a cattle train? whatever the reason, puritanic training or fear of my errand, i walked slowly back and forth in front of the dingy little office of the theatre for some time before i conquered my irresolution and went desperately into the place. they told me the manager was out, but after a little waiting i began to suspect that this was a dingy white lie, and so it proved; for when i lifted my veil and blushing like a school-girl, told the people in the office who i was, at once some one scurried into a little den and presently came out to say that mr. blumenthal had "returned." oh, the manager's an important person in his way; he has theatres in every part of the country and is a busy man. but he was willing enough to see me when his stupid people had let him know that i was the miss winship! sorry as was my heart, i felt a thrill of triumph at this new proof of my fame and the power beauty gives. when i entered his office, a bald little man turned from a litter of papers and looked at me with frank, business-like curiosity, as if he had a perfect right to do so-and indeed he had. i was not there to barter talent, but to rent my face. i understood that; but perhaps for this very reason my tongue tripped as it has seldom done of late when i blunderingly explained my errand. "guess we can do something for you," he said promptly. "of course there's a horde of applicants, but you're exceptional; you know that." he smiled good-naturedly, and i felt at once relieved and indignant that he should treat as an everyday affair the step i had pondered during so many sleepless nights. "must remember though," he added, "on the stage a passably pretty woman with a good nose, who has command of her features and can summon expression to them, often appears more beautiful than a goddess-faced stick. however, it's worth trying. i don't believe you're a stick. ah,--would you walk on?" "i don't understand." "stage slang; would you be willing to go on as a minor character--wear fine clothes and be looked at without saying much--at first, you know? or--of course your idea's to star-you got a backer?" "i don't understand that, either." "some one to pay the bills while you're being taught. to hire a company and a theatre as a gamble." "impossible! i want money at once. i supposed that my--my beauty would command a position on the stage; it's certainly a bar to employment off it." "of course it would; yes, yes, but not immediately. why, even mrs. farquhar had to have long and expensive training before she made her debut. and you know what a scandal there had been about her! "not that there's been any about you," he added hastily, to my look of amazement. "but you know--ah--public mention of any sort piques curiosity. er--what's your act?" "my act?" "yes; what can you do?" "sing a little; nothing else. i thought of opera." this proposition didn't seem to strike him favourably. "i don't know--" he hesitated. "you have a wonderful speaking voice, and you've been advertised to beat the band. who's your press agent?" "i don't quite know what a press agent is; but i'm sure i never had any." "well, you don't need any. now that i see you--, but i fancied months ago that you were probably getting ready for this. suppose you sing a little song for me." we stumbled through dim passages to the stage, half-lighted by a window or two high overhead. mr. blumenthal sat alone in the orchestra, and i summoned all my resolution, and then, frightened and ashamed and desperate, i sang the "sehnsucht," following it with what cadge calls a "good yelling song" to show the power of my voice. then the rotund little manager rolled silently back to the office, and i knew as i followed him that i had been judged by a different standard from that of an applauding drawing-room. "well!" said he, when we had regained his room. "you are a marvel! sing by all means; but, if you must have immediate results, not in opera. music halls get pretty much the most profitable part of the business since they became so fashionable in london. tell you what i'll do.--i'll give you a short trial at--say a hundred a week. you've a wonderful voice and no training; but any teacher can soon put you in shape to sing a few showy songs. give me an option on your services for a longer term at a higher figure, if you take to the business and it takes to you, and you can start in next month at the roof garden." "the roof garden!" i cried out; but then i saw how foolish it would be to feel affronted at this common man with money who would rank me as an attraction among acrobats and trick dogs. "i shouldn't like that," i said more calmly; "people are very foolish, of course, but i've been told that--that if i were to sing in public, my appearance would mark a new era in music; now, i wouldn't care to sing in such a place; i had hoped, too, that i could get more--more salary." "would seem so, wouldn't it?" said mr. blumenthal. "but it's a fair offer. tell you why. "you'll take with an audience, for a short run, anyhow, if you've got--er--temperament; but i run the risk that you haven't. i spend considerable money getting you ready to appear, and then you're on the stage only a few minutes. another thing: most people nowadays are short sighted; you have to capture 'em in the mass--two topsies, four uncle toms, eight markses the lawyers, twenty chorus girls kicking at once-big stage picture, you know, not the individual. and the individual must have the large manner. yes, yes; i use you for bait to draw people, but i need other performers to amuse 'em after they're here. they want to feel that there's 'something doing' all the while, something different. curiosity wouldn't last long; either you'd turn out an artist and--er--do what a music hall audience wants done, or you'd fail. in the former case you could command more money; never so much as people say, though. there's so many liars." "i--i'll think over your offer," i said. "i wouldn't have to wear--" "costumes of approved brevity? no; at least not to start with." mr. blumenthal also had risen. he looked at me, as if aroused to my ignorance of things theatrical, with a more personal and kindly interest. "sorry my offer doesn't strike you favourably," he said. "i'd like mighty well to bring you out; but if you hold off for opera--that isn't my line, though--mind you, i don't say it could be done; but if some one were found to put up the money, would you wait and study? know what you'd be undertaking, i suppose--hard work, regular hours, open air, steady habits? that's the life of a singer. your health good? no nerves? we might make a deal, if you mean business. trouble is, so many beautiful women think beauty as an asset is worth more than it is; it makes 'em careless about studying while they're young, and it can't last--" i never heard the end of that sentence. i flew home and went straight to my mirror. sure enough, i fancied i saw a haggard look about the eyes-my god! this gift of beauty doesn't confer immunity from fatigue, accident, old age. this loveliness must fade and crack and wrinkle, these full organ tones must shrivel to a shrill pipe; and i--i! shall one day be a tottering old woman, bent, gray, hideous! and all the little disfiguring hurts of life--they frighten me! i never enter a train that i do not think, with a shudder, of derailment and bleeding gashes and white scars; or cross a street without looking about for the waving hoofs of runaway horses that shall beat me down, or for some bicycle rider who might roll me over in a limp heap on the paving stones. yesterday i saw a horrid creature; her face blotched with red by acid stain or by a birth mark. why does she not kill herself? why didn't she die before i saw her? i shall dream of her for months--of her and darmstetter, old and wrinkled as i shall be some day, and dead--with that same awful look in my fixed eyes! ah, what a nelly i have come to be! is it possible that i once rode frisky colts bareback and had no nerves! i mustn't have nerves! they make one old. mr. blumenthal said so. but how to avoid them? oh, i must be careful; so careful! how do women dare to ride bicycles? and this theatrical napoleon, part of whose business is the appraisement of beauty--did he suspect that mine was less than perfect? it was perfect a month ago. he couldn't have meant that, or he was trying to make a better bargain by cheapening the wares i brought-but i can't go upon the stage. how could i have thought of it? i mustn't subject myself to the late hours, the grease paint, the bad air! of what use would be a mint of money, if i lost my beauty? i steadied my nerves with a tiny glass of curaã§oa, and looked again. the face in the mirror was beautiful, beautiful! there is no other like it! and gazing upon radiant her, i might have recovered myself but for the third untoward event of the day. it came in the shape of bellmer. perhaps i ought not to have seen him alone, but it is hard for one who has lived in the free atmosphere of the prairie, and has been a bachelor girl in new york with kitty reid to think about caution. besides, it was such a blessed relief to see his full-moon face rise above the darkness of my troubles! i greeted him with my sweetest smile, and did my very best to make myself agreeable. "you've been out of town, haven't you?" i asked when the talk began to flag, as it soon does with hughy. "aw, yes," he said; "pickin' up a record or two, with my 'mobe;' y' ought to see it; it's a beauty, gasolene, you know. awful nuisance, punctures, though. cost me thirteen dollars to repair one; vulcanize the tire, y'see. tires weigh thirty pounds each; awful lot, ain't it? stripped one right off, though, trying to turn in the mud; fastened on with half-inch spikes, too. can't i persuade you to--aw--take a spin some day? where's mrs. whitney?" "gone to the country; she--she's ill." "awful tabby, wa'n't she?" "oh, no; i like her very much, but she was in a hurry to leave town." "so aunt terry said. awf'ly down on you, aunt terry is," he drawled with even more than his usual tactlessness, "but i stand up for you, i assuah you, miss winship. i tell her you're awf'ly sensible an' jolly--lettin' a fellow come like this, now, and talk to you's jolly, ain't it? an' you will try my mobe? awf'ly jolly 'twould be to take a spin." "very jolly indeed," i said. i turned my head that i might not see his shining scalp. thank heaven, i thought, hughy doesn't know enough to be deterred by two rejections, nor even by the gossip about strathay. i wished--it was wicked, of course--i wished i were his widow; but i was determined not to repeat such folly as i had shown about the earl. "very jolly," i repeated, "but you don't know what a coward i am; i believe i'd be afraid." "aw, no, miss winship," he remonstrated; "afraid of the mobe? aw, no; not with me. i'll teach you how to run it, i do assuah you; awf'ly jolly that would be." "why, yes; that would be nice, of course," i said; "but--" oh, how shall i tell the rest? i was afraid of the machine; i knew i could never mount it, with his hand on the lever; i was just trying to refuse without offending him. "--i'm such a coward, really," i went on; i smiled painstakingly into his stupid pink face that seemed suddenly to have grown pinker; and then i felt my smile stiffen upon my lips, for he had whirled around on the piano stool on which he was sitting, and he smiled back at me, but not as he would have done in mrs. whitney's presence. he--he leered! "you wouldn't be afraid, with me, y' know,--" was all he said, but he rose as if to come nearer me. "oh, yes, i should--i should--" i stammered; i couldn't move; i couldn't look away from him. i seemed face to face with some foolish, grinning masque of horror. my heart beat as i think a bird's must when a snake has eyed it; and a cold moisture broke out upon me. "oh, yes, i should!" i cried as i broke loose from the spell of terror, and made some halting excuse to get rid of him. i didn't dare even wait to see him leave the room, but fled from it myself, conscious as i went of his open-mouthed stare, and of his detaining: "aw, now, miss winship--" to get as far away as possible, i retreated to the kitchen, where i surprised nora and annie in conclave. they seized the opportunity to "give notice." nora has a sweetheart and is to be married; annie has invented the excuse of an ailing mother, because she dares not stay alone with me. they are both afraid, now that mrs. whitney--selfish creature!--has gone, and left me helpless against the world. at any other time the news would have been a fresh calamity--for how can i pay them, or how get rid of them without paying? but with the memory of that awful scene in my head, i could think of nothing else. i don't know what i said in reply. bellmer's insult has stayed with me and haunted me. i had bearded a theatrical manager in his den and had been received with kindness and courtesy. he had even assumed that some things in the profession about which i was inquiring might be trying to a tenderly reared girl, and that he ought to give me advice and warnings. but this thing bearing a gentleman's repute; this bat-brained darling of a society that i'm not thought good enough to enter, had insulted me like a boor under my own roof; and he would probably boast of it like a boor to others as base as himself! the poverty of it, the grossness of it! i'm not ignorant, now. i know there's a way open to me--god knows i never mean to walk on it--but if ever i do go, open-eyed, into what the world calls wrong to end my worries, it will be at the invitation of one who has at least the manner of a gentleman! sometimes i wonder if i did right about ned. if he had known that i loved him, if i had made it plain, if i were even now to tell him all the truth.--but he said-i hate him! the whole world's against me, but i won't be beaten! i won't go back to the farm with father. i will not give up the fight! what shall i do? chapter ix. a burst of sunlight. june 8. they say the darkest hour comes just before the dawn. it was so with me. my troubles grew too great to bear, then vanished in an hour. fate couldn't forever frown. i knew there must be help; some hand outstretched in a pitiless world. really i am almost happy, for in the most unexpected and yet the most natural fashion, my perplexities have vanished; and i believe that my life will not be, after all, a failure. the hour before the dawn was more than dark. it was dreary. in the morning i did not care to go out, and no one came except one strange man who besieged the door--there have been many such here recently, dunning and dunning and dunning, until my patience was worn to shreds. this was a decent-looking fellow with a thin face, a mustache dyed black and a carefully unkeen expression that noticed everything. "miss winship?" he said, and upon my acknowledging the name, he placed a paper in my hands and went away. i was so relieved because he said nothing about wanting "a little money on account;" he wasn't even coarsely insolent, like so many of them. he did look surprised at my appearance; so surprised that his explanation of his errand died away into an unintelligible murmur. but i wasn't curious about it. i tried to read a newspaper, only to gather from some headlines that strathay and his cousin were passengers by an out-going steamship. i wonder if it was all money, money, that kept him from me--or was it more than half the fear of beauty? i couldn't read anything else, not even a note from mrs. marmaduke; it was dated from her country place; she hoped to see me--"in the autumn!" peggy is in europe; the general's going if she's not gone already. "may see you at the wedding of that odd miss bryant," ran her last brusque message. "i begged an invitation; really i like her. but the chances are against my being here." all gone, i thought; my last hope, all my friends. there was a note from mrs. baker; i compelled myself to glance at that, and when i had done so, seized my hat and veil. she would call, it said, that afternoon! with no thought but of escape, i left the house; i cared not where i went, nor what i did. i knew the judge had sent aunt frank to pry into my troubles; i walked with feverish haste, i would have liked to fly to avoid her. my hands shook. oh, i was wretched! as i passed the park, i saw that spring had leaped to summer and the trees waved fresh, green branches in the air--just such trees as john and i walked under, less than a year ago, making great plans for a golden future; and a golden future there must be, but i had then no hope of it, no joy in life, no happiness even in my beauty. one only thought spurred me on, to forget past, present and future; to buy forgetfulness by any caprice; to win diversion by any adventure. after some time i saw that i was in a side street whose number seemed familiar; self-searching at last recalled to me that on this street lived two rival faith healers, about whose lively competition for clients cadge had once told us girls a funny story. could there have come to my thought some hope of finding rest from sorrow in the leading of another mind? impossible to say. i was near insanity, i think. i chose the nearer practitioner and rang the bell. i can smile now at memory of the stuffy little parlour into which i was ushered, but i did not smile then at it, nor at the middle-aged woman who received me with a set smile of stereotyped placidity. her name, i think, was mallard. "have you a conviction of disease, my daughter?" she asked, in a low voice with a caressing overtone gurgling in its cadences. "you look as radiant as the morn. you should not think ill." "i am not ill," i replied; "but the world is harsh." "the world is the expression of our sense life to the spirit," she cooed. "we do not live or die, but we pass through the phenomena. through the purifying of our thoughts we will gradually become more and more ethereal until we are translated." i felt that momentary shiver that folk tales tells us is caused by some one walking over our graves. "i'm in no haste to be translated," i said. "no one need be translated until she is ready--unless she has enemies. are you suffering from the errors of others? has any one felt fear for you? that would account for what the world calls unhappiness. is some one trying to influence your subjective state?" "i am convinced of it," i said with wasted sarcasm. "but you can do nothing for me; you can't--can you work on unbelievers?" "most assuredly. we are channels through which truth must flow to our patients. i need not tell you what i myself have done."--mrs. mallard modestly cast down her eyes.--"mrs. eddy has healed carous bones and cancers. i--some of our healers can dissuade the conviction of decayed teeth. the 'filling,' as the world calls it, is, in such cases, pink and very durable. if these marvels can be wrought upon the body, why may not the mind be led toward healing? confide; confide." "heal the world of its hate of me," i cried out. "what you say is all so vague. does the mind exist?" "it is the only thing that does exist. without mind man and the universe would collapse; the winds would weary and the world stand still. sin-tossed humanity, expressed in tempest and flood, the divine mind calms and limits with a word." i rose hastily to go. chance alone and weariness of life had led me to enter the woman's parlor, but there was no forgetfulness in it. impatience spurred me to be moving, and i turned to the door, with the polite fiction that i was leaving town but might soon consult the healer. "that makes no difference," she persisted, getting between me and the door. "we treat many cases, of belief in unhappiness by the absent method. from 9 to 10 a. m. we go into the silence for our eastern patients. our ten o'clock is nine o'clock for those living in the central time belt. at 11 a. m. it is nine for those in denver or rocky mountain time region. thus we are in the silence during the entire forenoon, but it is always nine for the patient. will you not arrange for treatment; you really look very badly?" "not today." i pushed past her. to my astonishment the woman followed me to the outer door, abruptly changing her tone. "i know very well why you don't get healed," she said. "you fill your mind with antagonistic thoughts by reading papers that are fighting some one on every page. you want to get into some kind of society where you can pay $15 or $20 a week and get free healing, and you are disappointed because i won't give you my time and strength for nothing, so that you can have the money to go somewhere and have a good time. oh, i know you society people!" by degrees her voice had lost its cooing tone and had risen to a shriek. i was amazed--until i remembered the rival across the street, who was probably watching me from behind closed blinds. as i walked away with the woman's angry words ringing after me from the doorstep, i was divided between amusement and despair; i cannot express it by any other phrase. and that cynical mingling of feelings was the nearest approach to contentment that i had known for days. the feeling died away; reaction came. it was the worst hour of my life. the thought of suicide--the respite i had always held in reserve against a day too evil to be borne--pressed upon my mind. i wandered to a ferry and crossed the east river to some unfamiliar suburb where saloons were thicker than i had ever before seen them; and all the way over i looked at the turbid water and knew in my heart that i should never have the courage to throw my beautiful body into that foul tide. from the ferry i presently reached a vast, forbidding cemetery, and as i went among the crowded graves there came floating out from a little chapel the sound of prayers intoned for the dead. i almost envied them; almost wished that i, too, might be laid to rest in the little churchyard at home. then i lay down flat upon the turf in a lonely place, and tried to think of myself as dead. never had the pulse beat stronger in my veins then at that moment. there were little living things all around me, joying in the warm sun; tiny insects that crawled, unrebuked, over my gown, so busy, so happy in their way, with their petty affairs all prospering, that i wondered why i should be so out of tune with the world. and then a rain of tears gushed from my eyes. i do not think that any one who should have seen me there could have guessed that the prone and weeping woman was the most beautiful of created things; i do not think i have an enemy so bitter that she would not have pitied me. i tried to think, but i was too tired. i had a vision of myself returning to the narrow round of farm life, to ma's reproaches, to dreary, grinding toil that i might win back dollar by dollar the money i had squandered--my back bent, my face seamed, my hands marred, like aunt emily's; and i shuddered and wept and grovelled before fate. then i saw myself remaining in the city, seeking work and finding nothing. teach i could not; every door was barred except--i saw myself before the footlights, coarsened, swallowing greedily the applause of a music hall audience, taking a husband from that audience perhaps--a brute like bellmer! better die! but as the vision passed, a great desire of life grew upon me. it seemed monstrous, hideous, that i should ever die or be unhappy; the fighting instinct sent the blood galloping. i sat erect. then i noticed that the sun was gone, and the evening cool was rapidly falling. the little people of the grass whose affairs i had idly watched i could no longer see--gone to their homes maybe; and i turned to mine, desolate as it was, hungry and chilled and alone. and that evening john burke brought the sunshine. chapter x. plighted troth. "helen, you seem tired," john said as i met him at the door--at first i peeped out from behind it, i remember, as if i feared the bogey-man--"have you been too hard at work?" "i've been out all the afternoon," i said, "and i suppose i am rather tired, but it was pleasant and warm; and i wore a veil." there was a little awkward pause after i had ushered him to the reception room, and then, guiding the talk through channels he thought safe, he spoke about his law work, the amusing things that happen at the office, his gratifying progress in his profession. "oh," i said, "talking of the law reminds me--some stupid paper was left here to-day." i found with some difficulty and handed to him the stiff folded legal cap the man had brought. he glanced through it with apprehensive surprise, skipping the long sentences to the end. "why, this is returnable to-morrow," he said; "nelly, i had no idea you were in such urgent money troubles; why didn't you send for me at once; this morning?" "oh, if that's all--i've had so many duns that i'm tired of them: tired to death of them." "but this isn't a dun," he began in the unnaturally quiet tone of a man who is trying to keep his temper and isn't going to succeed. "it is a court order; and people don't ignore court orders unless they want to get into trouble. this paper calls you to court to-morrow morning in supplementary proceedings." "i don't know what they are." "you don't want to know what they are. you mustn't know. it's an ordeal so terrible that most creditors employ it only as a last resort, especially against a woman. this plaintiff, being herself a woman, is less merciful." "why is it so terrible? i have no money; they can't make me pay what i haven't got, can they? is it the inquisition?" "yes, of a sort; it's an inquiry into your ability to pay, and almost no question that could throw light upon that is barred. you'll be asked about your business in new york, your income and expenses, your family and your father's means. it will be a turning inside out of your most intimate affairs." "why, i should expect all that," i said. "but, nelly--" he hesitated. "you're alone here?" he had not before alluded to mrs. whitney, though i suppose he understood that she had gone; i appreciated his delicacy. "i'm afraid you'll be asked about that," he went on; "asked, i mean, how a young woman without money maintains a fine apartment. they'll inquire about your servants, the daily expenses of your table, your wine bills, if you ever have any; then they'll question you about your visitors, their character and number, and try to wring admissions from you, and to give sinister shades to innocent relations. the reporters will all be there, a swarm of them. you're a semi-public character, more's the pity, and some lawyers like to be known for their severity to debtors. what a field day for the press! the beautiful miss winship in supplementary proceedings--columns of testimony, pages of pictures--! ugh! in a word, the experience is so severe that you cannot undergo it." "i don't see how it's to be helped; is it a crime to live alone?" i said. "i won't ask uncle timothy for money--and have aunt frank know about it." again he hesitated, then he said more slowly, but plumping out the last words in a kind of desperation: "i've heard a woman--once--asked if she had a lover--to pay the money, you know." i didn't understand at first; then a flush deepened upon my face. "they wouldn't dare! this woman knows all about me; why, she's meg van dam's dressmaker; mrs. whitney's too--" i said. "i've heard it done," john repeated patiently. "you must pardon me. i didn't want to go into this phase of it, but it may explain what, with your permission, i am about to do. now, before i go--for i must go at once to find this attorney, at his house, the democratic club, anywhere--i must be frank with you." he was already at the door, where he turned and faced me, looking almost handsome in his sturdy manliness, his colour heightened by excitement. "i must tell you one thing," he went on very slowly. "i haven't in all the world a fraction of the money called for by this one bill; but in a way i have made some success. i am beginning to be known. if i myself offer terms, so much cash down, so much a month, pledging my word for the payment, the woman's lawyer will agree. she'll be glad to get the money in that way, or in any way. but i must guard your reputation. i shall tell plaintiff's counsel that you are my affianced wife, that i didn't know how badly you were in debt--both statements are true--and that i assume payment. i wish to assure you that, in thus asserting our old relation, i shall not presume upon the liberty i am obliged to take." i think i have treated john badly; yet he brought me help. and he had no thought of recompense. since he has seen how useless it was, he has ceased to pester me with love making, but has been simply, kindly helpful. and i have been so lonely, so harassed and tormented. it was far enough from my thoughts to do such a thing, but as i stood dumbly looking at him, it flashed upon me that here, after all, was the man who had always loved me, always helped me, always respected me. i almost loved him in return. why not try to reward his devotion, and throw my distracted self upon his protection? "i would not have you tell a lie for me, john," said i uncertainly, holding out my hands and smiling softly into his eyes. "i don't understand--" he stood irresolute, yet moved, i could see, by my beauty. "do you mean--" and he slowly approached, peering from under his contracted brows as if trying to read my eyes. "i mean that i have treated you very badly; and that i am sorry," i whispered, hiding my head with a little sigh upon his shoulder; and after a time he put his arms about me gently as if half afraid, and was silent. i felt how good he was, how strong and patient, and was at peace. i knew i could trust him. so we stood for a little while at the dividing line between the future and the past. i do not know what were his thoughts, but i had not been so much at rest for a long, long time-not since i came from home to new york. then with a sigh of quiet content, he said in a low and gentle voice:-"it's a strange thing to hurry away now, nelly; but you know i have so much to do before i can rest tonight. i must speak of this: now--now that we are to belong to each other always--i must know exactly about all your affairs, so that i can arrange them. there are other debts?" the word grated upon my nerves, i had been so glad to forget. "yes, i'm afraid i owe a lot of money, but must we--just to-night?" i asked. "i'm afraid it's safest. it is not alone that you will be able to forget the matter sooner if you confide in me now, but how can we know that these proceedings will not be repeated if i don't attend promptly to everything? some one else may bring suit tomorrow, and another the next day, giving you no peace. i'm sorry, but it is the best way. tell me everything now, and i will arrange with them all, and need never mention the subject again. then you can be at peace." "well, if i must--" it seemed impossible to go on. even the thought of how good he was and how he had taken up my burden when it was too heavy for my own strength made it harder to face the horrible business. "--i owe ten dollars to kitty reid, and about twenty-five to cadge," i admitted. "i didn't mean to borrow of them, but i had to do it, just lately--" "poor child!" said john, stroking my hand with his big, warm paw, as he would a baby's. "poor child!" "i've bills somewhere for everything else--" it was like digging among the ruins of my past greatness to pull out the crumpled papers from my writing desk, reminding me of the gay scenes that for me were no more; but john quietly took them from me, and began smoothing them and laying them in methodical piles and making notes of amounts and names. "i've refused all these to uncle timothy; he's been worrying me with questions--" i said desperately. "three florists, two confectioners," he enumerated, as if he had not heard me. "--women eat sweets by the ton, but lately there have been few of 'em in this house. then here are the accounts for newspaper clippings, you know; shanks and romeike; but they're trifles." "you must have been a good customer," john said, glancing about the dishevelled flat--i hadn't had the heart to rearrange it since mrs. whitney left. "from the look of the place, i believe you would have bought a mummy or a heathen god, if anybody had suggested it to you." "i have a little heathen god--gautama; alabaster--and a mummied cat." "and you're very fond of that? but no matter. shoemaker and milliner and furniture man; that makes eleven." he lengthened his list on the margin of a newspaper. "well, i never paid van nostrand for that painting, and i've even forgotten how much he said it would be. and there's a photograph bill--a perfectly scandalous one--and another dressmaker; mrs. edgar; i went back to her after meg's woman got crusty, but she never'll sue me. and the japanese furniture shop and--another photographer--and here's the bill for bric-a-brac--that's sixteen. the wine account--there is one, but it ought to be mrs. whitney's; for entertaining. i suppose pa and ma would say that was a very wicked bill, now wouldn't they, schoolmaster?" "they would indeed, helen 'lizy; i'm not sure that i don't agree with them. by the way, does your father know about all this?" "yes, a little. i've begged him for money, but he won't mortgage the farm. and judge baker knows. he wants me to come back to his house, but of course i won't do it. i guess he's sent for father; pa's coming east soon, on a cattle train pass." "a cattle train!" john stabbed the paper viciously, then he said more gently:-"a cattle train is cold comfort for a substantial farmer at his time of life; and i don't think we will let him mortgage." that young man will need discipline; but i imagine he was thinking less about my poor old father than about--well, i needn't have mentioned the baker house, but what does he really know of how i came to leave it? perhaps suspicion and bitter memories made my retort more spirited than it need have been. "we won't discuss that, please," i said with hauteur; "and we won't be too emphatic about what is past. it _is_ past. i'll find out what is a proper scale of expenditure for a young lawyer's wife in new york, and i shall not exceed it. i've been living very economically for the sphere that seemed open to me. perhaps i ought not to have tried it; but i think you should blame those who lured me into extravagance and then deserted me. i've had a terrible, terrible experience! do you know that? and i was within an ace of becoming an ornament of the british peerage. did you know that?" "yes; i don't blame you for refusing, either; some girls don't seem to have the necessary strength of mind. no; i'm not blaming anybody for anything. nelly, next week it will be a year since our first betrothal; do you remember? haven't you, after all, loved me a little, all the time?" he looked at me wistfully. "at least," i said, "i didn't love lord strathay." i didn't think it necessary to correct him as to my refusal of the earl. "we'll see if kitty won't take you in again until we can be married," he said, jabbing the paper again and changing the subject almost brusquely. "if you don't want to go back to your aunt, that'll be better than a boarding house, won't it? you pay the girls out of this, and i'll look after the other bills. there's a good fellow. now, then what's no. 18?" i fingered with an odd reluctance the little roll of bills he handed me, though it was like a life buoy to a drowning sailor. "you'd better," he said, with quiet decision, cutting short my hesitation. "the girls won't need to know where it comes from, or that i know anything about it. it's ever so much nicer that way, don't you think?" i put the money with my pride into my pocket, and continued sorting out bills from the rubbish. in all we scheduled over forty before we gave it up. besides the van nostrand painting and one or two accounts that probably escaped us, i found that i owed between $4,000 and $5,000. "that is the whole of my dowry, john," i said. "i would as willingly accept you as a portionless bride," he declaimed in theatrical fashion; and then we both broke into hysterical laughter. "never mind," he said, at last, wiping his eyes. "i never dreamed that all this rubbish about you could cost so much; i ought to have had my eyes open. but now we aren't going to worry one little worry, are we? i'll straighten it all out in time. and now i really must go." and so he went away with a parting kiss, leaving me very happy. i don't know that i love him; or rather i know that i don't--but i shall be good to him and make him so happy that he'll forget all the trouble i have cost him. dear old unselfish, patient john! and i am more content and less torn by anxiety than i have been for many a long day. it is such a relief! and so i'm thinking it over. even from the selfish standpoint i have not done so badly. john is developing wonderfully. he is not so destitute of social finesse as when he came, his language is better, his bearing more confident. he makes a good figure in evening dress. he will be a famous success in the law, and, with a beautiful wife to help him, he should go far. he may be president some day, or minister to the court of st. james, or a justice of the supreme court. whatever his career, i shall help him. i have the power to do things in the world as well as he. and once married, i may almost choose my friends and his associates. the women will no longer fear me so much. he shall not regret this night's work. so that is settled. i am so relieved, and more tired than i have ever guessed a woman could be. tired, tired, tired! i'm sure it is the best thing i could do, now; but--judge baker is right! what was it he said? "a loveless marriage,"--oh, well, since i broke ned hynes's heart by setting a silly little girl to drive him away, and broke my own by breaking his, i haven't much cared what becomes of me; only to be at peace. it will be a relief to move out of this accursed flat, where i have spent the gloomiest hours of my life. book v. the end of the beginning. (from the shorthand notes of john burke.) chapter i. the deeds of the farm. sunday, june 13. in three days it will be a year since helen promised to marry me, and on that anniversary she will be my wife. it is strange how exactly according to my plan things have come about--and how differently from all that i have dreamed. she is the most beautiful woman in the world; she is to be my wife sooner than i dared to hope--and--i must be good to her. i must love her. did i ever doubt my love until she claimed it five days ago with such confidence in my loyalty? in that moment, as i went to her, as i took her in my arms, as i felt that she needed me and trusted me, with the suddenness of a revelation i knew-it was hard to meet ethel--and milly and mrs. baker afterwards. to-day, in preparing to move to our new home, i came across the rough notes i wrote last december, when the marvel of helen's beauty was fresh to me. as i read the disjointed and half incredulous words i had set to paper, i found myself living over again those days of faery and enchantment. custom has somewhat dulled the shock of her beauty; i have grown quickly used to her as the most radiantly lovely of created beings; my mind has been drawn to dwell upon moral problems and to sorrow at seeing her gradually become the victim of her beauty--her nature, once as fine as the outward form that clothes it, warped by constant adulation, envy and strife; until-but it is a miracle! as unbelievable, as unthinkable as it was on the very first day when that glowing dream of loveliness made manifest floated toward me in the little room overlooking union square, and i was near swooning with pure delight of vision. beautiful; wonderful! she didn't love me then and she doesn't now; but the most marvellous woman in the world needs me--and i will not fail her. i wish i could take her out of the city for a change of mental atmosphere. she shrinks from her father's suggestion of a summer on the farm. but in time her wholesome nature must reassert itself; she must become, if not again the fresh, light-hearted girl i knew a year ago, a sweet and gracious woman whose sufferings will have added pathos to her charm. and even now she's not to be judged like other women; before the shining of her beauty, reproach falls powerless. it is my sacred task to guard her--to soothe her awakening from all that nightmare of inflated hopes and vain imaginings. kitty reid and---yes, and little ethel--will help me. kitty is a good fellow. "why, cert.," she said when i begged her last wednesday to take care of helen. "married! did you say married? oh, cadge, quit pegging shoes!" jumping up from the drawing table, kitty left streams of india ink making her beastesses all tigers while she called to miss bryant, who was pounding viciously upon a typewriter:-"cadge, did you hear? cadge! the princess is going to be married. 'course you remember, mr. burke, cadge is going to be married herself saturday." "don't be too sure of it," returned miss bryant, "and do let me finish this sentence. ten to one pros. or i'll be grabbed off for an assignment saturday evening 'fore we can be married. but the princess is different; she has leisure. burke, shake!" she sprang up to take my hand, her eyes shining with excitement. kitty hurried with me to the nicaragua, where she pounced upon helen, her red curls madly bobbing. "what a bride you'll make!" she cried fondly. "going to be married from the den, aren't you? oh, i'm up to my eyes in weddings; cadge simply won't attend to anything. but what have you been doing to yourself? come here, helen." she pushed the proud, pale beauty into a chair, smothering her with kisses and the piles of cushions that seem to add bliss to women's joys and soften all their griefs. "tired, aren't you?" she purred. "needed me. now just you sit and talk with mr. burke and i'll pack up your brittle-brae in three no-times. clesta,--where's that imp?" she called to the little combination maid and model who had accompanied us. "clesta's afraid of you, helen. 'why'd ye fetch me 'long?' she whimpers. 'miss kitty, why'd ye fetch me 'long?' huh, i 'member how you used to have his picture with yours in a white and gold frame!" helen scarcely replied to kitty's raptures. she laid her head back half-protestingly among her cushions, showing her long, exquisite throat. for an instant she let her shadowy lashes droop over the everchanging lustre of her eyes. i couldn't help thinking of a great, glorious bird of heaven resting with broken wing. "poor little princess!" said kitty, who hardly comes to helen's shoulder. then we all laughed. kitty stayed at the nicaragua that night, and when i came thursday afternoon she stopped me outside the door, to say:-"i wouldn't let helen talk too much; she's nervous." "can you tell me what is the matter with her?" i asked. "i don't think she's well." "oh, nothing. you know--she's been worrying." then loyal kitty spoke purposely of commonplaces. "general must have danced her off her feet. darmstetter's death upset her terribly, too. she never will speak of it. but she'll be as right as right with me. bring her 'round as soon as the man comes for the trunks. you've only to head up a barrel of dishes, quick, 'fore clesta gets in any fine work smashing 'em." as i passed through the hall, littered with trunks and packing cases, to the dismantled parlour, helen looked up from a mass of old letters and dance cards. "i'm sorting my--souvenirs," she said. the face she lifted was white, only the lips richly red, with a shade of fatigue under the haunting eyes. the graceful figure in its close-fitting dress looked a trifle less round than it had done earlier in the winter, and one fair arm, as it escaped from its flowing sleeve, was almost thin. "dear," i said wistfully, for something in her drooping attitude smote me to remorse and inspired me with tenderness; "will you really trust your life to me?" she leaned towards me, and beauty breathed about her as a spell. i bent till my lips caressed her perfumed hair; and then--i saw among the rubbish on her desk something that made me interrupt the words we might have spoken. "what's that?" i asked. "not--pawn tickets?" "for a necklace," she said; "and this--this must be my diamond--" "pawned and not paid for!" she offered me the tickets, only half understanding, her great eyes as innocent as they were lovely. "i had forgotten," she said. "i only found them when i came to--" she brushed the rubbish of her winter's triumphs and disappointments to the floor, and turned from it with a little, disdainful movement. "i had to pay the maids," she said simply. "nelly, why--why didn't you come to me sooner?" with a bump against the door, clesta sidled into the room awestruck and smutched, bearing a tray. "miss kitty said," she stammered, "as how i should make tea." and as soon as she had found a resting place for her burden, the frightened girl made a dash for the door. before helen had finished drinking, there was a stir in the hall, and then the sound of a familiar voice startled us. "wa-al, helen 'lizy," it said. "how ye do, john? don't git up; i can set till ye're through." and mr. winship himself stood before us, stoop-shouldered, roughly dressed from the cattle cars, his kindly old eyes twinkling, his good face all glorified by the honest love and pride shining through its plainness. "why, father!" cried helen with a start. she looked at him with a nervous repugnance to his appearance, which she tried to subdue. he did not seem to notice it. "wa'n't lookin' for me yit-a-while, was ye?" he asked. "kind o' thought i'd s'prise ye. did s'prise the man down in the hall. didn't want to let me in till i told him who i was. little gal in the entry says ye're movin'; ye do look all tore up, for a fac'." mr. winship has grown old within the year. his hair has whitened and his bushy eyebrows; but the grip of his hand, the sound of his homely speech, seemed to wake me from some ugly dream. here we were together again in the wholesome daylight, father winship, little helen 'lizy and the schoolmaster, and all must yet be well. mr. winship sighed with deep content as he sank into a chair, his eyes scarcely leaving helen. he owned himself beat out and glad of a dish of tea; but when clesta had served him in her scuttling crab fashion, he would stop in the middle of a sentence, with saucer half lifted, to gaze with perplexed, wistful tenderness at his stately daughter. she is the child of his old age; i think he must be long past sixty, and fast growing feeble. the instinct of father love has grown in him so refined that he sees the soul and not the envelope. grand and beautiful as she is to others, to him she is still his little nelly. he would not even own that he thought her altered. "i d'know," he said, a shade of anxiety blending with the old fond pride. "fust-off, sis didn't look jes' nat'ral, spite of all the picters she's sent us; but that was her long-tailed dress, mebbe. w'en she's a young one, ma was all for tyin' back her ears and pinchin' her nose with a clo'espin--to make it straight or so'thin'; but i says to ma, w'en helen 'lizy lef' home, 'don't ye be one mite afeard,' i says, 'but what them bright eyes'll outshine the peaked city gals.' guess they have, sort o', eh, sis; f'om what john's been writin'?" "i don't know, father." "don't ye--don't ye want t' hear 'bout the folks? brought ye heaps o' messages. frenchy, now--him that worked for us--druv over f'om the merriam place to know 'f 'twas true that city folks made a catouse over ye. he'd heard the men readin' 'bout ye in the papers. "'wa-al,' i says to frenchy, 'helen 'lizy was al'ays han'some.' "'d'know 'bout zat,' says frenchy, only he says it in his lingo, 'but she was one vair cute li'l gal.' "'han'some as a picter,' i tol' him; 'an' cutes' little tyke y'ever see.'" "how is mother?" asked helen constrainedly. "ma's lottin' on havin' ye home; wants t' hear all 'bout the good times. school done? all packed and ready for a start, ain't ye? but ye don't seem to be feeling any too good. don't new york agree with ye, sissy? been studying too hard?" "she is a goot organism; new york agrees vit her," i said. "wasn't that how poor old darmstetter put it, nelly? mr. winship, nelly has overworked, but with your consent, she is about to let a tyrannical husband take care of her." at my heedless mention of darmstetter, helen's white face grew whiter. her trembling hand strayed, seeking support. "al'ays s'posed you'n' sis'd be marryin' some day," said mr. winship, dubiously watching her, while he stroked his beard; "but seems mos's if ye'd better wait a spell, till ma's chirked her up some. han'some place here." his eyes examined the luxurious, disordered room. "these here things ain't yourn, sis?" "not all of them." "i ain't refusin' to let sis marry, if ye're both sot on't," he conceded. then he caught sight of the van nostrand painting, and his slow glance travelled from it to helen. "that done for you, sis? i never helt with bare necks. yes, sis can marry, if she says so, though ma wants her home. but she ain't been writin' real cheerful. she--she's asked for money, that's the size on't. an' here ye are up in arms an' she nigh sick. i don't want nothing hid away f'om me; how come ye livin' in a place like this?" he rose laboriously, surveying through the open doorway the beautiful hall and the dining-room; while i interposed some jesting talk on other matters, for i had hoped to get helen out of the nicaragua before her father's arrival, and still hoped to spare him knowledge of our worst troubles. "if sis has been buyin' all this here, i ain't denying that i'll feel the expense," he said, sticking to the subject; "but i guess we can manage." fumbling for his wallet, he drew some papers from it and handed them to helen, adding:-"there, sis; there they are." "money, father?" she asked with indifference. "i don't believe i need any." "don't ye? ye wrote 'bout mortgagin'. i didn't want to do it, 'count o' ma, partly; but we kep' worryin' an' worryin' 'bout ye. ma couldn't sleep o' nights or eat her victuals; an fin'lly--'ezry,' she says, 'we was possessed to let helen 'lizy, at her age, an' all the chick or child we got, go off alone to the city. ezry,' she says, 'you go fetch her home. like's not tim can let ye have the money,' she says; 'his wife bein' an own cousin, right in the family, y'know.' so i've brought the deeds, sis, an'--" "what!" cried helen, starting up. "the deeds of the farm? let me see!" she reached out a shaking hand for the papers. "i'll pay you back!" she cried. "why didn't you come sooner? how much can you get? how much money?" "not much more'n three thousan', i'm afeared, on a mortgage; cap'tal's kind o' skeery--but tim--" "three thousand dollars!" laughing hysterically, she fell back in her chair. "i had ought 'a come sooner; an' three thousan' ain't a gre't deal, i don't suppose, here in the city; but it's been spend, spend--not that i grutch it--an' things ain't so flourishin' as they was. i'm gittin' too old to manage, mebbe--" "mr. winship," i said, "nelly has told you the truth; she doesn't need money; she--" "three thousand will save me!" helen cried. "i can pay a little to everybody. i can hold out, i can--" "please, miss--the furniture--" behind clesta appeared two men who gaped at helen in momentary forgetfulness of their errand. helen's creditors have proved more than reasonable, with the exception of the furniture people; their demands were such that there seemed no alternative but to surrender the goods. as the men who came for them advanced into the room, stammering questions about the articles they were to remove, helen struggled to her feet and started to meet them, then stopped, clutching at a table for support. their eyes never left her face. "are they takin' your things, sis?" asked mr. winship. her feverish glance answered him. "what's to pay?" he inquired. "want to keep the stuff, boss?" asked the head packer. "yes," i said, seeing her distress, and resolving desperately to find the means, somehow. "it ain't none o' your look-out," interposed mr. winship. "sis ain't a-goin' to be beholden to her husband, not till she's married. ezry winship al'ays has done for his own, an' he proposes to do, jes' as fur's he's able. sis'll tell ye i hain't stented her--what's to pay?" i couldn't see all his savings go for gauds! "you may take the goods," i said to the men, with sudden revulsion of feeling. "there's no room for them," i added gruffly to mr. winship, "in our--the rooms--where we are to live." "all right, boss," said the head packer; "which gent speaks for the lady?" "father!" helen gasped. "what's to pay?" insisted mr. winship. "take the goods," i repeated. "all right, boss;" and the two men went about their work, still glancing at us with sidelong looks of curiosity. helen gazed at me with eyes that stabbed. then slowly her glance dulled. she dropped on a packing box and sat silent--a bowed figure of despair--forgetting apparently that she was not alone. mr. winship made no further attempt to interfere with events. he stood by helen's side, puzzled and taciturn. i, too, was silent, reproaching myself for the brutality of my action, unable to decide what i should have done or ought to do. helen herself had suggested that we give up the furniture, and i had not mourned the necessity, for i hated the stuff, with its reminders of the general and the whitney woman and bellmer and the earl and all those strange people that i used to see around her. but i might have known that she could not, all at once, wean herself from the trumpery. a minute later clesta ushered in the man who was to take the trunks, and when i had given him his directions, i asked:-"shall we go, nelly?" "if ye ain't reconciled to movin'--" mr. winship began. but helen answered neither of us. her eyes were bent upon the floor, and a look, not now of resentment, but of--was it fear?--had slowly crept upon her face. her hands were clenched. darmstetter! instinct--or memory of my careless words spoken but a little earlier--told me the truth. the growing pallor of her cheek spoke her thought. how that tragedy haunts her! the face i looked upon was at the last almost ghastly. "nelly--" i said, very gently. she looked around with the slow bewilderment that i once saw on the face of a sleep-walker. her eyes saw through us, and past us, fixed upon some invisible horror. she was heedless of the familiar scene, the figures grouped about her. then there came a sudden flush to her face, a quick recoil of terror; she shuddered as if waking from a nightmare. "why do we stay here?" she cried starting up with sudden, panic strength. "let's get out of this horrible place! let's go! oh, let's go! let's go!" and so it was, in sorrow and with dark forebodings, that we left the gay rooms where helen had so passionately enjoyed her little flight in the sunshine. the drive through the streets was at first silent. shutting her eyes, she leaned back in the carriage. sometimes she shuddered convulsively. "where ye goin'?" mr. winship asked at last, peering out at the carriage window. indeed the trip to fourteenth street seemed interminable to me, and i didn't wonder at his impatience. the simple question broke down helen's reserve. "anywhere!" she sobbed, breaking into violent, hysterical tears. "i didn't want to stay there! i didn't want the furniture! i didn't want it! i don't want money! father, you needn't mortgage!" "we'll talk 'bout that some other time," said mr. winship soothingly. "nevermind now, sissy." "ye'll take good care of helen 'lizy?" he said to cadge and kitty when we had half carried her up the long flights of stairs to the studio. he seemed to take no notice of the strange furnishings of the loft, but his furrowed brow smoothed itself as he looked into the hospitable faces of the two girls. "ye'll take good care of her?" he repeated simply. "i'm afeard my daughter ain't very well." "we will; we will!" they assured him eagerly; and indeed it seemed that helen had found her needed rest, for she bade us good night almost cheerfully. chapter ii. cadge's assignment. "you say winship is around at your place?" asked judge baker friday morning. i had before told him about the approaching marriage. "the dear old boy! i am very glad." "he wants to talk with you about a mortgage," i said bluntly. "can you dissuade him? i think the situation in its main features is no secret to you." the judge frowned in surprise. "you don't mean that she--" "of course helen has refused her father's offer. we have so arranged everything that no help from him is needed, but he may be rather obstinate, for i'm afraid she wrote to him, suggesting--i mean, she now regrets it," i added. "ah, those regrets! those regrets!" he sat silent for a moment, thinking deeply. "that phase of an otherwise rosy situation is unfortunate. i will do my best with winship, and you must explain to me your proposed arrangements; for i claim an uncle's privilege to be of use to nelly, and she, with perhaps natural reticence, has acquainted me only partially with her affairs. i rejoice to hear that she now wishes to spare her father, but--you will pardon me, burke?--she was hasty; she was hasty. it is easier to set forces of love or hate moving than to check them in motion. sometimes i think, burke, that people were in certain ways less reckless in the good old days when they had perpetually before their eyes the vision of a hair-trigger god, always cocked and ready to shoot if they crossed the line of duty. but nelly is coming bravely through a severe test of character. may i offer you both my heartiest--" it was just at that happy moment that the office boy announced mr. winship to share the judge's kind wishes; and by good luck in came also mrs. baker, but a moment behind him. "why, ezra!" she chirped in a flutter of amazed cordiality at sight of her husband's visitor. "you in new york? why, for nelly's wedding, of course! john burke, why've you kept us in the dark these months and months? i'm--i'm really ashamed of you!" her plump gloved hands seized mr. winship's, while her small, swift, bird-like eyes looked reproach at me. "patience, mrs. baker; patience!" rejoined the judge. "is not an engaged man entitled to his secrets? has it escaped your memory how, once upon a time, you and i--." "there, now, bake! stop, can't you?" she interrupted with vehement good nature; and i ceased to intrude upon the three old friends. that afternoon, when i sought helen at the studio, i was more surprised than i should have been, and wonderfully relieved to discover the result of their conference. ignorant of any quarrel and overflowing with anxiety, helen's father had unbosomed his anxieties about her health and accomplished what no diplomacy could have done. mrs. baker had flown with him to the studio, where, constrained by his presence, helen had submitted to an incredible truce with her aunt. "i told tim'thy an' frances we'd eat sunday dinner with 'em," mr. winship told me; "an' they say you'n' sis had ought to be married f'om their house. good idee, seems to me, though sis here don't take to it, somehow." "oh, i suppose i can endure aunt frank," said helen, making savage dabs at cadge's typewriter; "if you wish it--you and john." she was making a great effort for her father's sake, and i could not exclaim against her chilly reception of the olive branch. "it'll please ma, w'en she comes to hear 'bout it; she thinks a sight of frank baker," urged mr. winship. "'fraid i'll have to tackle someb'dy else 'bout that money," he went on after a pause; "tim'thy says he ain't got a cent loose, jest now. i did kind o' want to keep it quiet, keep it to the fambly like, but i can git it; i can git th' money; on'y it'll take time." "why, father, i begged you not to try," said helen impatiently. "i don't need money; ask john." "w'at you've spent can't come on john," declared mr. winship; "i'll have to be inquirin' 'round. but i'm glad to see ye lookin' brighter'n you did yist'day, sissy; tim'thy's wife'll have an eye on ye. she's comin' here agin to-morrer, she says, to a weddin'. you didn't tell me 'bout any one gittin' married--not in sich a hurry, not to-morrer. w'ich gal is it?" "wouldn't think it was cadge, would you?" laughed kitty, staggering into the room under the weight of a big palm. "next chum i have, it'll be in the contract that, in case of emergency, she helps run her own wedding. 'course helen's all right with me--or will be, once caroline bryant's disposed of." in spite of the confusion of the wedding preparations, helen did do credit to kitty's nursing; and last evening, when there came the climax of all the bustle, she seemed stronger even than on friday. it was a night to remember! the big indians of the canvasses peeped grimly from ambushes of flowers and tall ferns, as the studio door opened and kitty came running to meet me, her cheeks flushed and her curls in a hurricane. "'most time for the minister," she cried breathlessly, "and not a sign of cadge! not a sign! and i want to tell you--helen's sorry we invited the general, but she won't come, so that's no matter; but the bakers--do they like him?" "like the minister?" "like ned hynes?" panted kitty. "when we asked 'em yesterday, i forgot, but he'll be here. pros. and he belong to a downtown club--'at the sign of the skull and crossbones'--or something--" "well?" "oh, it's all right, but i thought i'd tell you. if only cadge'd come! that's what eating me!" kitty groaned. "but do you see our princess? all she needed was me to make her comfy. shall i get you the least little bit of colour, out of a box, helen? or--no; you're too lovely. but come, you must have some roses." as helen joined us, very pale in her shimmering dress, with her hair like an aureole about her head, she looked a tall, white grace, a swaying lily shining in the dusky place. almost with the old reverence i whispered:-"you are the most beautiful of woman!" "do i please you, sir?" she said, smiling as she moved away again with kitty. "won't you see to father? he's come without his necktie." "sho, sis!" said mr. winship; "don't my beard hide it? declare i clean forgot." soon helen returned to pin a flower at my button-hole. "where _can_ cadge be?" she cried gaily; but her hands shook and she dropped the rose. "do you suppose she's interviewing a lunatic asylum?" what had changed her voice and burned fever spots in her cheeks? i wasn't so indifferent as i had seemed to kitty's news. had she told helen, too, that ned hynes--what was he to my betrothed? "can't you rest somewhere and just show for the ceremony?" i said, "nelly, you're not strong." "there's not a place big enough for a mouse. but did you mean it? do i really look well to-night? am i just as beautiful as i was three-four months ago, or have i--" "oh, do slip out and 'phone the _star_! i can feel my hair whitening," whispered kitty, turning to me hastily, as a couple of women entered. "see, folks are beginning to come." i went out into the warm and rainy night, but there was no cadge at the _star_ office. by the time i had returned with this information, the eyry held a considerable gathering. mrs. baker had arrived, and her two daughters; but i had no time to wonder at milly's coming, for behind me entered mrs. van dam and then, among a group of strangers, i noticed hynes. involuntarily, at sight of him, my eyes turned to helen; but not a muscle of her face betrayed deeper feeling than polite pleasure as she helped kitty receive the wedding guests, greeting the general cordially, hynes with graciousness. kitty's welcome to mrs. van dam would have been irresistibly funny, if i had had eyes to see the humour. "cadge promised to be home early," she sputtered, "but probably she's telling some one this minute: 'oh, i'll be there in time; i don't need much--not much more than the programme.' "can't _you_ guess where she is, pros.?" she implored in an undertone, as her brother approached us. "if the minister gets here before cadge does, i'll cut her off with a shilling." "what an interesting place!" exclaimed mrs. van dam, examining her surroundings through her quizzing glasses. "i've heard so much about your paintings, miss reid. and what an astonishing girl, this miss bryant! where can she be? helen, you sly girl, i hear news about you." "oh, very likely miss bryant is out of town," reid answered for her with a quiet smile. "she'll show up after the paper goes to press, if not sooner." "on her wedding day! the girl's a genius! and when may that be? when will the--ah--when will the paper go to press?" "they take copy up to two o'clock for the second edition. but she maybe here at any moment." the general stared at him with amazement. "oh, you don't know cadge," sighed kitty, "if you think she'd be jarred by her own wedding. but we must do something. everybody's here and waiting. sing, helen, won't you? oh, do sing." helen had not joined in the rapid conversation. now she smiled assent with stately compliance. undulating across the studio, she returned with a mandolin--not the one i remembered, but a pretty bit of workmanship in inlaid wood. bending above this, she relieved the wait by merry, lilting tunes like the music of a bobolink, while kitty fidgetted in and out, the puckers in her forehead every minute growing deeper. while i listened to the gladsome music, my glance strayed to milly, but she was almost hidden by the curtains of the tepee; and then to ned, who sat with his face turned partly away from us. i noticed that he looked gaunt, and i found a bitter satisfaction in the thought that, perhaps, in helen's "three-four months" he had not seen, until that night, either of the women with whose lives his own had been entangled. "just one more," begged kitty, when helen stopped. "you're my only hope; do sing, helen." dropping the mandolin, helen began without accompaniment "the king of thule:"- "'there stood the old carouser, and drank the last life glow; and hurled the hallowed goblet into the tide below. "he saw it plunging and filling, and sinking deep in the sea; then fell his eyelids forever, and never more drank he!'" it was the ballad she had sung at christmas--in what different mood! then her voice had been as carefree as a bird's carol, but now it lent to the limpid simplicity of the air a sobbing, shuddering sweetness--an almost weird intensity that strangely affected her listeners. when she had finished, something like a gasp went through the room. with a heart-breaking coldness i felt that i was her only unmoved auditor, or--no; ned seemed studying with weary disapproval the pattern of his shoes. "love and death; and at a wedding!" mrs. van dam shivered. "something more cheerful, helen." "let's go--let's go and eat up cadge's spread; that'd be cheerful," sniffed kitty, her hot, nervous hand patting helen's shoulder. "the princess's tired. but we must do something." "eat the wedding supper before the wedding. original, i must say!" but the general willingly enough helped kitty to marshal us into the crowded little dining-room; where helen and i found ourselves beside mr. winship and ethel. her father accepted helen's music with as little surprise as he had shown at her beauty. "comin' home pretty soon, ain't ye," he asked, "to give us some hymn tunes sunday evenings? w'at'll i git for ye? must be hungry after so much singing." "i'm afraid i wasn't in voice to-night," said she rather wearily. "not in voice!" protested ethel with shy enthusiasm; "why, nelly, i never before heard even you sing like that; it was-it was-oh, it was wonderful!" i dared not look at her, yet i saw every movement of the slight little figure--saw the blush of eagerness that mounted even to the blonde little curls about her forehead; and, retreating impatiently, i tried to follow mr. winship's example, as he waited on the company with a quaintly fine courtesy. indeed, he made quite a conquest of the general, who presently, after chatting with him for some time with keen interest, asked abruptly:-"why haven't we had him here before? so interesting, such an original! room here for you, milly. some salad, please, mr. hynes." hynes's pinched face took colour. with alacrity he obeyed the general's orders, fetching plates and glasses, and hovering about the group that included milly and her mother, until mrs. baker's face began to wear a disturbed flush, though milly's small, white features remained impassive. i watched the little drama with dawning comprehension. then ned did not--helen--it was really ethel's sister with whom he longed to make peace, while i--ethel-helen's voice roused me. "can't we go into the other room?" she asked. "i'm tired; can't we go and sit quietly together?" with the fading of the glow and colour left by the music, she looked indeed tired, almost haggard. in spite of the regal self possession with which she rose, drawing ethel with her, i knew in the face of milly's triumph-yes, i had known before--why her restless spirit had spurred her on to such flights of folly; why she had--she brings no love to me; has she perhaps offered pity? we turned together to the door, but there was a sound of hurrying feet, and miss bryant rushed before us, followed by a big bearded giant of a man. "forbear and eat no more till my necessities be served," she declaimed, advancing to the table. "food has not passed my lips to-day; or--not much food." "cadge!" gasped helen with a choking laugh, sinking again upon her chair. reid calmly extended a plate of salad to his betrothed, while kitty groaned, scandalized:-"you mustn't eat now! you mustn't! where've you been? look at the state you're in! _don't_ eat, cadge; you must dress this minute!" "bridgeport," returned miss bryant, grinning benevolently on the wedding guests, her wet hair clinging about her face, her shirt waist dampened with the raindrops that trickled from her hatbrim. "driving an antelope to a racing sulky. if _i_ bear marks, y'ought to see the antelope; _and_ the sulky! seven column picture, kitty; i've made a lay-out. you must get right at it--antelope kicking the atmosphere into small pieces--" "cadge," suggested reid, mildly, "our train leaves at midnight." "we'll make it; but this story must come out whether or not 'mrs. prosper k. reid' does. won't dress, but--say, just you show my wedding gown, kitty; not for publication but as an evidence--more salad, pros." kitty ran and brought a billowy mass of fleecy white stuff, and cadge stood, devouring salad, over the dainty thing, gesticulating at it with her fork and explaining its beauties:-"you can see for yourselves it's swell. mrs. edgar fitted me at the _star_ office, with furious mug-makers pounding on the door." "with _what_?" gasped the general. "mug-makers; alleged artists; after an old photo. anyhow, it's money in mrs. edgar's pocket. one of her biggest customers owes her a lot, she says, and she can't get a cent; needed cash to pay her rent; little boy ill, too. my, but i'm hungry! can't i eat while i'm being married?" i felt helen start; i remembered that i had seen mrs. edgar's name among her bills. poor girl! and then the wedding; and the practical cadge surprised us all. all her soul was shining in her eyes as she said, "i will." she looked upon pros. with the shy love of a girl who has loved but once. for a brief minute we saw the depth, the earnestness, the affection that in her seek so often the mask of frivolity, and i wouldn't be surprised if more than one tempest-tossed soul envied her peace, her love, her certitude. the ceremony was short. the giant, who proved to be big tom, gave away the bride. as the couple rushed off for a brief honeymoon, the newly made mrs. reid--still with the shimmer of tears in her beautiful eyes--tried hard to resume her old manner. "'member, kitty," she called back from the stairway in a voice that trembled, "you can't make that antelope cavort too lively. brown'll send photographs in the morning." soon only mr. winship and i were left with kitty and helen and the painted indians. "what a cadge!" said helen languidly, as she walked with us to the door. "but she's the best girl in the world." i believe she's pretty nearly right. i haven't always done miss bryant justice. my mind dwelt upon the lovely picture she had made of trust and happiness; and i wondered whether my own wife would show shining, happy eyes like hers when--in my restless dreams the vision of them lingered, grotesquely alternating with a swaying figure driving a shadowy antelope--a figure that was sometimes helen's and sometimes little ethel's--until i waked-and thus began to-day--it has been the hardest day in a hard week. it is three hours now, maybe, since we returned from mrs. baker's sunday dinner. a love feast after a feud is trying, but helen was brave. mrs. baker is too honest for diplomacy, and at first i watched helen nervously, as she sat in the familiar library, a red spot in each cheek, pitting a quiet hauteur against the embarrassed chirpings of her aunt and milly's sphynx-like silence. but little by little the cordiality of the judge and of his tactful sister, helped by ethel's radiant delight and mr. winship's pleasure in the visit, gave another flavour to the dinner than that of the fatted calf, and warmed the atmosphere out of its chill reminiscence of the encounter with hynes. the children, too, were a resource, though for a minute joy was a terror. baker, junior, was offering me a kodak picture, when she came running up to look at it. "you can have it," said boy; "it's clearer than the one you liked the other day." "thath me!" cried joy, with a fiendish hop and skip. "me'n efel on 'e thidewalk. mither burke, you like me'n efel?" "i like you very much." "efel too, or o'ny me? mr. burke, w'y you don't like efel too?" like ethel--the shy little wild flower! like ethel! "say, mr. burke," said boy opportunely, "here's an envelope to put it in." "w'at i like," mr. winship said, his frosty blue eyes twinkling with enjoyment, "is to see sis here gittin' a good dose o' home folks; do her more good'n med'cine." and almost he seemed right, for, as the minutes wore on, a brighter colour rose to helen's cheeks, and the marvellous charm she knows so well how to use held us fascinated. she waged a war of jests with the judge and fell back into her old caressing ways with miss baker. ethel could scarcely contain her happiness, and even milly showed signs of melting. i brought helen away as early as i could--as soon as we had completed plans for a quiet wedding next wednesday. "i hope you're proud of her, ezra," declared mrs. baker as we took leave; "she told you she's refused a title? but there! all foreigners break their wives' hearts--nelly's a sensible girl! you didn't expect, though, to find new york crazy over her?" "oh, i don't know; helen 'lizy's ma was a hansome girl; sis here had ought to be satisfied if she wears a half as well." "come again thoon to thing to joy," lisped the baby; "joy loveth you tho muth." helen buried her face in the yellow curls, and when she turned away her eyes were wet. i stayed at the studio only long enough to beg kitty to see that her charge rests. just as we were parting at the door, helen turned full on me her great, lambent eyes. "do you love me?" she asked suddenly. "why, i loved you," i replied, "when you were a little freckled nelly in pigtails." and that, at least, is true! god help me to be kind to the most beautiful woman in the world! chapter iii. "p. p. c." june 21, 19--. helen and i were to have been married just a year ago. to-day i have been going over her own story of her life--of her meeting with darmstetter, of the blight he cast upon her, of her growth in loveliness, her brief fluttering in the sunshine, her failure, her supping with sorrow, her death. i must bring to a close the record of this miracle. this who was the most extraordinary woman that ever lived, was also little nellie winship. again as i remember her as she was--a thing of such vital force that no man could be unmoved in her presence, of such supernal loveliness that words can never tell of it--again i feel that i must be in an ugly dream. but this bit of paper, blotted with tears and stained with wine and ashes, tells me that there was no mistake. she had seemed in high spirits that sunday at the bakers', though she was tired when we returned to the studio. mr. winship and i made no stop. pros. and cadge were enjoying their brief honeymoon trip and so kitty and helen were left together. monday morning i went first to the rooms i had taken; kitty was to be there later, arranging our little furniture. she was to live with us for a time and care for nelly. but when i reached the office, there lay on my desk a telegram. "helen is ill; come," it read. cadge met me at the studio door, white-faced, strangely, silently gentle. from a tumbled heap among the cushions of the tepee came a voice like kitty's, moaning. cadge tried to speak, but could only point to the little bedroom. there, in the straight white dress she wore at the wedding, helen lay, as if sleeping, upon a couch. floods of shining hair fell about her shoulders. in the white dignity of death her face was marvellous. all trace of stress and strain had left it, replaced by an enigmatic calm. she looked not merely beautiful, but beauty's self vouchsafed to mortal eyes. i do not know how long i gazed. vaguely, between kitty's sobs, i heard the ticking of a watch. "for another woman of such loveliness," at length said a reverent voice behind me, "we must wait the final evolution of humanity." dr. upton, one of reid's friends whom i had seen at the wedding, had reached the house before me. he had been examining a glass, a spoon and some other objects so quietly that i had not heard. he said that helen had been dead some hours. mechanically i listened, but it was not until afterward that i understood the full purport of his speech or of kitty's story of the night and morning. their words reached me as if spoken from some great distance by the people who live in dreams. kitty had come to us; she stood in the doorway, white and shaking. "helen--helen's head ached," she sobbed, "and she begged me to brush her hair, but when i began, she said it hurt, and told me to stop; then she fell to writing. i coaxed her to come to bed, for i thought she was ill; but she called me 'kathryn' and then i knew i couldn't manage her. oh, i was wicked, wicked; but i was afraid of her, always--you know. so i--oh, how could i?--i fixed a screen against the light and lay down, meaning to try again in a few minutes; but the instant my head touched the pillow i must have dropped asleep. the last thing i said was: 'shall i tell morphy you're coming?' i was so tired that i don't know whether she answered. and this morning--oh, i can't believe it; oh, helen, helen!" "and this morning?" prompted dr. upton. "this morning when--when i waked and saw her on the couch, i wondered why she hadn't come to bed; but i dropped a shawl over her and tiptoed out. it wasn't until half-past eight that i tried--oh, i can't! i can't! don't ask me!" kitty's voice was lost in hysterical chokings. dr. upton handed me helen's visiting card. below the name was scrawled: "p. p. c." "it was found pinned to miss reid's bedspread," he said; "is that miss winship's handwriting?" "yes," i answered. the shaky letters were unrecognisable. "don't you see! to say farewell," wailed kitty. "she's done it a hundred times when she started for school before i was up. barnard is so far. oh, i can't bear it! how could you, helen?" "don't, kitty," said cadge, drawing her from the room. the doctor motioned me to a table behind the screen of which kitty had spoken. there helen had sat, there lay her writing case, the key sealed in an envelope addressed to me. picking up a slip of paper torn from a letter pad, he asked:-"is this also miss winship's writing?" he held it out to me and i read the single line:-"don't tell father." dazed, half-comprehending, i repeated: "yes." upton had found nothing else, except helen's watch, open beside the writing case, and a glass that still held a little sherry. at this he looked with sombre intelligence and set it carefully aside. nothing in the room had been disturbed. helen's chair had the look of having been pushed from the table as she rose but a minute before. near it on an easel stood the van nostrand picture, smiling--smiling, as if it had seen no tragedy. on the floor was a little ash as of charred paper. in a few minutes mrs. reid and kitty returned with mr. winship. through the fog that enveloped me i saw with dull curiosity that they had told him something that he didn't understand. he could not believe helen dead, but knelt by her side and coaxed her to wake, rubbing her fair, slender hands between his leathery palms and calling her by every pet name of her childhood. "it's on'y your ol' dad, sis," he crooned. "jes' come to fetch ye t' yer ma; that's all. i know yer tired--plum tired out; but ma 'n' me'll take care on ye." it was pitiful to hear him. he desisted at last and looked back at us with a mien of anger. "do suthin', some o' ye," he snarled, "'stid o' standin' round like gumps! speak to me, poppet; tell yer ol' pap w'at ails ye. fetch some hot water, you gals! ain't ye got no sense? rub her feet; an' her hands. speak to me, sissy--why don't ye?" as the truth slowly won over him, he straightened himself, one hand still clasping helen's cold one. "it's sudden; sudden," he said. "doctor, w'at ailed my little nelly?" still numbly inquisitive, i waited. the old man couldn't see the truth, the horrible truth. what would the doctor say? it was cadge's voice that broke the silence; gentle, assured, yet with a note almost of defiance. "we think--in fact, helen overstudied," she said. "we've been much worried about her." dr. upton turned abruptly. cadge's irregular, mobile face for once was still, its quiet demand bent full upon him. his answering look refused her, but the effort was obvious with which he spoke to the broken man waiting his verdict. "miss winship--your daughter--" he began. the words died. cadge's steady black eyes controlled him. "wa-al?" the doctor bowed his head over helen. i was listening again to her watch that ticked insistently. "don't tell father! don't tell father!" it said over and over, over and over, louder and louder, until the words echoed from every corner of the room. they must hear! that was why she had left it! "i ast ye w'at ailed my little girl." "cardiac asthenia--heart failure," said dr. upton, abruptly. kitty threw herself upon cadge, kissing her convulsively, while mr. winship persisted:-"sis was first-rate yist'day; w'at fetched the attack on?" as gently as cadge herself, dr. upton answered:-"mr. winship, your daughter wasn't so strong as she seemed. there was much in her condition to cause anxiety. i'll be back in an hour," he added, moving hastily, as reid entered, toward the door. could i let him shoulder the responsibility of concealment? and if i refused? publicity--an inquest? at last i was alive to the situation; in silent gratitude i wrung upton's hand, but he took no notice of me. as he passed reid he growled:-"your wife's a good woman to tie to, pros. she's all right. lucky she was telegraphed for." cadge had begun to talk in low tones to mr. winship. he did not seem to listen, but the quiet voice soothed him. gradually his gray, set features relaxed, though he would not submit to be led from the bedside. "ma was right," he said at last, broken and querulous. "we'd never ought to have let her come to the city. ye say she'll be famous? sissy, my poor little poppet, w'at good to ye is fame; w'at good is all your studyin'?" * * * * * i did not open helen's writing case for weeks; not until after my return from the dreary journey west with mr. winship. stunned by the shock of her death, bearing not only my grief but the knowledge that her father and mother must hold me in part responsible for her fatal coming to new york, i could not face the secret of her choice of death rather than marriage with me. it was a hot july night when i turned the key that guarded the secret. i found the story of the bacillus, the curse that killed darmstetter, that killed helen. with it was a letter that i have read a thousand times--this letter that i am now reading. the scent of roses still breathes from it. on the last page there are splashes of wine. this is what it says:-john: i cannot bear it. prof. darmstetter gave me death when he gave me beauty. i am not a coward; but what is left? i am tired, wretched; there is no place for me. the bacillus has defeated every wish it has aroused. it has refused me love, ambition, honest work. from men it has compelled fear; from women hate; it has cut me off from my kind. you saw ned smiling into milly's pale eyes. i should not have cared, i who was to marry you, but--i love him; you know it--you have known it since my heart broke, since i tore it out and swore to reign, to dazzle, to be queen of the world. you know what came of my ambitions. the world treated my beauty as a menace; it struck me down. then i asked to earn my bread; but without you i might have starved. you were my refuge--and you--you love a cripple! why didn't i guess? i would have been glad, for ethel is a dear child, and i had given you sorrow enough. i did not love you; i do not think i have pretended to love you. but can no man help seeming to care for me--help caring while he is with me? ned told me he did not love; but you, you i trusted; you would have married me, not letting me know-ethel limps, she is plain. plain as i was when you adored my ugly face, my freckles. does beauty kill love, or do men see beauty only where they love? little brown partridges, little brown partridges-the bacillus is a cheat; every woman to her lover is the most beautiful! ethel's good. you would have found me conspicuous, an annoyance among people who shrink from the extraordinary. i have been fond of ethel. i was marrying you to get my debts paid--you knew that--but there was more. you must believe--you know there was more. i thought you loved me. was that strange? how many times have you spoken to me of love? i wanted to show my gratitude, to make you happy, since happiness was not for me. i would have tried; i would have buried my own misery; buried everything but the sense of your goodness. i would have given you the co-operation of a clever woman. i would have given you the affection you know i have always felt. i would have worked, planned, compelled success for you. but that's over. ethel is a dear child. i will not stand between you and ethel. don't pity me. i need no pity. i would endure yesterday and to-day a thousand times for the sake of the first hour of my beauty. would i change now to be like ethel, to be white putty like milly--to have your love, or ned's? beauty--i can die with it sooner than drown it in tears. don't tell father. he will suffer; but less than if i went home to eat my heart out in repinings, to grow old and ugly, cursing the world. i have lived too long. i am already less beautiful. if i could destroy the secret! death, leaving that behind, is crucifixion. but i was the first, i was the first! that dead face so gray and old--"delilah!" it mows at me. i keep my promise! i haven't robbed you, you shall have your fame! i, too, i shall never be forgotten! john, take the secret. keep my word for me. if you doubt the discovery, try it on an enemy. if you think my sorrow could have been avoided, offer the bacillus as a wedding gift to--. give milly, who has ned's love, my beauty? would it turn him from her? if i thought it--but even for that, there shall be no other! it shall go first. forever and forever my name, my face,-"delilah!" it grins, it gibbers. wait for no tests. print quick! to-morrow, to-day--it's almost day. give him what he wants, john--"delilah!" why do you come back, dead face, dead eyes? haven't i promised? you shall have print, type, a million circulation! go away, you're dead! what's fame to youth, health, life? it's you who rob and kill. i won't look--i won't! if i wake kitty, could she help? i won't look, i'm going mad! gone! i must hurry. he might come back. shall i leave the secret? it's life for life, we're even. if beauty were cheap, who'd care for it? it's death to be first, but afterwards--nothing! if i burned it--but no--i promised--. why not? "delilah!" your health, dead eyes! i haf put t'e bacillus of perfect vine into t'e new grape juice, and i svear it's--prosit, dead eyes!--here's a p.p.c.; quickest goodby--poor kitty! you'll be sorry for the most beautiful woman in the-the bacillus of beauty has had its victim. why do i keep the wine-splashed, rose-breathing letter? why read over and over the fragments of helen's journal? better remember my little school-mate as she was before the poison stung her. might she, with time and contact with life, have reacted against the virus, or must such loveliness be fatal to what is best in woman? who can answer? helen is dead, darmstetter is dead, and the bacillus-the bacillus shall have no other victim. we who were near to helen have been slow to recover from the shock and the bitterness of her death. her father and mother have nothing to hold them to life; they are uprooted. ned has grieved for her with bitter self-reproach, though he is happy with milly. ethel and i-but to-night i can think only of helen. the end. beauty; illustrated chiefly by an analysis and classification of beauty in woman, by alexander walker, author of "intermarriage," "woman," "physiognomy founded on physiology," "the nervous system," etc. edited by an american physician new york: henry g. langley, 8 astor-house. 1845. entered, according to act of congress, in the year 1840, by j. & h. g. langley, in the clerk's office of the district court of the southern district of new york stereotyped by j. s. redfield, _13 chambers street, new york_ dedication. to george birbeck, m.d., f.g.s., president of the london mechanics' institution, &c., &c., &c. a department of science, which in many respects must be regarded as new, cannot so properly be dedicated to any one as to the inventor of the best mode of diffusing scientific knowledge among the most meritorious and most oppressed classes of society. when the enemies of freedom, in order effectually to blind the victims of their spoliation, imposed a tax upon knowledge, you rendered the acquirement of science easy by the establishment of mechanics' institutions--you gave the first and greatest impulse to that diffusion of knowledge which will render the repetition of such a conspiracy against humanity impossible. you more than once also wrested a reluctant concession, in behalf of untaxed knowledge, from the men who had evidently succeeded, in some degree, to the spirit, as well as to the office, of the original conspirators, and who unwisely hesitated between the bad interest which is soon felt by all participators in expensive government, and their dread of the new and triumphant power of public opinion, before which they know and feel that they are but as the chaff before the whirlwind. for these services, accept this respectful dedication, as the expression of a homage, in which i am sure that i am joined by thousands of britons. nor, in writing this, on a subject of which your extensive knowledge enables you so well to judge, am i without a peculiar and personal motive. i gratefully acknowledge that, in one of the most earnest and strenuous mental efforts i ever made, in my work on "the nervous system," i owed to your cautions as to logical reasoning and careful induction, an anxiety at least, and a zeal in these respects, which, whatever success may have attended them, could not well be exceeded. i have endeavored to act conformably with the same cautions in the present work. he must be weak-minded, indeed, who can seek for aught in philosophy but the discovery of truth; and he must be a coward who, believing he has discovered it, has any scruple to announce it. alexander walker. april 10, 1836. american advertisement. the present volume completes the series of mr. walker's anthropological works. to say that they have met with a favorable reception from the american public, would be but a very inadequate expression of the unprecedented success which has attended their publication. "intermarriage," the first of the series, passed through six large editions within eighteen months, and "woman," has met with a sale scarcely less extensive. the numerous calls for the present work, have compelled the publishers to issue it sooner than they had contemplated; and, it is believed, that it will be found not less worthy of attention than the preceding. all must acknowledge the interesting nature of the subject treated in the present work, as well as its intimate connexion with those which have already passed under discussion. the analysis of beauty on philosophical principles, is attended with numerous difficulties, not the least of which arises from the want of any fixed and acknowledged standard. the term beauty is, indeed, generally considered as a vague generality, varying according to national, and even individual taste and judgment. mr. walker claims, in his advertisement, numerous points of originality, some of which, on examination, may perhaps prove to have been proposed previously by other writers. enough, however, will remain to entitle him to the credit of great ingenuity and acuteness. as treated by him, the subject assumes an aspect very different from that exhibited in any other publication. to trace the connexion of beauty with, and its dependance on, anatomical structure and physiological laws--to show how it may be modified by causes within our control--to describe its different forms and modifications, and defects, as indicated by certain physical signs--to analyze its elements, with a view to its influence on individuals and society, in connexion with its perpetration in posterity--all these were novel topics of vast and exciting interest, and well adapted to the genius, taste, and research of our author. in preparing the present edition, it has been thought expedient to make some verbal alterations, and omit a few paragraphs, to which a refined taste might perhaps object, and to bring together in the appendix such collateral matter, as might serve to correct, extend, or illustrate the views presented in the text. with these explanations, the work is confidently commended to the popular as well as philosophical reader, as worthy of studious examination. contents. preliminary essay page ix english advertisement 1 chapter i.--importance of the subject 11 chapter ii.--urgency of the discussion of this subject in relation to the interests of decency and morality 21 chapter iii.--cautions to youth 35 chapter iv.--nature of beauty 46 chapter v.--standard of taste in beauty 56 chapter vi.--the elements of beauty 72 section i.--elements of beauty in inanimate beings 74 section ii.--elements of beauty in living beings 88 section iii.--elements of beauty in thinking beings 93 section iv.--elements of beauty as employed in objects of art 103 beauty of useful objects 104 beauty of ornamental objects 108 beauty of intellectual objects 113 summary of this chapter 120 appendix to the preceding chapters 123 section i.--nature of the picturesque 123 section ii.--cause of laughter 125 section iii.--cause of the pleasure received from representations exciting pity 131 chapter vii.--anatomical and physiological principles 139 chapter viii.--of the ages of women in relation to beauty 152 chapter ix.--of the causes of beauty in woman 166 chapter x.--of the standard of beauty in woman 171 chapter xi.--of the three species of female beauty generally viewed 185 chapter xii.--first species of beauty: beauty of the locomotive system 189 first variety or modification of this species of beauty 191 second variety or modification of this species of beauty 197 third variety or modification of this species of beauty 198 chapter xiii.--second species of beauty: beauty of the nutritive system 203 first variety or modification of this species of beauty 208 second variety or modification of this species of beauty 210 third variety or modification of this species of beauty 212 chapter xiv.--third species of beauty: beauty of the thinking system 225 first variety or modification of this species of beauty 226 second variety or modification of this species of beauty 227 third variety or modification of this species of beauty 229 chapter xv.--beauty of the face in particular 233 chapter xvi.--combinations and transitions of the three species of female beauty 254 chapter xvii.--proportion, character, expression, &c. 259 chapter xviii.--the greek ideal beauty 280 chapter xix.--the ideal of female beauty 307 chapter xx.--defects of beauty 320 defects of the locomotive system 320 defects of the vital system 323 defects of the mental system 327 chapter xxi.--external indications, or art of determining the precise figure, the degree of beauty, the mind, the habits, and the age of women, notwithstanding the aids and disguises of dress 329 external indications of figure 329 external indications of beauty 332 external indications of mind 335 external indications of habits 337 external indications of age 339 appendix 343 preliminary essay, by the american editor. her beauty hangs upon the cheek of night like a rich jewel in an ethiop's ear: * * * * * death hath no power yet upon thy beauty- thou art not conquered; beauty's ensign yet is crimson on thy lips, and in thy cheeks.--shakspeare. it maybe set down, we suppose, as a matter sufficiently settled to become a principle, that men are moved by nothing more generally and certainly than by the power of beauty--particularly beauty in woman. that it has an influence upon _all_ of one sex, like that which master shakspeare has given picture of in the lines we have set upon our front, we would not pretend to say: but that the wild bard was no freshman in his knowledge of humanity so far as heart and mind matters were concerned, we feel safe to assert--and feel confident that the passionate language of romeo trespasses no bounds, and is but a faithful declaration of a power that rules with a milder or a mightier sway in the bosoms of all who answer to the distinctive name of man. this may seem a wide assertion. but it is no less true. the reason of the slow belief in this universality is, that men are not always subject to the influence, while the principle of it is always a tenant within them. there is a time--and with the time comes the development. the mind, as it unfolds, becomes acquainted with nothing so calculated to excite its wonder, as its own properties and capabilities--its new perceptions--its new affections. till progress brings with it this knowledge of ourselves, we remain ignorant of half that is within us to affect us like a spell, and within whose reach we have been unconsciously passing onward and upward, by a providential ordering, from our childhood at least, if not from our cradles. keeping this in view, let us consider for a moment something of the elements of beauty, and their influence, as a principle, upon the principles of our nature.--and first it must be admitted that they are good--of a good origin--and tend to a good result. they are good elements, we believe, for we find them almost ever associated with what is pleasing, improving, and satisfactory to us. indeed, in this connexion, we find them a source of consolation and delight, where all else has failed to minister or even suggest them. they are of a good origin--for, if they were not, no such effect would be wrought upon a system so sadly prone to evil and villanous principles, and so little open to pure, and elevating, and comforting ones, that they may be said to come about it, most emphatically, like "angel-visits." they are elements, again, that tend to a good result, in their operation, for their consequences are almost ever, to make men better satisfied with their condition--where they come in, as an influence upon it, at all--better satisfied with almost everything about them, so long as they are conscious they are creatures of proportions and proprieties, and affected intrinsically by them. if what we here set down respecting the _elements_ of beauty be true, it is certainly of an interesting importance in view of the influence of that quality upon the principles of our nature. we call it _quality_. perhaps this is not name enough for something so peculiar and powerful in its connexion with the _total_ of our spirits. we will term it such, however, for want of a wider language--and leave men to _feel_ out such definition as they may deem more good and grateful. implanted, then, so deeply as beauty is in the human heart--so universal, that millions bow to it as something to fear while they worship--so certain, as a principle, that scarcely a human being can be said to walk without the sphere of its influence--it would be needless as well as unphilosophical to deny that the great object of its fixture--its enthronement upon its high place, should be one of no common character, or of a tendency and effect within us, which it would be wrong and inexcusable to overlook. what then is the design of this singular and mysterious power, in connexion with this sad and unaccountable nature--so often the theme of eulogy and lament--of lofty, long, and desperate satire, among men? the best answer, we think, is rendered in the influence, where operation is open to every one who thinks, observes, reasons, acts, among his fellows.--to enter into particular definitions here, would be needless as well as wearisome. the general effect upon man, as a sentient and moral being, must be the point to which our simple remarks and reasons must be confined. we have somewhere seen it observed--and have little doubt in the publicity and good sense of the thought--that there was perhaps no one thing which tended so materially to awaken lofty and good sentiments among the people--to qualify the rough outline of character--and soften and harmonize the untaught elements of their nature, as the frequent, unrestrained, and encouraged contemplation of the perfect statuary, which their master sculptors were continually erecting in their temples. this freedom was a perpetual lesson to a nation. the principle was developed, and the power of beauty had a new, and forming, and mastering sway. a people were coming into the light of better feeling--better society--better government, under the gradual but no less certain operation of a living principle, brought into great and beautiful action, under the commanding hand of genius, that seemed to pass at once from the sky, whose perfect things it presented to the sons of earth!--it is not singular, we think, that such a leading forth of beauty to the contemplation of awakened man, should produce effects like those to which we have adverted. it strikes us that it would have been strange had this consequence not been generated, and noble sculpture thus have stood before a world as cold as the marble from which it was stricken. we believe that beauty saw a renovating power in the wonder of the venus--and it would be a sad thing to feel that it had ever ceased in its progress where woman or the chisel were doing such things to advance it. nor has it ceased. history presents too many instances of the monarch power of beauty in woman, to permit us to doubt upon this subject. it has passed upon the spirit of man like a thing of necromance--winning him to its command, and bowing him to its will, until royalty itself has stood powerless in its presence, and the poor mass of mortals, stricken and panting like cornered deer before the inexorable hunter. it has been the salvation and ruin of nations, as well as families and individuals--for queens have obeyed its supremacy as well as maidens, and kings squared their mandates, and regulated their course, by the "line of beauty." all this is matter of record. sacred and profane story abounds with instances which admit of no denial, while they excite our wonder. but the wonder ceases, notwithstanding, when we turn from record to our own experience, and _see_ the effect, on others and ourselves, of what we once _read_ about in the curious annals of our species. we now see the finished sculpture that delighted and softened the people of an age, gazed on and admired by every being whom we are accustomed to regard as rational. no one pretends to question, much less to deny the beauty of the lovely statue, in which the perfection of woman is portrayed in the finished feature or the swelling form. insensibility here would properly be regarded as a thing to be ashamed of--as little better than a moral paralysis, which might well exclude the questionable man from the circle of reasonable, enlightened, and rising people, as a sad fellow, and a poor pilgrim on the earth. you will rarely find the roughest nature with a cuticle that will not confess some sensibility in a presence such as this--and i think we may set it down as a thing well ascertained, that the picture or chiselling of a beautiful woman will command the tribute of delight--the acknowledgment--and loud one too--of a whole and hearty worship from the tar, as well as the amateur. the galleries of our artists, in which the principle of beauty is made to speak and command, sufficiently prove that there is no passing away of this power which has moved, ruled, and regulated, to a degree almost incredible, the world of man, from the time he came to this school, and this trial of the passions and affections. let the question be asked of any one, whose spirit is in healthful action, if his experience before the work of art, imbodying the beauty we speak of, is not of a humanizing--and we will add civilizing, as well as elevating character, and we are willing to abide the issue of his answer, in full support of the position we have taken. such is our belief on the universality of this influence or element. we have heard it denied, it is certain--but it was even by those who have never tested the power by an application of it to themselves, or a surrender to its mysteries, by an approach to the real presence--and who, like bachelors upon the fearful subject of matrimony, only betray a silliness just in proportion to their ignorance. these are the men who have not yet unfolded. they are in the chrysalis condition--and to be pitied accordingly. they may depend upon it, when they pass from the _slough_, they will be ready to confess they are, alas! too deep in that other "slough of despond," which is too well represented by a sad sensitiveness to the magic of beauty, and as sad a consciousness that there is no approach for them, which can be crowned by a capture of the citadel, or the least enjoyment of the glorious delights it encloses. when we hear men deteriorating this power, or thanking the gods they never bent knee or uttered vow at its shrine, we are ever ready to believe they have either bowed all their days to far other and sadder principles, and made oath to idols of bad material and worse sculpture, or that they are as much beyond the reach of any good, and proper, and beautiful influence, as the clod of the valley to which they are hastening. they may take pride in denial of such influence--but what is there to boast of in insensibility of any kind, where the very betrayal of admiration is the best evidence of a good taste--a good feeling--a good faith--a good principle? it cannot have escaped common observation, we presume, that a love of beauty--or, at least, any peculiar sensitiveness to that quality in the female sex, has been held--and by sensible men, too--as a weakness, or an index only of a weak mind, or a feminine spirit. this is certainly very foolish--and a lamentable mistake. but it is easily accounted for. it will be observed that the doctrine is never held save by men who see beauty in things which other persons would hold abhorrent. they are men who are in love with metaphysics, or glory in a mathematical existence. they like, beyond all, the _features_ of a problem, and think only of the _good face_ of a speculation. they see, as they profess, at least, no proportions, save in some cold system of an absurd philosophy, and are only fit for judgment in things either too abstract for the mass of men, or too decidedly "earthy" to be worthy the attention of beings made for a better sphere, and capable of seeing something in much that is around us, which intimates the order and beauty by which that sphere is distinguished. this is enough to put an end to this objection, in reference to the subtle element of which we are venturing our humble, but we believe, orthodox sentiments. for ourselves, we know of no more sad or senseless mental condition in which we could be placed--we mean in the social relation--than this one of such ungraceful stupidity, as this of which a boast is made by such weary fellows as we have adverted to. if beauty is an _outside_ principle, which they argue is of no utility, and quite unworthy of one who should look beyond the mere _coating_ of this existence for his reward or his satisfaction, then we say that even an _outside_ of loveliness and grace, is better than an _interior_ of deformity, uselessness, indefiniteness, chaos--even though it pretend to be all spiritual, while it suggests little but nonsense, and is quite certain to end in nothing. there is another thought in connexion with this element of beauty in woman, which certainly deserves consideration. we believe the philosophy which it intimates is founded in very good sense, and withal, in propriety. insensibility to the power, we have observed, is no index of anything virtuous or elevated. it is rather, in all cases, a bad omen. men look upon it--and that very rationally--as indicative of something unhealthy in the moral system. it seems to tell of a hardness--bad propensities--a crustaceous nature. in short, man regards his fellow, who is dead to this influence, as rather to be suspected at all times, than to be trusted at any. but this is not his saddest trial--or what should be regarded as such, if he can sign himself a man, with any conscience whatever. his estimation by woman is unqualified and unquestioned. he is set down by her as a creature as unworthy of regard by the sisterhood, as he is devoid of warmth or wit in anything that has to do with the social relations, and, above all, with the mysteries of the passions and affections. he is marked by them with a timble brand. he is set apart as a poor thing, who knows nothing of what he was made for, and whose ideas of the graceful and lovely in life are about as defined and worthy as those of the brutes that perish. he is run upon and laughed at by the playful, and satirised and scathed by the witty. in the circle he is treated--not pitied--as a piece of circulating insensibility; in the street he is pointed at as one who might be well set up as a mark at its corners. and this is right. it is well he should be visited by rebuke from her who presents so continually around him the elements of that power he is foolish to resist, and unable, after all, to depreciate. woman's opinion, here, is a part of the great system which the influence she defends is meant to support--and we truly hope that she will maintain it aloud as long as she can utter it. of the power of beauty, both the world of fact, and the world of fancy, are abounding in instances. the records of ancient story present us with their helens and their cleopatras, who wrought upon nations by the magic of their faces. later times show us the wonder of the power in mary of scotland, and many a page might be adverted to, full of the adventures which marked the love passages of kings as well as clowns, originating in this mysterious influence, as developed in the graces and glories of woman. the power of beauty operates widely, and everywhere. it takes the good man captive as well as the miscellaneous one, who has no definite rule to guide him on his wanderings. it bows the masters and teachers of men at its shrine, as well as the scholars and children of life. it draws the merchant from his desk--the philosopher from his chair. it gives new utterance to the poet, while it wins the statesman to confess that there is some virtue in the outside of the world, after all, and some attraction apart from the chaos of cabinets and broad seals. there is a beautiful exemplification of this power given by florian, in his story of a theban sculptor. he is a wandering orphan in the streets of his native city, and his first entrance into the workshop of the celebrated praxitiles well proves the truth of what we have set down in the foregoing pages.--"he is suddenly transported on beholding so many masterpieces of art! he gazes upon them--he is lost in admiration! and turning to praxitiles with an air of grace and juvenile freedom, "father," cried he, "give _me_ the chisel, and teach me to become as great as thou art." praxitiles stared at the boy, astonished at the fire of enthusiasm which kindled in his eyes, and embracing him with affection, "yes!" said he, "remain with me; i will now be _your_ master, but my hope shall be that you may soon be _mine_." the pupil soon becomes worthy of his teacher. he becomes the heir of his fortune, and removes to miletus. there, the daughter of the governor visits his statuary, and from the time of that visit, his destiny is sealed. love usurps the place of every other passion, and the chisel is cast aside in silence, under that supremacy. the venus of marble that adorned his study, was no longer a venus before that living one which filled his eye and his bosom. he felt that he must tell his love, or die. he declares it, in a hurried letter--a slave betrays him--and the indignant father accuses him before the council. he is banished from the city--and embarks in a cretan vessel. at this time pirates surprise the city, and pillage the temple of venus. the statue of that goddess is torn from its pedestal. it was the palladium of the island, and on its possession hung the happiness of the milesians. the oracle of delphos was consulted, and it was answered that miletus would not be safe till a new statue of venus, beautiful as the goddess herself, should replace that ravished by the pirates. the inhabitants were in despair. they accused the governor of unjustly banishing the only man who might now save the city. he is seized, and hurried in chains to a dungeon. now came the trial of the daughter, whose beauty had brought on this fearful crisis. she equips her vessel, and with treasures about her, determines to go in person to athens--corinth--thebes--to find some artist who should emancipate her father. tempted to land on a delicious island, she there comes suddenly upon her lover, whom she had been taught to believe had been long laid under the waters that lashed the heights of naxos. the story is soon told. in the humble cabin of his solitude he had prepared a statue which he said would meet the demand of the sybil. but he claimed to have it placed veiled upon the pedestal in the temple of miletus, before she should even look upon the marble. she consents--and they embark for that island. the artist is received with shoutings and joy. the statue is borne to its trial on the altar of venus. it stands erect. he fears nothing--and it is unveiled. the features are not mistaken--and the people utter cries of joy as they behold the image of his mistress! the enamored sculptor had made her, in his loneliness, the model of his venus!--he is called on to claim his reward. "release him you have imprisoned," he cried--"release her father--and i ask no more."--it is done--and the father gives up the daughter to his preserver, at the foot of her statue. can the power of beauty be better illustrated than in this simple tale? we are not shown simply its effect upon an uneducated, artless individual--upon a mind in its singleness, and just awakened to its own capabilities of suffering and joy--but we see it operating in a wide and unquestioned influence, upon the spirit of a whole people. it was not demanded by fate that there should be merely a replacing of the piece of marble upon the pedestal from which it had been torn--it was required that the statue should be as royal in its _beauty_ as that was whose place it should supply. beauty was the spirit-word of the destiny of miletus. it was beauty which had been guardian of the city--and it was beauty which must now restore it, by her return to her temple. but we will not dwell upon this story, though it so beautifully exemplifies the position we maintain. there are many instances of frequent occurrence in the world, which tell as strong a tale, of the influence of grace and beauty, as is here presented in the grecian record. we may not witness them--but the power is working ever like fate in the mingled material of our life; and it only requires a sober faith, together with a moderate observation, to convince all men that they are the creatures of beauty, as much as they are of destiny and dust. but there is another consideration connected with this subject--an important one, too--and for that reason we have reserved it to the last. we are settled in our conviction that there is something in personal beauty, of a representative and correspondent character. it represents a spiritual beauty--corresponds with a moral symmetry. though we call it an _outward_ property, still it must be a picture of the _internal_. it would seem impossible that there can be a speaking expression of grace and loveliness, upon a face that is but a telegraph of an inward deformity and ugliness. perhaps all this may seem somewhat ideal in its philosophy--and, perhaps, almost transcendental. but we hold it to be true. it certainly appears to us reasonable that the minor should reflect the reality, as well in this heaven-made humanity, as amid the earthy art of our drawing-rooms. that the spirit should speak out in the language of the countenance, is to us as excellent sense as that it should tell its story in protuberances and indentations. who can deny this--and where will the argument fail? we pause for a reply. let us be understood, however. we have no idea of going beyond reason in a theory, which, though it may appear more than plausible to us, may seem far this side of plausible to others. yet we think we are borne out by example. we do not maintain, it will be remembered, that beauty of person must necessarily be the representative of _moral beauty_, according to the best and highest definition of that term. that definition, we presume, would include the virtuous and the heavenly. that these traits are unfailing accompaniments of noble features--the beautiful countenance--the finished form--it would be hazardous and foolish to assert. what we intend to say is this--that we believe external beauty is the representation of an internal and spiritual quality of the same nature. that beauty may be spiritual, though it may not be moral--the beauty of virtue. it may be the beauty of superior and surpassing powers--the beauty of genius. it may be the beauty of a mind, uncommon in its attractions, and in its proportions beyond fault or question. it may be the beauty of intellectual symmetry--and this may find its speaking resemblance in the chiseled face and figure, as certainly as the moral loveliness of the heaven-inspired--the emphatically _good_ man. of what more perfect mental proportions could the human countenance have been indicative, than the countenance of napoleon? the symmetry of genius spake there, if it _was_ true--as it certainly was--that moral beauty had no telegraph in that splendid sculpture of the man. but we have said as much as we can afford to--though the more particular subject of our remarks--or what in good faith should have been, if it has not--beauty in woman, would seem to be one on which it would not be deemed unknightly to give way to a pretty expression. we must, however, leave all considerations of gallantry on this score, to others who can amplify better than we can, when we have got to the end of our chapter. advertisement. there is perhaps no subject more universally or more deeply interesting than that which is the chief subject of the present work. yet no book, even pretending to science or accuracy, has hitherto appeared upon it. the forms and proportions of animals--as of the horse and the dog--have been examined in a hundred volumes: not one has been devoted to woman, on whose physical and moral qualities the happiness of individuals, and the perpetual improvement of the human race, are dependant. the cause of this has been, probably, the neglect on the part of individuals, to combine anatomical and physiological knowledge with the critical observation of the external forms of woman; and, perhaps, some repugnance to anthropological knowledge on the part of the public. the last obstacle, if ever it existed, is now gone by, as many circumstances show; and it will be the business of the author, in this work, to endeavor to obviate the former. the present work, beside giving new views of the theory of beauty, and of its application to the arts, presents an analysis and classification of beauty in woman. a subsequent work will apply the principles here established to intermarriages and crossings among mankind, and will explain their results in relation to the happiness of individuals, and to the beauty and the freedom from insanity of their offspring. a final work will examine the relations of woman in society, will expose the extravagant hypothesis of writers on this subject who have been ignorant of anthropology, and will describe the reforms which the common interests of mankind demand in this respect. it is now to be seen, whether a branch of science which is strictly founded on anatomy and physiology--one which entangles the reader in no mystical and delusive hypothesis, and presents to him only indisputable facts--one which is applicable to the subject most universally and deeply interesting to mankind, the critical judgment of female beauty, as founded on necessary functions--and one which unravels the greater difficulties which that subject presents--may not excite and permanently command a great degree of public interest. a preliminary view of the importance of this subject is given in the first chapter; the urgency of its discussion, in relation to the interests of decency and morality, is established in the second; and some useful cautions as to youth are offered in the third. in regard to the importance of the subject, i may, even here, avail myself of the highest authorities. thomas more, speaking of the people of his commonwealth, says: "they do greatly wonder at the folly of all other nations, which, in _buying a colt_ (whereas, a little money is in hazard), be so chary and circumspect, that, though he be almost all bare, yet they will not buy him, unless the saddle and all the harness be taken off--lest, under those coverings, be hid some gall or sore. and yet, in _choosing a wife_, which shall be either pleasure or displeasure to them all their life after, they be so reckless, that, all the residue of the woman's body being covered with clothes, they esteem her scarcely by one hand-breadth (for they can see no more but her face), and so to join her to them, not without great jeopardy of evil agreeing together--if anything in her body afterward should chance to offend and mislike them."[1] francis bacon is of similar opinion. happily, the advancement of anthropological science in modern times, may, as is here shown, be so applied as to render quite unnecessary the _objectionable methods_ proposed by both these philosophers, in order to carry their doctrines into practice. _shall i be blamed, because i avail myself of the progress of knowledge to render all that these great men desired on this subject of easy attainment and inoffensive to woman? shall i be blamed, because i first facilitate that which the still farther advancement of knowledge will inevitably render an everyday occurrence, and the guide of the most important act of human life?_--i care not. in the details as to female beauty, it will be seen how incorrectly winckelmann says: "in female figures, the forms of beauty are not so different, nor the gradations so various, as in those of males; and therefore in general they present no other difference than that which is dependant upon age.... hence, in treating of female beauty, few observations occur as necessary to be made, and the study of the artist is more limited and more easy.... it is to be observed, that, in speaking of the resemblance of nude female figures, i speak solely of the body, without concluding from it that they also resemble each other in the distinctive characters of the head, which are particularly marked in each, whether goddess or heroine."--the differences, even in the bodies of females, are here shown to be both numerous and capable of distinct classification. it is right to observe, that this work has nothing to do with an early production of the writer, a consciousness of the small value of which prevented his attaching his name to it, which he now knows to be utterly worthless, and which has since been vamped up with things which are more worthless still. the most valuable features of the present work are entirely new and original. others are such as the writer thought not unworthy of preservation from earlier essays. he has also, throughout this work, adopted from other writers, with no other alteration than accuracy required, every view, opinion, or remark, which he thought applicable to a department of science, of which all the great features are new. such being the case, he thinks it just, at once to himself and others, to indicate here the only points on which he can himself lay any claim to originality. these are as follows:-the more complete establishment of the truth that, in relation to man and woman in particular, beauty is the external sign of goodness in organization and function, and thence its importance.--chapter i., and the work generally. the showing that the discussion of this subject, though involving the examination of the naked figure, is urgent in relation to decency (the theory of which is discussed), morality, and happy intermarriage.--chapter ii. the showing that the ancient religion was the cause of the perfection of the fine arts in greece, by its personification of simple attributes or virtues, as objects of adoration.--chapter ii. the exposition of the nature, the kinds, and the characteristics of beauty; and of some errors of burke, knight, &c., on this subject.--chapter iv. the showing that there are elements of beauty invariable in their nature and effect, and that these are modified and complicated in advancing from simple to complex beings, and the arts relating to them.--chapter vi. the pointing out these elements of beauty, and their mode of operation in inanimate beings; and the errors of knight and allison on this subject.--sect. i., chapter vi. the pointing out these elements, and others which are superadded, in living beings; and the errors of allison on this subject.--sect. ii., chapter vi. the pointing out these elements, and others which are farther superadded, in thinking beings; and the errors of burke and knight on this subject.--sect. iii., chapter vi. the exposition of these elements, as differing, or variously modified, in the useful, ornamental, and intellectual arts, respectively; and some remarks on ornament in architecture, and in female dress.--sect. iv., chapter vi. the explanation of the nature of the picturesque, after the failure of knight and price in this respect.--sect. i., appendix to preceding chapters. the vindication of the doctrine of hobbes, as to the cause of laughter; and exposition of the errors of campbell and beattie on this subject.--sect. ii., appendix. the explanation of the cause of the pleasure received from representations exciting pity; and of the errors of burke, &c., on that subject.--sect. iii., appendix. the arrangement of anatomy and physiology, and the application of the principles of these sciences to the distinguishing and judging of beauty.--chapter vii. the explanation of the difference in the beauty of the two sexes even in the same country.--chapter ix. various arguments establishing the standard of beauty in woman; and exposure of the sophistry of knight, on this subject.--chapter x. the showing, by the preceding arrangements, that the ancient temperaments are partial or complex views of anthropological phenomena.--chapter xi., et seq. the description of the first species of beauty, or that of the locomotive system, and of its varieties, as founded on examination of structure.--chapter xii. the description of the second species of beauty, or that of the nutritive system, and of its varieties, as founded on examination of structure.--chapter xiii. the description of the third species of beauty, or that of the thinking system, and of its varieties, as founded on examination of structure.--chapter xiv. the explanation of the cause of the deformity produced by the obliquely placed eyes of the chinese, &c.--chapter xv. the explanation of the mode in which the action of the muscles of the face becomes physiognomically expressive.--ibid. the explanation of the physiognomical character of the different kinds of the hair.--ibid. the explanation of the cause of the different effects of the same face, even in a state of repose.--ibid. the indication of the faulty feature, and its gradual increase, even in beautiful faces.--ibid. the exposition of the different organization of greek and roman heads.--ibid. the explanation of the combinations and transitions of beauty.--chapter xvi. the explanation of the numerical, geometrical, and harmonic methods of proportion, employed by the ancient greeks.--chapter xvii. some remarks on character, expression, and detail in art.--ibid. some observations on the greek forehead, actual as well as ideal.--chapter xviii. the explanation of the reason of the greek ideal rule, as to the proportion between the forehead and the other parts of the face.--ibid. the explanation of the reason of the greek ideal rule, as to the profile of the forehead and nose, or as to the direction of the mesial line which they form, and the exposition of winckelmann's blunder respecting it.--ibid. the explanation of the reason why the greeks suppressed all great degrees of impassioned expression.--ibid. the mere indication of the greek idealizations as applied to the nutritive and locomotive systems, and the explanation of the latter in the apollo.--ibid. the replies to the objections of burke and alison, as to ideal beauty.--ibid. the enunciation of the ideal in attitude.--ibid. various views as to the venus de medici, the conformation of the nose, and the connexion of odor with love, in animals and plants.--chapter xix. some remarks on the venus de medici.--ibid. the pointing out and explanation of various defects in beauty.--chapter xx. the pointing out and explanation of various external indications of figure, beauty, mind, habits, and age.--chapter xxi. the writer may possibly be mistaken as to the originality of one or two of these points; but, leaving the critical reader to deduct as many of these as it is in his power to do, enough of novelty would remain for the writer's ambition, in this respect, if he had done no more than exposed the errors of burke, knight, alison, &c., and established the true doctrine of beauty, in the first chapters--given an analysis and classification of beauty in woman, in the chapters which follow--and applied this to the fine arts, and solved the difficulty of leonardo da vinci, &c., in the last chapters. analysis and classification of beauty in woman. chapter i. importance of the subject. it is observed by home, in his "elements of criticism," that a perception of beauty in external objects is requisite to attach us to them; that it greatly promotes industry, by promoting a desire to possess things that are beautiful; and that it farther joins with utility, in prompting us to embellish our houses and enrich our fields. "these, however," he says, "are but slight effects, compared with the connexions which are formed among individuals in society by means of this singular mechanism: the qualifications of the head and heart are undoubtedly the most solid and most permanent foundations of such connexions; but as external beauty lies more in view, and is more obvious to the bulk of mankind, than the qualities now mentioned, the sense of beauty possesses the more universal influence in forming these connexions; at any rate, it concurs in an eminent degree, with mental qualifications, to produce social intercourse, mutual good-will, and, consequently, mutual aid and support, which are the life of society." dr. pritchard similarly observes, that "the perception of beauty is the chief principle in every country which directs men in their marriages." advancing a step farther, sir anthony carlisle thinks a taste for beauty worthy of being cultivated. "man," he observes, "dwells with felicity even on ideal female attributes, and in imagination discovers beauties and perfections which solace his wearied hours, far beyond any other resource within the scope of human life. it cannot, then, be unwise to cultivate and refine this natural tendency, and to enhance, if possible, these charms of life. we increase and heighten all our pleasures by awakening and cultivating reflections which do not exist in a state of ignorance. thus, the botanist perceives elegances in plants and flowers unknown and unfelt by the vulgar, and the landscape-painter revels in natural or imaginary scenery, with feelings which are unknown to the multitude. it would be absurd to pretend that the more exquisite and more deeply attractive beauty of woman is not worthy of more profound, as well as more universal cultivation." such are the observations of philosophical anthropologists, who, nevertheless, in these remarks, consider mere physical beauty independent of its connexion with corresponding functions or moral qualities. if, however, the external beauty of woman, calculated as it is to flatter the most experienced eye, limited its effect to a local impression, to an optical enjoyment, the sentiment of beauty would be far from having all its extent and value. happily, ideas of goodness, of suitableness, of sympathy, of progressive perfection, and of mutual happiness, are, by an intimate and inevitable association, connected with the first impression made by the sight of beauty. the foundation of this feeling is well expressed by dr. pritchard, in his observation that "the idea of beauty of person is synonymous with that of health and perfect organization." hence, it has been observed, the great ideal models of beauty please us, not merely because their forms are disposed and combined so as to affect agreeably the organ of sight, but because their exterior appears to correspond to admirable qualities, and to announce an elevation in the condition of humanity. such do the greek monuments appear to physiologists and philosophical artists, whose minds pass rapidly from the beauty of forms to that locomotive, vital, or mental excellence which it compels them to suppose. goodness and beauty in woman will accordingly be found to bear a strict relation to each other; and the latter will be seen always to be the external sign of the former. there are, however (slightly to anticipate what must afterward be explained), different kinds, both of beauty and of goodness, which are confounded by vulgar observers; or rather there are beauty and goodness belonging to different systems of which the body is composed, and which ought never to be confounded with each other. where, consequently, one of these kinds of beauty and of goodness is wanting, even in a remarkable degree, others may be found; and, as the vulgar do not distinguish, it is this which leads to the gross error that these qualities have no strict relations to their signs. want of beauty, then, in any one of the systems of which the body is composed, indicates want of goodness only in that system; but it is not less a truth, and scarcely of less importance, on that account.--i will now illustrate this by brief examples. there may, in any individual, exist deformity of limbs; and this will assuredly indicate want of goodness in the locomotive system, of that or general motion. there may exist coarseness of skin, or paleness of complexion; and either of these will as certainly indicate want of goodness in the vital system, or that of nutrition. there may exist a malformation of the brain, externally evident; and this no less certainly will indicate want of goodness in the mental system, or that of thought. it follows that even the different kinds and combinations of beauty, which are the objects of taste to different persons, are founded upon the same general principle of organic superiority. nay, even the preferences which, in beauty, appear to depend most on fancy, depend in reality on that cause; and the impression which every degree and modification of beauty makes on mankind, has as a fundamental rule only their sentiment, more or less delicate and just, of physical advantage in relation to each individual. such is the foundation of all our sentiments of admiration and of love. the existence or non-existence of these advantages, and the power of determining this, or the judgment of beauty, are therefore of transcendent importance to individuals and to families. such judgment can be attained by analysis and classification alone. nothing, therefore, can more nearly affect all human interests than that analysis and classification of beauty which are here proposed. to place beyond a doubt, and to illustrate more minutely, the extraordinary importance of this subject, as regards advantages real to the species, i may anticipate some of the more minute applications of my doctrine. if, in the locomotive system of the female, much of the delicacy of form, and the ease and grace of her movements, depend upon the more perfect development of the muscles of the pelvis, and its easily adapting itself to great and remarkable changes, how important must be the ability to determine, even by walk or gesture, the existence of this condition! if, in the vital system, the elasticity and freshness of the skin are the characteristics of health, and their absence warns us that the condition of woman is unfavorable to the plan of nature relatively to the maintenance of the species--or, if the capacity of the pelvis, and the consequent breadth of the haunches, are necessary to all those functions which are most essentially feminine, impregnation, gestation, and parturition, without danger either to parent or to child--of what extreme importance must be the ability to determine this with certainty and ease! if, in the mental system, the capacity and delicacy of the organs of sense, and the softness and mobility of the nervous system, are necessary to the vivid and varying sensibility of woman--if it is in consequence of this, that woman is enabled to act on man by the continual observation of all that can captivate his imagination or secure his affection, and by the irresistible seduction of her manners--if it is these qualities which enable her to accommodate herself to his taste, to yield, without constraint, even to the caprice of the moment, and to seize the time when observations, made as it were accidentally, may produce the effect which she desires--if it is by these means that she fulfils her first duty, namely, to please him to whom she has united her days, and to attach him to her and to home by rendering both delightful--if all this is the case, of what inexpressible importance must be the ability to determine, in each individual, the possession of the power and the will to produce such effects! if (descending to still more minute inquiries) external indications as to figure are required as to parts concealed by drapery--if such indications would obviate deception even with regard to those parts of the figure which are more exposed to observation by the closer adaptation of dress--if, even when the face is seen, the deception as to the degree of beauty, is such that a correct estimate of it is perhaps never formed--if indications as to mind may be derived from many external circumstances--if external indications as to the personal habits of women are both numerous and interesting--if such indications even of age and health are sometimes essential--if all this be the case, let the reader say what other object of human inquiry exceeds this in importance. let us not then deceive ourselves respecting the source of those impressions which one sex experiences from the sight of the other. it is evidently nothing else than the more or less delicate and just perception of a certain conformity of means with a want which has been created by nature, and which must be satisfied. "it is very obvious," says dr. pritchard, "that this peculiarity in the constitution of man must have considerable effects on the physical character of the race, and that it must act as a constant principle of improvement, supplying the place in our own kind of the beneficial control [in the crossing of races] which we exercise over the brute creation." and he adds: "this is probably the final cause for which the instinctive perception of human beauty was implanted by providence in our nature." we need not wonder, then, that the greeks should have preferred beauty to all other advantages, should have placed it immediately after virtue in the order of their affections, or should have made it an object of worship. even the practical application of this principle to the improvement of the human race is not a matter of conjecture. we have seen both families and nations ameliorated by the means which it affords. of this, the turks are a striking example. nothing, therefore, can better deserve the researches of the physiologist, or the exertions of the philanthropist, than the fact that there are laws, of which we have yet only a glimpse, according to which we may influence the amelioration of the human race in a manner the most extensive and profound, by acting according to a uniform and uninterrupted system. well might cabanis exclaim: "after having occupied ourselves so curiously with the means of rendering more beautiful and better the races of animals or of plants which are useful or agreeable--after having remodelled a hundred times that of horses and dogs--after having transplanted, grafted, cultivated, in all manners, fruits and flowers--how shameful is it to have totally neglected the race of man! as if it affected us less nearly! as if it were more essential to have large and strong oxen than vigorous and healthy men, highly odorous peaches or finely striped tulips, than wise and good citizens!" i actually know a man who is so deeply interested in the doctrine of crossing, that every hour of his life is devoted to the improvement of a race of bantam fowls and curious pigeons, and who yet married a mad woman, whom he confines in a garret, and by whom he has some insane progeny. let it not be imagined that the discovery of the precise laws of crossing or intermarriage, and the best direction of physical living forces, in relation both to the vital faculties and to those of the mind, upon which knowledge and skill may operate for the improvement of our race, is a matter of difficulty. it will be shown in this work, that there exist not only an influence of beauty and defects on offspring, but peculiar laws regulating the resemblance of progeny to parents--laws which regard the mode in which the organization of parents affects that of children, or regulates the organs which each parent respectively bestows. it will accordingly be shown, that, as, on the size, form, and proportion, of the various organs, depend their functions, the importance of such laws is indescribable--whether we regard intermarriages, and that immunity from mental or bodily disease which, when well directed, they may ensure, or the determination of the parentage of a child--or the education of children, in conformity with their faculties--or the employment of men in society. i conclude this brief view in the words of the writer just quoted: "it is assuredly time for us to attempt to do for ourselves that which we have done so successfully for several of our companions in existence, to review and correct this work of nature--a noble enterprise, which truly merits all our cares, and which nature itself appears to have especially recommended to us by the sympathies and the powers which it has given us." chapter ii. urgency of the discussion of this subject in relation to the interests of decency and morality. it has now been seen that beauty results from the perfection, chiefly of external forms, and the correspondence of that perfection with superiority of internal functions; on the more or less perfect perception of which, love, intermarriage, and the condition of our race, are dependant. this mode of considering the elements, the nature, and the consequences of beauty, is equally applicable to the two sexes; but, in woman, the form of the species presents peculiar modifications. in this work, it is the form of woman which is chosen for examination, because it will be found, by the contrast which is perpetually necessary, to involve a knowledge of the form of man, because it is best calculated to ensure attention from men, and because it is men who, exercising the power of selection, have alone the ability thus to ensure individual happiness, and to ameliorate the species; which are the objects of this work. let it not be imagined that the views now taken are less favorable to woman than to man. whatever ensures the happiness of one ensures that of the other; and as the variety of forms and functions in man requires as many varieties in woman, it is not to exclusion or rejection with regard to woman that this work tends, but to a reasoned guidance in man's choice, to the greater suitableness of all intermarriages, and to the greater happiness of woman as well as man, both in herself and in her progeny. but notwithstanding the importance of any work which is in any degree calculated to promote such an object, some will tell us that the analysis of female beauty, on which it can alone be founded, is indelicate.--i shall, on the contrary, show that decency demands this analysis; that the interests of nature, of truth, of the arts, and of morality, demand it. our present notions of sexual decency belong more to art than to nature, and may be divided into artificial and artful decencies. artificial decencies are illustrated in the habits of various nations. they have their origin in cold countries, where clothing is necessary, and where a deviation from the degree or mode of clothing constitutes indecency. they could not exist in hot climates, where clothing is scarcely possible. in hot climates, natural decency can alone exist; and there is not, i believe, one traveller in such countries whose works do not prove that natural decency there exists as much as in cold countries. in exemplification of this, i make a single quotation: it would be easy to make thousands. burchell, speaking of the bushmen hottentots, says: "the natural bashful reserve of youth and innocence is to be seen as much among these savages, as in more polished nations; and the young girls, though wanting but little of being perfectly naked, evinced as just a sense of modesty as the most rigid and careful education could have given them." in mild climates, the half-clothed or slightly-clothed people appear to be somewhat at a loss what to do. fond of decorations, like all savage or half-civilized people, they seem to be divided between the tatooing and painting of hot climates, and the clothing of cold ones; and when they adopt the latter, they do not rightly know what to conceal. the works of all travellers afford the same illustrations of this fact. i quote one. kotzebue describes the custom among the tartar women of kasan, of flying or of concealing their countenance from the sight of a stranger. the necessity of conforming to this custom threw into great embarrassment a young woman who was obliged to pass several times before the german traveller. she at first concealed her face with her hands; but, soon embarrassed by that attitude, she removed the veil which covered her bosom, and threw it over her face. "that," adds kotzebue, "was, as we say, uncovering paul to cover jacques: the bosom remained naked. to cover that, she next showed what should have been concealed; and if anything escaped from her hands, she stooped, and then," says kotzebue, "i saw both one and the other." in colder or more uncertain climates, the greatest degree of covering constitutes the greatest degree of artificial decency: fashion and decency are confounded. among old-fashioned people, of whom a good example may be found in old countrywomen of the middle class in england, it is indecent to be seen with the head unclothed; such a woman is terrified at the chance of being seen in that condition; and if intruded on at such a time, she shrieks with terror and flies to conceal herself. in the equally polished dandy of the metropolis, it is indecent to be seen without gloves. which of these respectable creatures is the most enlightened, i do not take upon me to say; but i believe that the majority of suffrages would be in favor of the old woman. so entirely are these decencies artificial, that any number of them may easily be created, not merely with regard to man or woman, but even with regard to domesticated animals. if it should please some persons partially to clothe horses, cows, or dogs, it would ere long be felt that their appearing in the streets without trowsers or aprons was grossly indecent. we might thus create a real feeling of indecency, the perception of a new impurity, which would take the place of the former absence of all impure thought, and once established, the evil would be as real as our whims have made it in other respects. moral feeling is deeply injured by this substitution of impure thoughts, however fancifully founded, for pure ones, or rather for the entire absence of thought about worthless things. artificial crimes are thus made, which are not the less real because artificial; for if aught of this kind is believed to be right, there is weakness or wrong in its violation. but violated it must be, if it were but accidentally. to corrupt minds, this very violation of artificial decency in the case of woman affords the zest for the sake of which many of these decencies seem to have been instituted; and thus are created the artful decencies. the purpose and the zest of artful decency are well illustrated by coquetry. coquetry adopts a general concealment, which it well knows can alone give a sensual and seductive power to momentary exposure. coquetry eschews permanent exposure as the bane of sensuality and seduction; and where these are great, as among the women of spain, the concealment of dress is increased, even in warm climates. nothing can throw greater light than this does on the nature of these decencies. that coquetry has well calculated her procedure, does not admit of a doubt. she appeals to imagination, which she knows will spread charms over even ugly forms; she seeks the concealment under which sensuality and lust are engendered; and, in marriage, she at last lifts the veil which gratifies, only to disgust, and repays a sensual hallucination by years of misery. ought religion to claim the right of saying grace to such unveiling of concealment and the nuptial rites that follow it? ought religion to profit by the impurities of sexual association? marriage is a civil ceremony in other countries, even in scotland. such profane and profitable sanctions have nothing to do with primitive christianity: they are abhorrent to its letter as well as to its spirit. but worldly and profitable religion is connected in business with government, under the firm of church and state, and drives a thriving trade, in which the junior partner is contented with the profit arising from the common acts of life, while the senior one draws much of his living from other rites.[2] what is said here, is no argument for living nudity: that, our climate and our customs forbid; and, in so doing, we can only regret that they are unfavorable to natural purity; while perfect familiarity with the figure ensures that feeling in the highest degree. a distinguished artist informs me that greater modesty is nowhere to be seen than at the life academy; and it was an observation of the great flaxman, that "the students, in entering the academy, seemed to hang up their passions with their hats." i can, from personal experience, give the same testimony in behalf of medical students at the dissecting-rooms. the familiarity of both these classes with natural beauty leads them only to seek to inform their minds and to purify their taste.[3] sinibaldi observes, that "nothing is more injurious to morals and to health, than the incitements of the women who in such numbers walk our streets," and that "the laws as to offences against morals ought certainly to affect them the moment their language or actions can be deemed offensive." but it is not to those who are critically conversant with the highest beauty of the human figure, that defective forms, ill-painted skins, rude manners, and contagious diseases, are at all seductive. nothing, then, can be more favorable to virtue than the decoration of every house with the beautiful copies of the glorious works of ancient greece; and it is only humiliating to think that what has been so extensively done in this respect in the best houses, is less owing to our own taste than to the poor wanderers from lucca or barga. experiment on this subject is peculiarly easy in london: let any one spend an hour in the shop of the very able mr. sarti, of dean street, where he will meet the most liberal attention, and let him ask himself, in coming out, whether his moral feeling, as well as his taste, is not improved. those who cannot make this experiment, will perhaps be satisfied with the assurance of hogarth, who says: "the rest of the body, not having advantages in common with the face, would soon satiate the eye, were it to be as constantly exposed, nor would it have more effect than a marble statue." surely this is decisive enough in its way! now let them mark what follows. "but," he continues, "when it is artfully clothed and decorated, the mind at every turn resumes its imaginary pursuits concerning it. thus, if i may be allowed a simile, the angler chooses not to see the fish he angles for, until it is fairly caught." he meant of course--"the _fish_ chooses not to see the _angler_, until it is fairly caught!" be it known then to all, even the most aristocratic as to sexual association--i say the most aristocratic, and not the most religious, because religion is in some countries made the pander to aristocracy--be it known that the critical judgment and pure taste for beauty are the sole protection against low and degrading connexions. home observes that "the sense of beauty does not tend to advance the interests of society, but when in a due mean with respect to strength. love in particular arising from a sense of beauty, loses, when excessive, its sociable character: the appetite for gratification, prevailing over affection for the beloved object, is ungovernable, and tends violently to its end, regardless of the misery that must follow. love in this state is no longer a sweet agreeable passion: it becomes painful, like hunger or thirst, and produces no happiness but in the instant of fruition. this discovery suggests a most important lesson, that moderation in our desires and appetites, which fits us for doing our duty, contributes at the same time the most to happiness: even social passions, when moderate, are more pleasant than when they swell beyond proper bounds." payne knight says: "when, at the age of puberty, animal desire obtrudes itself on a mind already qualified to feel and enjoy the charms of intellectual merit, the imagination immediately begins to form pictures of perfection, by exaggerating and combining in one hypothetic object every excellence that can possibly belong to the whole sex; and the first individual that meets the eye, with any exterior signs of any of these ideal excellences, is immediately decorated with them all, by the creative magic of a vigorous and fertile fancy. hence, she instantaneously becomes the object of the most fervent affection, which is as instantaneously cooled by possession: for, as it was not the object herself, but a false idea of her raised in heated imagination, that called forth all the lover's raptures, all immediately vanish at the detection of his delusion; and a degree of disgust proportioned to the disappointment, of which it is the inevitable consequence, instantly succeeds. thus it happens that what are called love-matches are seldom or ever happy." now, nothing can more effectually prevent even the existence of the mania described by these two philosophers than a critical judgment and a pure taste for beauty, which again therefore are the sole protection against low and degrading connexions. a just sense of this truth will give high encouragement to sculpture and painting--arts which may everywhere be looked upon as the best tests, as well as the best records, of civilization. such encouragement they need in truth; for the monstrous monopoly of landed property and the accumulation of wealth in few hands--the great aim of our political economy--renders art poor, indeed. i am aware that the vulgar among artists think otherwise; from the few rich they obtain employment; and, like the dog with his master, they look not beyond the hand that doles out their pittance. but the rich are few; and their palaces are already filled. a diffusion of wealth alone can give encouragement to art; nor can this ever be while british industry is crushed under the weight of enormous taxation. having removed some objections to art, i would add a few words to artists on the cause of the fine arts in greece, from a paper i, two years ago, contributed to a monthly periodical.[4] that the mythology of greece had an influence over its arts, is generally granted; but i am not aware, that it has either been shown to be exclusively their cause, or that its mode of operation has ever been explained. religion, i may observe, is as natural to man as his weakness and helplessness. there is not one of its systems, not even the vilest, which has not afforded him consolation. of its higher and better systems, some are equally admirable for the grandeur and the beauty of the truths on which they are founded, the simplicity and the elegance of their ostensible forms, the power and applicability of their symbols, and their sympathy with, and control over, the affections and the imagination. these high characteristics peculiarly distinguished the religion of ancient greece. by bigots, we are indeed told, that, though homer is our model in epic, anacreon in lyric, and ã�schylus in dramatic poetry--though the music of greece doubtless corresponded to its poetry in beauty, pathos, and grandeur--though the mere wreck of her sculpture is never overlooked in modern war and negotiation--though the mere sight of her ruined parthenon is more than a reward for the fatigue or the peril of a journey to the eternal city--though these products of art are the test of the highest civilization which the world has witnessed--though to these chiefly rome owed the little civilization of which she was capable, and we ourselves the circumstance that, at this hour, we are not, like our ancestors, covered only with blue paint or the skins of brutes--though all this is true as to the arts of greece, we are told that, by the strangest exception, the religion of greece was a base superstition. that religion, however, was the creator of these arts. they not only could not have existed without it, but they probably could never have been called into existence by any other religion. the personification of _simple_ beauty, valor, wisdom, or omnipotence, in venus, mars, minerva, or jupiter, respectively, was essential to the _purity_ and the _power_ of expression of these attributes in the worship of the deities to whom they respectively belonged. the union of absolute beauty and valor in one being, is not more impossible than their union in one expression of homage and admiration. delicacy, elegance, and grace, were as characteristic of the statue, the worship, and the temple, of the goddess of beauty, as attributes nearly opposite to these were of the statue, the worship, and the temple, of the god of war. thus, were the fine arts in greece created by the personification of _simple_ attributes or virtues as objects of adoration; and thus is excellence in these fine arts incapable of being elicited by any system of religion in which more than one attribute is ascribed to the god. they must be ignorant, indeed, of the wonderful people of whom i now speak, who allege, that the greeks worshipped the mere statue of the god and not the personified virtue. even the history of their religion proves the reverse. it was the tomb which became the altar, and retained nearly its form. it was the expression of love, of regret, and of veneration for departed virtue, which became divine adoration; and, as individual acts and even individual names were ultimately lost in one transcendent attribute, so were individual forms and features, in its purified and ideal representation. here, then, instead of finding the worship of men or of their representations, we discover a gradual advance from beings to attributes--from mortal man to eternal virtue--and a corresponding and suitable advance from simple veneration to divine adoration. when, in great emergencies of the state, the sages and the soldiers of athens, in solemn procession repaired to the temple of minerva, turned their faces toward the statue of the goddess, and prostrated themselves in spirit before her--let the beautiful history of grecian science tell, whether in the statue they worshipped the mere marble structure, or, in its forms and attributes, beheld and adored a personification of eternal truth and wisdom, and so prepared the mind for deeds which have rendered greece for ever illustrious. or, when returning from a marathon, or a salamis, the warriors of athens, followed by trains of maidens, and matrons, and old men, returned thanks to the god of victories--let the immortal record of the long series of glorious achievements which succeeded these, tell, whether gratitude to their heroes was not there identified with homage to the spirit or the divinity that inspired them. true it is, that, whenever physical or moral principles are personified, the ignorant may be led to mistake the sign for that which is signified; but one of the most admirable characteristics of the grecian religion is, that, with little effort, every external form may be traced to the spirit which it represents, and every fable may be resolved into a beautiful illustration of physical or moral truth. so that when mystic influences, with increasing knowledge, ceased to sway the imagination, all-powerful truths directed the reason. the natural and poetical religion of greece, therefore, differed from false and vulgar religions in this, that it was calculated to hold equal empire over the minds of the ignorant and the wise; and the initiations of eleusis were apparently the solemn acts by which the youths and maidens of greece passed from ignorance and blind obedience to knowledge and enlightened zeal. thus, in that happy region, neither were the priests knaves, nor the people their dupes.[5] and what has been the result of this fundamental excellence?--that no interpolated fooleries have been able to destroy it;--that the religion of greece exists, and must ever exist, the religion of nature, genius, and taste;--and that neither poetry nor the arts can have being without it. schiller has well expressed this truth in the following lines:- "the intelligible forms of ancient poets, the fair humanities of old religion, the power, the beauty, and the majesty, that had their haunts in dale, or piny mountains, or forest, by slow stream, or pebbly spring, or chasms, and watery depths--all these have vanished; they live no longer in the faith of reason; but still the heart doth need a language; still doth the old instinct bring back the old names; * * and even, at this day, 'tis jupiter who brings whate'er is great, and venus who brings everything that's fair." chapter iii. cautions as to youth. in relation to _early_ sexual association, it cannot be doubted, that, when the instinct of reproduction begins to be developed, the reserve which parents, relatives, and instructers, adopt on this subject, is often the means of producing injurious effects; because, a system of concealment on this subject, as observed in the preceding chapter, is quite impracticable. discoveries made by young persons in obscene books, the unguarded language or shameless conduct of grown-up persons, even the wild flights of an imagination which is then easily excited, will have the most fatal consequences. parents or instructers ought, therefore, at that critical period, to give rational explanations as to the nature and the object of the propensity, the mechanism of reproduction in various vegetable and animal beings, and the fatal consequences to which this propensity may lead. such procedure, if well conducted, cannot but have the most beneficial results; because, in order that a sane person should avoid any danger, it is only necessary that he should see it distinctly. the advantage, it has been observed, which the parent, relative, or instructer, derives, from himself in forming the adolescent in the new faculty which is developed in him, is to prevent his choosing, among corrupt servants or ignorant youths of his own age, the confidants of his passion. the parent or instructer, moreover, is then justly entitled to, and has gratefully given to him, the entire confidence of the adolescent; and he is thereby enabled exactly to appreciate the degree of power of the propensity which he desires to divert or to guide. such being the case, it is the business of the parent to present a true picture of the effects of too early association of this kind, on the stature, the various development of the figure, the muscular power, the quality of the voice, the health, the moral sense, and especially on the acuteness, the power, the dignity, and the courage, of the mind. in doing this, it would be as stupid as injurious to employ the slightest degree of false representation, of unjust reprimand, or too much of what is called moralizing, which is often only the contemptible cant of a being who cannot reason, especially when it takes the place of a simple and powerful statement of facts. all of these would only render the young man a dissembler, and would compel him to choose another confidant. among other considerations, varying according to the circumstances of the case, those stated below may with advantage be presented. at a certain period in the life both of plants and animals, varying according to their kind and the climate they live in, they are fit for and disposed to the reproduction of their species. the sexes in both are then attracted to each other. in plants, the powder termed pollen, in animals a peculiar liquid which, deriving its name by analogy from the seeds of plants, is termed seminal, is secreted by the male plant or animal, and, by organs differently formed in each kind, is cast upon ova or eggs either contained within, or deposited by, the female. the details of this process are among the most beautiful and interesting of the living economy. in mankind, the attainment of this period is termed puberty. it is with this critical period, and his conduct during it, that all that the youth deems most valuable, all that can decide his fortunes and his happiness in the world, his stature, figure, strength, voice, health, and mental powers, are most intimately connected. in regard to stature, the body appears to complete its increase in height chiefly at the age of puberty, and during the first years which succeed that age. to be assured of the powerful influence of his own conduct, at this period, upon his stature, the youth has only to compare the tall men and women of the country as in yorkshire, lancashire, westmoreland, cumberland, and the scottish borders, where they have not been overworked, with the stunted and dwarfed creatures of the metropolis, where a stranger, when he first enters it, is apt to think he sees so many ugly boys and girls, whereas, they are full-grown london men and women. half the population of the metropolis is affected in this way; and it is the obvious consequence of the acceleration of puberty by confinement, stimulating food, indecent plays, and sexual association. in regard to the perfect development and beauty of the figure, the youth is probably aware that the most beautiful races of horses and dogs rapidly deteriorate, if men do not carefully maintain them by continence as well as by crossing. the too early employment, the depraved abuses, the injury, or the removal, of the sexual organs, are all of them causes still more certain of deformity. the latter of these causes acts, of course, most obviously; and it is evidenced in the almost universal malformation of eunuchs, geldings, &c. that, in regard to bodily strength, sexual continence adds energy to the muscular fibre, is clearly seen by observing the most ardent quadrupeds previous to the time of the union of their sexes. but, this being past, precisely in the same proportion does the act of reproduction debilitate and break down the strongest animal. many male animals even fall almost exhausted by a single act of union with the opposite sex. every classical student has read the beautiful allegory of hercules, who, having spun at the knees of omphale ([greek: omphalos] the navel, here put for the most essential part of the female generative organ), thereby lost his strength: this beautifully expresses the abasement of power amid the indulgences of love. euripides also depicts the terrible achilles as timid before women, and respectful with clytemnestra and iphigenia. hence, when a foolish lord reproached the poet dryden with having given too much timidity toward women to a personage in one of his tragedies, and added that he knew better how to employ his time with the ladies, the poet answered: "you now acknowledge that you are no hero, which i intended that personage to be." as to voice, which depends on the muscles of respiration, and more immediately on those of the mouth and throat, as general strength does on the muscles of the whole body, both merely affording expressions of the mind, the influence of the sexual union upon it is prodigious. how entirely it is altered by the removal of the testes in eunuchs is known to every one: in corresponding proportion, is it altered by every act of the generative organs, but especially by sexual indulgence during puberty. the horrible voice of early libertines and prostitutes presents an alarming example of this. to those who value voice in conversation, in the delightful and humanizing exercise of music, or in the grander efforts of public speaking, nothing more need be said. as to health, the less we are prodigal of life, the longer we preserve it. every one capable of observing may see that the stag loses his horns and his hair after procreation; that birds fall into moulting and sadness; and that male insects even perish after this effort, as if they yielded their individual life to their progeny. indeed, everything perishes so much the more readily, as it has thus transmitted life to its descendants, or has cast it away in vain pleasures. in mankind, as in other animals, to procreate is in effect to die to one's self, and to leave one's life to posterity; especially, if this takes place in early life. it is then that man becomes bald and bent; and that the charms of woman fade. even in advanced age, epicures are so well aware of this, that they are known to abstain from amorous excess, as the acknowledged cause of premature death. in relation to mind--as the generative power is the source of several characteristics of genius, the exhaustion of that power at an early age must take away these characteristics. genius as surely languishes and is extinguished amid early sexual indulgence, as do the faculties of voice and locomotion, which are merely its signs and expressions. it is thus with all our faculties, locomotive, vital, mental, at an early age. they are strengthened by all that they do not dissipate; and that which their organs too abundantly dispense is not only taken immediately from their own power, and mediately from that of the other organs, but it ensures the permanent debility of the whole. it is true that the strong passions which are modified or characterized by the sexual impulse, excite the imagination and impel the mind to sublime exertions; but the sole means of either obtaining or preserving such impulsion is, to shun the indulgence of pleasure in early life, and its waste at later periods. it has accordingly been observed, that the passion of love appears to be most excessive in animals which least excel in mental faculties. thus the beasts which are the most lascivious, the ass, the boar, &c., are also the most stupid; and idiots and cretins display a sensuality which brutifies them still more. hence, the homeric fable that circe transformed men into beasts. it would also appear that the most stupid animals, swine, rabbits, &c., in general produce the greatest number of young; while men of genius have engendered the fewest. it is remarked that none of the greatest men of antiquity were much given to sexual pleasure. it is, then, of the greatest importance to young men who are ambitious of excellence, to mark well this truth, that the most powerful and distinguished in mental faculties, other things being equal, will be he who wastes them least in early life by sexual indulgence--who most economizes the vital stimulant, in order to excite the mental powers on great occasions. by such means may a man surely surpass others, if he have received from his parents proportional mental energy. beside the means already indicated, there is one proposed by an able writer, as serving to divert the instinct of propagation when too early and excessive, and consequently dangerous: that is, the sentiment of love. to employ this means, he observes, "it is necessary to search early, after knowing the character of the adolescent whom it is wished to direct, for a young woman whose beauty and good qualities may inspire him with attachment. this means will serve, more than can easily be imagined, to preserve the adolescent both from the grosser attractions of libertinism and the disease it entails, and from _the more dangerous snares of coquetry_. it is," he adds, "a virtuous young woman and a solid attachment that are here spoken of."--at some future period i shall probably show how wise this recommendation is, as well as the necessity and the advantages of early marriages, under favorable circumstances. having now shown the evils of early sexual association, i may briefly notice those of later libertinism. if, even in more advanced life, and when the constitution is stronger, the instinct of propagation be not restrained within just limits, it degenerates into inordinate lewdness or real mania: "repperit obscã¦nas veneres vitiosa libido." by such depravation, nobleness of character is utterly destroyed. this scarcely evitable consequence of great fortune and of the facility of indulgence, it has been justly observed, will ever be the ruin of the rich, and a mode of enervating the most vigorous branches of the most powerful house. the libertine, then, owing to exhaustion, by sexual indulgence, is characterized by physical and moral impotence, or has a brain as incapable of thinking, as his muscles are of acting. as libertines are enfeebled by indulgence, it follows that they are proportionally distinguished by fear and cowardice. nothing, indeed, destroys courage more than sexual abuses. but, from cowardice, spring cunning, duplicity, lying, and perfidy. these common results of cowardice are uniformly found in eunuchs, slaves, courtiers, and sycophants; while boldness, frankness, and generosity, belong to virtuous, free, and magnanimous men. again, cowardice, artifice, falsehood, and perfidy, are the usual elements of cruelty. men feel more wounded in self-love, as they are conscious of being more contemptible; and they avenge themselves with more malignity upon their enemy, as they find themselves more weak and worthless, and as they consequently dread him more. these are the causes of that malignant revenge which princes have often shown, as, in ancient times, tiberius, caligula, nero, domitian, heliogabalus, &c. in later times, catharine de medici solicited the massacre of the protestants; paul, constantine, and nicholas, of russia, were happy only when they wallowed in blood; charles x., equally effeminate and bigoted, perpetrated the massacre of the parisians; don miguel covered portugal with his assassinations; and nearly all the sovereigns and sycophants in europe upheld or palliated his atrocities.[7] the strong and brave man, on the contrary, scarcely feels hurt, and scorns revenge. it is not cruelty only with which we may reproach these effeminate individuals: it is every vice which springs from baseness of character. libertinism, moreover, is not hurtful only to the health and welfare of these individuals: it is so also to those of their posterity. finally, the results of libertinism have constantly marked, not merely the ruin of families, but the degeneration of races, and the decay of empires. the delights of capua caused the ruin of hannibal; and the roman, once so proud before kings, finally transformed himself into the wretched slave of monsters degraded far below the rank of humanity. so little, however, do men look to remote consequences that perhaps the most frightful punishments of libertinism are the diseases which it inflicts. man may, then, be said to meet only death on the path of life. the dangers of promiscuous love are, indeed, far beyond what young men will easily believe. i do not exaggerate when i state, that, out of every three women, and those the least common of the promiscuous, two at least are certainly in a state of disease capable of the most destructive infection. a surgeon in the habit of receiving foul patients at a public hospital tells me, i might safely say that nine out of every ten are in this state.[8] while writing this, sir anthony carlisle observes to me, that, "the special disease which appears to be a punishment for sexual profligacy, is not only malignant, painful, and hideous, in every stage of it, but the only remedy known for its cure, mercury, is a poison which generally leaves its own evils for the venom which it destroys. this frightful disease has no natural termination but in a disgusting disgraceful death, after disfiguring the countenance, by causing blindness, loss of the nose, the palate and teeth, and by the spoliation of the sinning organs. the miserables, who thus perish in public hospitals, are so offensive to the more respectable patients, that they are confined to appointed rooms, termed foul wards, where they linger and die in the bloom of life, either of the penalty inflicted by their profligacy, of the poison administered to them, or of incurable consequent diseases, such as consumption, palsy, or madness." hence, it has been observed, that, if we have to deal with a young man incapable of guidance by the nobler motives, of feeling contempt for vice, and horror for debauchery, there yet remain means to be employed. let him be conducted to the hospital, where he will find collected the poor victims of debauchery--the unhappy women whom, even the day before, he may have seen in the streets, with faces dressed in smiles, amid the torments, the corrosion, and the contagion of disease. this may leave an impression sufficiently deep. but let him also know that these unhappy creatures are a thousand times more pitiable than the libertine who destroys them, and who forfeits the only good we cannot refuse to other wretches, compassion for the misery he endures.[9] chapter iv. nature of beauty. in this chapter, my aim is to show that there is more than one kind of beauty, and that much confusion has arisen among writers, from not clearly distinguishing the characteristics of these kinds. an essential condition, then, of all excitement and action in animal bodies, is a greater or less degree of novelty in the objects impressing them--even if this novelty should arise only from a previous cessation of excitement. now, objects of greater or less novelty are the causes of excitement, pleasurable or painful, by means of their various relations. the lowest degree of bodily pleasure (though, owing to its constancy, immense in its total amount) is that which arises, during health, from those relations of bodies and that excitement which cause the mere local exercise of the organs--a source of pleasure which is seldom the object of our voluntary attention, but which seems to me to be the chief cause of attachment to life amid its more definite and conspicuous evils. all higher mental emotions consist of pleasure or pain superadded to more or less definite ideas. pleasurable emotions arise from the agreeable relations of things; painful emotions, from the disagreeable ones. the term by which we express the influence which objects, by means of their relations, possess of exciting emotions of pleasure in the mind, is beauty. beauty, when founded on the relations of objects, or of the parts of objects, to each other, forms a first class, and may be termed _intrinsic beauty_. when beauty is farther considered in relation to ourselves, it forms a second class, and may be termed _extrinsic_ beauty. we are next led (hitherto this has apparently been done without analyzing or defining the operation) to a division of the latter into two genera; namely, the _minor beauty_, of which prettiness, delicacy, &c., are modifications, and that which is called _grandeur_ or _sublimity_. the characters of the minor beauty or prettiness, with relation to ourselves, are smallness, subordination, and subjection. hence female beauty, in relation to the male. the characters of grandeur or sublimity, with relation to ourselves, are greatness, superordination, and power. hence male beauty, in relation to the female. by the preceding brief train of analysis and definition, is, i believe, answered the question--"whether the emotion of grandeur make a branch of the emotion of beauty, or be entirely distinct from it." having, by this concise statement of my own views on these subjects, made the reader acquainted with some of the materials of future consideration here employed, i may now examine the opinions of some philosophers, in order to see how far they accord with these first principles, and what answer can be given to them where they differ. that _beauty_, _generally considered_, has nothing to do with particular size, is very well shown by payne knight, who, though he argues incorrectly about it in many other respects, here truly says: "all degrees of magnitude contribute to beauty in proportion as they show objects to be perfect in their kind. the dimensions of a beautiful horse are very different from those of a beautiful lapdog; and those of a beautiful oak from those of a beautiful myrtle; because, nature has formed these different kinds of animals and vegetables upon different scales. "the notion of objects being rendered beautiful by being gradually diminished, or tapered, is equally unfounded; for the same object, which is small by degrees, and beautifully less, when seen in one direction, is large by degrees, and beautifully bigger, when seen in another. the stems of trees are tapered upward; and the columns of grecian architecture, having been taken from them, and therefore retaining a degree of analogy with them, were tapered upward too: but the legs of animals are tapered downward, and the inverted obelisks, upon which busts were placed, having a similar analogy to them, were tapered downward also; while pilasters, which had no analogy with either, but were mere square posts terminating a wall, never tapered at all." speaking of beauty generally, and without seeing the distinctions i have made above, burke, on the contrary, states the first quality of beauty to be comparative smallness, and says: "in ordinary conversation, it is usual to add the endearing name of little to everything we love;" and "in most languages, the objects of love are spoken of under diminutive epithets." this is evidently true only of the objects of _minor_ or _subordinate beauty_, which burke confusedly thought the only kind of it, though he elsewhere grants, that beauty may be connected with sublimity! it shows, however, that relative littleness is essential to that first kind of beauty. with greater knowledge of facts than burke possessed, and with as feeble reasoning powers, but with less taste, and with a perverse whimsicality which was all his own, payne knight similarly, making no distinction in beauty, considered smallness as an accidental association, failed to see that it characterized a kind of beauty, and argued, that "if we join the diminutive to a term which precludes all such affection, or does not even, in some degree, express it, it immediately converts it into a term of contempt and reproach: thus, a bantling, a fondling, a darling, &c., are terms of endearment; but a witling, a changeling, a lordling, &c., are invariably terms of scorn: so in french, '_mon petit enfant_,' is an expression of endearment; but '_mon petit monsieur_,' is an expression of the most pointed reproach and contempt." now, this chatter of grammatical termination and french phrase, though meant to look vastly clever, is merely a blunder. there is no analogy in the cases compared: a "darling" or little dear unites _dear_, an expression of love, with _little_, implying that dependance which enhances love; while "witling" or little wit unites _wit_, an expression of talent, with _little_, meaning the small quantity or absence of the talent alluded to; and it is because the latter term means, not physical littleness, which well associates with love, but moral littleness and mental degradation, that it becomes a term of contempt. even from the little already said, it seems evident that much of the confusion on this subject has arisen from not distinguishing the two genera of beauty, and not seeing that "the emotion of grandeur" is merely "a branch of the emotion of beauty." the other genus of beauty, _grand_ or _sublime beauty_, is well described by the names given to it, grandeur or sublimity. some have considered sublimity as expressing grandeur in the highest degree: it would perhaps be as well to express the cause of the emotion by grandeur, and the emotion itself by sublimity. nothing is sublime that is not vast or powerful, or that does not make him who feels it sensible of its physical or moral superiority. the simplest cause of sublimity is presented by all objects of vast magnitude or extent--a seemingly boundless plain, the sky, the ocean, &c.; and the particular direction of the magnitude or extent always correspondingly modifies the emotion--height giving more especially the idea of power, breadth of resistance, depth of danger, &c. of the objects mentioned above, the ocean is the most sublime, because, to vastness in length and breadth, it adds depth, and a force perpetually active. now, that these objects, though sublime, are beautiful, is very evident; and it is therefore also evident how much burke erred in asserting comparative smallness to be the first character of beauty generally considered. this and similar errors, as already said, have greatly obscured this subject, and have led burke and others so to modify and qualify their doctrines, as to take from them all precision and certainty. hence, in one place, burke says: "as, in the animal world, and in a good measure in the vegetable world likewise, the qualities that constitute _beauty_ may _possibly_ be united to things of _greater dimensions_ [that is, littleness may be united with bigness!]; when they are so united they constitute _a species something different both from the sublime and beautiful_, which i have before called, fine." so also he says: "ugliness i imagine likewise to be consistent enough with an idea of the sublime. but i would by no means insinuate that ugliness of itself is a sublime idea, unless united with such qualities as excite a strong terror." here, he confounds sublimity with terror, as do blair and other writers, when they say that "exact proportion of parts, though it enters often into the beautiful, is much disregarded in the sublime." it is a fact, that exactly in proportion as ugliness is substituted for beauty in vast objects, is sublimity taken away, until at last it is utterly lost in the terrible. even blair shows that sublimity may exist without terror or pain. "the proper sensation of sublimity appears," he observes, "to be distinguishable from the sensation of either of these, and, on several occasions, to be entirely separated from them. in many grand objects, there is no coincidence with terror at all; as in the magnificent prospect of wide-extended plains, and of the starry firmament; or in the moral dispositions and sentiments, which we view with high admiration; and in many painful and terrible objects also, it is clear, there is no sort of grandeur. the amputation of a limb, or the bite of a snake, is exceedingly terrible, but is destitute of all claim whatever to sublimity." payne knight shows that terror is even opposed to sublimity: "all the great and terrible convulsions of nature; such as storms, tempests, hurricanes, earthquakes, volcanoes, &c., excite sublime ideas, and impress sublime sentiments by the prodigious exertions of energy and power which they seem to display: for though these objects are, in their nature, terrible, and generally known to be so, it is not this attribute of terror that contributes, in the smallest degree to render them sublime.... timid women fly to a cellar, or a darkened room, to avoid the sublime effects of a thunder-storm; because to them they are not sublime, but terrible. to those only are they sublime, '_qui formidine nulla imbuti spectant_,' who behold them without any fear at all; and to whom, therefore, they are in no degree terrible." this farther confirms the distinction which i made of beauty into minor or subordinate, and grand or sublime beauty, although knight adopted other principles, if principles they may be called, and neglected such distinction. there is but one other error on this subject which i need to notice. burke says: "to make anything very terrible, obscurity seems in general to be necessary. when we know the full extent of any danger, when we can accustom our eyes to it, a great deal of the apprehension vanishes. every one will be sensible of this, who considers how greatly night adds to our dread, in all cases of danger.... those despotic governments which are founded on the passions of men, and principally upon the passion of fear, keep their chief as much as may be from the public eye. the policy has been the same in many cases of religion. almost all the heathen temples were dark." from what has already been said, it is evident that all this contributes to terror, not to sublimity; and that the same error is made by blair when he says, "as obscurity, so disorder, too, is very compatible with grandeur, nay, frequently heightens it." to expose the weakness and to destroy the authority of some writers on this subject, can only set the mind free for the investigation of truth. i may, therefore, conclude this chapter by quoting the shrewd remarks of knight on some of the principles of burke. i shall afterward be forced critically to examine the notions of knight in their turn. burke states that the highest degree of sublime sensation is astonishment; and the subordinate degrees, awe, reverence, and respect; all which he considers as modes of terror. and knight observes that this graduated scale of the sublime, from respect to astonishment, cannot, perhaps be better illustrated than by applying it to his own character. "he was certainly," says knight, "a very respectable man, and reverenced by all who knew him intimately. at one period of his life, too, when he became the disinterested patron of remote and injured nations, who had none to help them, his character was truly sublime; but, unless upon those whom he so ably and eloquently arraigned, i do not believe that it impressed any awe.... if, during this period, he had suddenly appeared among the managers in westminster hall without his wig and coat, or had walked up st. james's street without his breeches, it would have occasioned great and universal astonishment; and if he had, at the same time, carried a loaded blunderbuss in his hands, the astonishment would have been mixed with no small portion of terror: but i do not believe that the united effects of these two powerful passions would have produced any sentiment or sensation approaching to sublime, even in the breasts of those who had the strongest sense of self-preservation and the quickest sensibility of danger." thus, i believe, it now appears that novelty[10] is the exciting cause of pleasurable emotion, and of the consequent perception of beauty in the relations of things, and that the two genera of beauty--the minor or subordinate beauty, and grandeur or sublimity--have distinct characteristics, the confounding of which by writers has led to the obscurity of this part of the subject. chapter v. standard of taste in beauty. the expression, "standard of taste," is used to signify the basis or foundation of our judgments respecting beauty and deformity, and their consequent certainty. setting aside such objection as might be raised to a standard of taste on the doctrine of berkeley (which i refuted in 1809, and which i need not enter into here), this matter was long ago settled by david hume; and i have nothing new to say upon the subject (there is probably enough of novelty in other chapters, whatever its worth may be), except that burke appears to have borrowed all he knew about it from that incomparably more profound philosopher. as i ought not, however, to omit here a view of the subject, i cannot do better than transcribe the words of hume and burke respectively. while this will put the reader in possession of all that i think necessary upon this subject, it will farther tend to show in what burke's ability as a philosopher consisted. i must first, however, observe that the word "taste," as expressing our judgment of beauty, is a metaphor whimsically borrowed from the lowest of our senses, and is applied to our exercise of that faculty, as regards both natural objects, and the fine arts which imitate these. it is not wonderful that the variety and inconstancy of tastes respecting the attributes and the characters of beauty, should have led many philosophers to deny that there exist any certain combinations of forms and of effects to which the term beauty ought to be invariably attached. in his "philosophical dictionary," voltaire, after quoting some nonsense from the crazy dreamer who did so much injury to greek philosophy, says: "i am willing to believe that nothing can be more beautiful than this discourse of plato; but it does not give us very clear ideas of the nature of the beautiful. ask of a toad what is beauty, pure beauty, the [greek: to kalon]; he will answer you that it is his female, with two large round eyes projecting from her little head, a large and flat throat, a yellow belly, and a brown back. ask the devil, and he will tell you that the beautiful is a pair of horns, four claws, and a tail. consult, lastly, the philosophers, and they will answer you by rigmarole: they want something conformable to the archetype of the beautiful in essence, to the [greek: to kalon]." this is wit, not reason: let us look for that to a deeper thinker--as proposed above. david hume says: "it appears that, amid all the variety and caprice of taste, there are certain general principles of approbation or blame, whose influence a careful eye may trace in all operations of the mind. some particular forms or qualities from the original structure of the internal fabric, are calculated to please, and others to displease.... if they fail of their effect in any particular instance, it is from some apparent _defect_ or imperfection in the organ. "in each creature there is a sound and a defective state; and the former alone can be supposed to afford us a true standard of taste and sentiment. if, in the sound state of the organ, there be an entire or a considerable uniformity of sentiment among men, we may thence derive an idea of the perfect beauty; in like manner as the appearance of objects in daylight, to the eye of a man in health, is denominated their true and real color." to the same purpose writes burke, after some preliminary observations:-"all the natural powers in man, which i know, that are conversant about external objects, are the senses, the imagination, and the judgment. "first, with regard to the senses. we do and we must suppose, that, as the conformations of their organs are nearly or altogether the same in all men, so the manner of perceiving external objects is in all men the same, or with little difference. "as there will be little doubt that bodies present similar images to the whole species, it must necessarily be allowed, that the pleasures and the pains which every object excites in one man, it must raise in all mankind, while it operates naturally, simply, and by its proper powers only. "custom, and some other causes, have made many deviations from the natural pleasures or pains which belong to these several tastes; but then the power of distinguishing between the natural and the acquired relish remains to the very last. "there is in all men a sufficient remembrance of the original natural causes of pleasure, to enable them to bring all things offered to their senses to that standard, and to regulate their feelings and opinions by it. "suppose one who had so vitiated his palate as to take more pleasure in the taste of opium than in that of butter or honey, to be presented with a bolus of squills; there is hardly any doubt but that he would prefer the butter or honey to this nauseous morsel, or to any other bitter drug to which he had not been accustomed; which proves that his palate was naturally like that of other men in all things, that it is still like the palate of other men in many things, and only vitiated in some particular points." in the same manner, payne knight observes that "things, naturally the most nauseous, become most grateful; and things, naturally most grateful, most insipid. "this extreme effect, however, only takes place where the palate has become morbid and vitiated by continued, and even forced gratification; and even when the metaphors taken from this sense, and employed to express intellectual qualities, show that it is always felt and considered as a corruption, even by those who are most corrupted: for though there are many who prefer port wine to malmsey, and tobacco to sugar, yet no one ever spoke of a sour or bitter temper as pleasant, or of a sweet one as unpleasant." by this concession, knight answers several of his own objections. "when it is said," farther observes burke, very properly, "taste cannot be disputed, it can only mean, that no one can strictly answer what pleasure or pain some particular man may find from the taste of some particular thing. this indeed cannot be disputed; but we may dispute, and with sufficient clearness too, concerning the things which are naturally pleasing or disagreeable to the sense. but when we talk of any peculiar or acquired relish, then we must know the habits, the prejudices, or the distempers of this particular man, and we must draw our conclusions from those." hume proceeds to a second point, by observing that "one obvious cause, why many feel not the proper sentiment of beauty, is the want of that _delicacy_ of imagination which is requisite to convey a sensibility of those finer emotions. "where the organs are so fine, as to allow nothing to escape them, and at the same time so exact, as to perceive every ingredient in the composition; this we call delicacy of taste, whether we employ these terms in the literal or metaphorical sense." burke enlarges on this, after preliminary observing that "the power of the imagination is incapable of producing anything absolutely new; it can only vary the disposition of those ideas which it has received from the senses. now, the imagination is the most extensive province of pleasure and pain, as it is the region of our fears and our hopes, and of all our passions that are connected with them. "since the imagination is only the representation of the senses, it can only be pleased or displeased with the images, from the same principle on which the sense is pleased or displeased with the realities; and consequently there must be just as close an agreement in the imaginations as in the senses of men. "there are some men formed with feelings so blunt, with tempers so cold and phlegmatic, that they can hardly be said to be awake during the whole course of their lives. upon such persons, the most striking objects make but a faint and obscure impression. there are others so continually in the agitation of gross and merely sensual pleasures, or so occupied in the low drudgery of avarice, or so heated in the chase of honors and distinction, that their minds, which had been used continually to the storms of these violent and tempestuous passions, can hardly be put in motion by the delicate and refined play of the imagination. these men, though from a different cause, become as stupid and insensible as the former; but whenever either of these happen to be struck with any natural elegance or greatness, or with these qualities in any work of art, they are moved upon the same principle." on a third point, hume says: "but though there be naturally a wide difference in point of delicacy between one person and another, nothing tends farther to increase and improve this talent, than _practice_ in a particular art, and the frequent survey or contemplation of a particular species of beauty. "so advantageous is practice to the discernment of beauty, that, before we can give judgment on any work of importance, it will even be requisite that that very individual performance be more than once perused by us, and be surveyed in different lights with attention and deliberation." this is well illustrated by burke, who observes: "it is known that the taste (whatever it is) is improved exactly as we improve our knowledge, by a steady attention to our object, and by frequent exercise. "to illustrate this--(that there is a difference, not in the causes, nor in the manner of men's being affected, but in the degree, owing to natural sensibility, or greater attention to the object)--to illustrate this by the procedure of the senses in which the same difference is found, let us suppose a very smooth marble-table to be set before two men; they both perceive it to be smooth, and they are both pleased with it because of this quality. so far they agree. "but suppose another, and after that another table, the latter still smoother than the former, to be set before them. it is now very probable that these men, who are so agreed upon what is smooth, and in the pleasure thence, will disagree when they come to settle which table has the advantage in point of polish.... nor is it easy, when such a difference arises, to settle the point, if the excess or diminution be not glaring. "in these nice cases, supposing the acuteness of the sense equal, the greater attention and habit in such things will have the advantage. in the question about the tables, the marble-polisher will unquestionably determine the most accurately. "in the imagination, beside the pain or pleasure arising from the properties of the natural object, a pleasure is perceived from the resemblance which the imitation has to the original. "all men are nearly equal in this point, as far as their knowledge of the things represented or compared extends. "the principle of this knowledge is very much accidental, as it depends upon experience and observation, and not on the strength or weakness of any natural faculty; and it is from this difference in knowledge that what we commonly, though with no great exactness, call a difference in taste, proceeds. "a man to whom sculpture is new sees a barber's block, or some ordinary piece of statuary; he is immediately struck and pleased, because he sees something like a human figure; and entirely taken up with this likeness, he does not at all attend to its defects. no person, i believe, at the first time of seeing a piece of imitation, ever did. some time after, we suppose that this novice lights upon a more artificial work of the same nature; he begins to look with contempt on what he admired at first; not that he admired it even then for its unlikeness to a man, but for that general though inaccurate resemblance which it bore to the human figure. what he admired at different times in these so different figures, is strictly the same; and though his knowledge is improved, his taste is not altered. hitherto his mistake was from a want of knowledge in art, and this arose from his inexperience; but he may be still deficient, from a want of knowledge in nature. for it is possible that the man in question may stop here, and that the masterpiece of a great hand may please him no more than the middling performance of a vulgar artist; and this not for want of better or higher relish, but because all men do not observe with sufficient accuracy on the human figure, to enable them to judge properly of an imitation of it." on other points, hume makes the following observations:-"without being frequently obliged to form _comparisons_ between the several species and degrees of excellence, and estimating their proportion to each other ... a man is indeed totally unqualified to pronounce an opinion with regard to any object presented to him. by comparison alone, we fix the epithets of praise or blame, and learn how to assign the due degree of each. "but to enable a critic more fully to execute this undertaking, he must preserve his mind free from all _prejudice_ and allow nothing to enter into his consideration, but the very object which is submitted to his examination. "it is well known, that, in all questions submitted to the understanding, prejudice is destructive of sound judgment, and perverts all operations of the intellectual faculties: it is no less contrary to good taste; nor has it less influence to corrupt our sentiments of beauty. it belongs to _good sense_ to check its influence in both cases; and in this respect, as well as in many others, reason, if not an essential part of taste, is at least requisite to the operations of this latter faculty. in all the nobler productions of genius, there is a mutual relation and correspondence of parts; nor can either the beauties or blemishes be perceived by him whose thought is not capacious enough to comprehend all those parts, and compare them with each other, in order to perceive the consistence and uniformity of the whole. every work of art has also a certain end or purpose for which it is calculated; and is to be deemed more or less perfect, as it is more or less fitted to attain this end." to a repetition of this, burke adds some useful remarks:-"as many of the works of imagination are not confined to representation of sensible objects, nor to efforts upon the passions, but extend themselves to the manners, the characters, the actions, and designs of men, their relations, their virtues and vices, they come within the province of the judgment, which is improved by attention and by the habit of reasoning. "the cause of a wrong taste is a defect of judgment. and this may arise from a natural weakness of understanding (in whatever the strength of that faculty may consist), or which is much more commonly the case, it may arise from a want of proper and well-directed exercise, which alone can make it strong and ready. beside that ignorance, inattention, prejudice, rashness, levity, obstinacy, in short, all those passions, and all those vices which pervert the judgment in other matters, prejudice it no less in this its more refined and elegant province. these causes produce different opinions upon everything which is an object of the understanding, without inducing us to suppose, that there are no settled principles of reason. "a rectitude of judgment in the arts, which may be called a good taste, does in a great measure depend upon sensibility; because, if the mind has no bent to the pleasures of the imagination, it will never apply itself sufficiently to works of that species to acquire a competent knowledge in them. but though a degree of sensibility is requisite to form a good judgment, yet a good judgment does not necessarily arise from a quick sensibility of pleasure; it frequently happens that a very poor judge, merely by force of a greater complexional sensibility, is more affected by a poor piece, than the best judge by the most perfect; for as everything new, extraordinary, grand, or passionate, is well calculated to affect such a person, and that the faults do not affect him, his pleasure is more pure and unmixed. "in the morning of our days, when the senses are unworn and tender, when the whole man is awake in every part, and the gloss of novelty fresh upon all the objects that surround us, how lively at that time are our sensations, but how false and inaccurate the judgments we form of things! "every trivial cause of pleasure is apt to affect the man of too sanguine a complexion: his appetite is to keen to suffer his taste to be delicate.... one of this character can never be a refined judge; never what the comic poet calls '_elegans formarum spectator_.' "the rude hearer is affected by the principles which operate in these arts even in their rudest condition; and he is not skilful enough to perceive the defects. but as arts advance toward their perfection, the science of criticism advances with equal pace, and the pleasure of judges is frequently interrupted by the faults which are discovered in the most finished compositions." the chief idea above expressed, is again repeated by sir j. reynolds, who says: "the principles of these (the imagination and the passions) are as invariable as the former (the senses), and are to be known and reasoned upon in the same manner, by an appeal to _common sense_ deciding upon the common feelings of mankind." these views are thus summed by hume: "the organs of internal sensation are seldom so perfect as to allow the general principles their full play, and produce a feeling correspondent to those principles. they either labor under some defect, or are vitiated by some disorder; and by that means, excite a sentiment, which may be pronounced erroneous. when the critic has no delicacy, he judges without any distinction, and is only affected by the grosser and more palpable qualities of the object: the finer touches pass unnoticed and disregarded. where he is not aided by practice, his verdict is attended with confusion and hesitation. where no comparison has been employed, the most frivolous beauties, such as rather merit the name of defects, are the object of his admiration. where he lies under the influence of prejudice, all his natural sentiments are perverted. where good sense is wanting, he is not qualified to discern the beauties of design and reasoning, which are the highest and most excellent. under some or other of these imperfections, the generality of men labor; and hence, a true judge in the finer arts is observed, even during the most polished ages, to be so rare a character: strong sense, united to delicate sentiment, improved by practice, perfected by comparison, and cleared of all prejudice, can alone entitle critics to this valuable character; and the joint verdict of such, wherever they are to be found, is the true standard of taste and beauty." taking the principal ideas above, burke also concludes: "on the whole it appears to me, that what is called taste, in its most general acceptation, is not a simple idea, but is partly made up of a perception of the primary pleasures of sense, of the secondary pleasures of the imagination, and of the conclusions of the reasoning faculty, concerning the various relations of these, and concerning the human passions, manners, and actions." "it is sufficient for our present purpose," hume farther observes, "if we have proved that the taste of all individuals is not upon an equal footing, and that some men in general, however difficult to be particularly pitched upon, will be acknowledged by universal sentiment to have a preference above others. "though men of delicate taste be rare, they are easily to be distinguished in society by the soundness of their understanding, and the superiority of their faculties above the rest of mankind. the ascendant which they acquire, gives a prevalence to that lively approbation, with which they receive any productions of genius, and renders it generally predominant. many men, when left to themselves, have but a faint and dubious perception of beauty, who yet are capable of relishing any fine stroke which is pointed out to them. every convert to the admiration of the real poet or orator, is the cause of some new conversion. and though prejudices may prevail for a time, they never unite in celebrating any rival to the true genius, but yield at last to the force of nature and just sentiment." hume finally obviates some apparent difficulties:-"but notwithstanding all our endeavors to fix a standard of taste, and reconcile the discordant apprehensions of men, there still remain two sources of variation, which are not sufficient indeed to confound all the boundaries of beauty and deformity, but will often serve to produce a difference in the degrees of our approbation or blame. the one is the different humors of particular men; the other, the particular manner and opinions of our age and country. "a young man, whose passions are warm, will be more sensibly touched with amorous and tender images, than a man more advanced in years, who takes pleasure in wise, philosophical reflections concerning the conduct of life and moderation of the passions. at twenty, ovid may be the favorite author; horace at forty; and perhaps tacitus at fifty. vainly would we, in such cases, endeavor to enter into the sentiments of others, and divest ourselves of those propensities which are natural to us. we choose our favorite author as we do our friend, from a conformity of humor and disposition. "such preferences are innocent and unavoidable, and can never reasonably be the object of dispute, because there is no standard by which they can be decided. "for a like reason, we are more pleased, in the course of our reading, with pictures and characters that resemble objects which are found in our own age or country, than with those which describe a different set of customs. "a man of learning and reflection can make allowance for these peculiarities of manners; but a common audience can never divest themselves so far of their usual ideas and sentiments, as to relish pictures which nowise resemble them." thus i believe the reader has before him a view, sufficiently clear, of that popular topic, the standard of taste, as well as of the agreement which subsists among the best writers on the subject. in the next chapter, we proceed to a more fundamental and difficult inquiry. chapter vi. the elements of beauty.[11] on the subject of the preceding chapter, even the reasonings of hume appear to me to be of too vague and indefinite a kind. it requires the more minute scrutiny into which i shall now enter, in order to place it upon a deeper and more scientific foundation. if i can here show that, in the material qualities of the objects of nature and art, there exist elements of beauty equally invariable in themselves and in the kind of effect they produce upon the mind, it is evident there can be no farther dispute about a standard of beauty. many attempts have been made to determine the material elements of beauty, by hogarth, home, and others. all have more or less failed, from not observing that these elements are modified, varied, and complicated, as we advance from the most simple to the most complex class of natural beings, or of the arts which relate to these respectively. many partial views of perfect truth and great interest have been taken, and by every one of these it will be my duty here to profit: but, from the failure just pointed out, no philosophical and systematic doctrine of beauty, ascending from its origin in elements through its higher combinations, has ever been attained by any of the numerous, deep, acute, and elegant thinkers who have devoted their time to this subject, as the foundation of taste and of the fine or intellectual arts. profiting, as i ought to do, by the partial views of these philosophers, i pretend here only to take one larger view--to analyze, to generalize, to systematize, the materials which they present to me. in the hope of accomplishing this, i shall now endeavor successively to trace the elements of beauty which belong respectively to inanimate, living, and thinking beings, and to the useful, ornamental, and intellectual arts which have a reference to these, the neglect of all which i have described as the fundamental cause of previous failure. again, i repeat, it is to this analysis and generalization alone, and to the systemization founded upon it, that i make any pretence. the materials have long been presented by all the great writers on the subject: they have only left them in confusion, and without conclusion. i shall now proceed to employ them. section i. elements of beauty in inanimate beings. though burke did not accurately trace the elements of beauty in any one class of the objects of nature or art, he yet states a preliminary truth on this subject so well, that i here quote it: "it would be absurd," he observes, "to say that all things affect us by association only; since some things must have been originally and naturally agreeable or disagreeable, from which the others derive their associated powers; and it would be, i fancy, to little purpose to look for the cause of our passions in association, until we fail of it in the natural properties of things." home, advancing farther, says: "if a tree be beautiful by means of its color, its figure, its size, its motion, it is in reality possessed of so many different beauties, which ought to be examined separately, in order to have a clear notion of the whole. "when any body is viewed as a whole, the beauty of its figure arises from regularity[12] and simplicity; and viewing the parts with relation to each other, from uniformity[12], proportion, and order." i will here only observe that these are the qualities, as will speedily appear, which burke should have set down as the fundamental and first characteristics of beauty, instead of relative littleness, which belongs not to beauty generally, but only to the minor or subordinate beauty. even home, having arrived thus far, says: "to inquire why an object, by means of the particulars mentioned, appears beautiful, would, i am afraid, be a vain attempt." but he truly adds: "one thing is clear, that regularity, uniformity, order, and simplicity, contribute each of them to readiness of apprehension, and enable us to form more distinct images of objects than can be done, with the utmost attention, where these particulars are not found." and he subjoins: "this final cause is, i acknowledge, too slight, to account satisfactorily for a taste that makes a figure so illustrious in the nature of man; and that this branch of our constitution has a purpose still more important, we have great reason to believe." now had home seen that the characteristics of general beauty always are, with regard to the object, accordant and agreeable relations, the importance of the qualities he has just enumerated would have been evident; for, without them, these characteristics of the object could not exist: simplicity, regularity, uniformity, order, &c., are the very elements of accordant and agreeable relations. this is in reality the still more important purpose in which home believed, and to which the readiness of apprehension he now alludes to eminently contributes. as to simplicity, he observes, that "a multitude of objects crowding into the mind at once, disturb the attention, and pass without making any impression, or any lasting impression; and in a group, no single object makes the figure it would do apart, when it occupies the whole attention. for the same reason, even a single object, when it divides the attention by the multiplicity of its parts, equals not, in strength of impression, a more simple object comprehended in a single view: parts extremely complex must be considered in portions successively; and a number of impressions in succession, which cannot unite because not simultaneous, never touch the mind like one entire impression made as it were at one stroke. "a square is less beautiful than a circle, because it is less simple: a circle has parts as well as a square; but its parts not being distinct like those of a square, it makes one entire impression; whereas, the attention is divided among the sides and angles of a square.... a square, though not more regular than a hexagon or octagon, is more beautiful than either, because a square is more simple, and the attention less divided. "simplicity thus contributes to beauty." by regularity is meant that circumstance in a figure by which we perceive it to be formed according to a certain rule. thus, a circle, a square, a parallelogram, or triangle, pleases by its regularity. "a square," says home--(who here furnishes the best materials to a more general view, because he most frequently assigns physical causes, and whom, with some abbreviation, i therefore continue to quote)--"a square is more beautiful than a parallelogram, because the former exceeds the latter in regularity and in uniformity of parts. this is true with respect to intrinsic beauty only; for in many instances, utility comes in to cast the balance on the side of the parallelogram: this figure for the doors and windows of a dwelling-house, is preferred because of utility; and here we find the beauty of utility prevailing over that of regularity and uniformity." thus regularity and uniformity contribute to intrinsic beauty. "a parallelogram, again, depends for its beauty on the proportion [or relation of quantity] of its sides. its beauty is lost by a great inequality of these sides: it is also lost by their approximating toward equality; for proportion there degenerates into imperfect uniformity, and the figure appears an unsuccessful attempt toward a square." thus proportion contributes to beauty. "an equilateral triangle yields not to a square in regularity nor in uniformity of parts, and it is more simple. its inferiority in beauty is at least partly owing to inferiority of order in the position of its parts: the sides of an equilateral triangle incline to each other in the same angle, which is the most perfect order they are susceptible of; but this order is obscure, and far from being so perfect as the parallelism of the sides of a square." thus order contributes to the beauty of visible objects. "a mountain, it may be objected, is an agreeable object, without so much as the appearance of regularity; and a chain of mountains is still more agreeable, without being arranged in any order. but though regularity, uniformity, and order, are causes of beauty, there are also other causes of it, as color; and when we pass from small to great objects, and consider grandeur instead of beauty, very little regularity is required." it follows, from all that has been here said, and this has been shown by burke, that any rugged, any sudden projection, any sharp angle, is in the highest degree contrary to the idea of beauty. such projections and angles are destitute of all the qualities which have just been enumerated--simplicity, regularity, uniformity, proportion, order; and conformably to the principles i have laid down in a previous chapter, they can present only relations which are naturally disagreeable. this view is corroborated by the fact, that all very sharp, broken, or angular objects, were disagreeable to the boy couched by cheselden, as they are to all eyes of very nice sensibility. now, as angular forms give, to the sense of touch, sharpness, roughness, or harshness, so do opposite forms give smoothness or fineness. hence, burke makes smoothness his second characteristic of beauty, and that far more truly than he makes littleness its first, for, as he observes, "smoothness is a quality so essential to beauty, that i do not now recollect anything beautiful that is not smooth." such being really the case, i am bound to expose knight's sophistry on this point. "this elegant author," says he, "has expatiated upon the gratifications of feeling smooth and undulating surfaces in general: but, i believe, these gratifications have been confined to himself; and probably to his own imagination acting through the medium of his favorite system: for, except in the communication of the sexes, which affords no general illustration, and ought therefore to be kept entirely out of the question, i have never heard of any person being addicted to such luxuries; though a feeling-board would certainly afford as cheap and innocent a gratification, as either a smelling-bottle, a picture, or a flute, provided it were capable of affording any gratification at all." this is a good specimen of the kind of perverted reasoning, which peculiarly distinguishes knight. a man affecting the character of philosopher, ought calmly to have observed that, by young people before puberty, and, consequently, when there is not the slightest sexual bias, smooth objects are generally found to be agreeable, and rough or harsh ones to be the reverse. this would at once have set him right upon this point. if, to such a man, it should for a moment have appeared worth while to ask why we do not make use of feeling-boards, as well as of smelling-bottles, he ought to have sought the solution of his difficulty in the nature of the senses; and then, with a trifle more of ability than payne knight hereby shows himself to have possessed, he would have seen that smoothness affords us as much pleasure as any smell, but that, as it would have been always troublesome, and often impossible, to apply our fingers to smooth surfaces, we generally receive the varied and incessant pleasure it affords, by means of sight; that it is borne by light to the eye, as smell is by the air; and that this is the reason why, except when contact is indispensable, we have no need of anything in the way of a feeling-board. but knight says: "smoothness being properly a quality, perceivable only by the touch, and applied metaphorically to the objects of the other senses, we often apply it, very improperly, to those of vision; assigning smoothness as a cause of visible beauty, to things which, though smooth to the touch, cast the most sharp, harsh, and angular reflections of light upon the eyes; and these reflections are all that the eye feels, or naturally perceives.... such are all objects of cut-glass or polished metal; as may be seen by the manner in which painters imitate them: for, as the imitations of painting extend only to the visible qualities of bodies, they show those visible qualities fairly and impartially.... yet the imitative representation of such objects in painting is far less harsh and dazzling than the effects of them in reality: for there are no materials that a painter can employ, capable of expressing the sharpness and brilliancy of those angular reflections of the collected and condensed rays, which are emitted from the surfaces of polished metals." it seems, to me, scarcely possible to find sophistry more worthless than this, or rather a more contemptible quibble; for that which, availing himself of our technicalities about light, he calls angularity, sharpness, &c., has no analogy with disagreeable angularity of form. to produce the brilliance and splendor which he calls angular, and describes as so _offensive_, we polish crystalline and metallic bodies in the highest degree!--we value precisely those which thus admit of greatest splendor!--and, on that very account, the diamond (rightly or wrongly, is not the question) is deemed the most valuable object on earth! so much for those elements of beauty, in inanimate things, which fall under the cognizance of our fundamental sense, or that of touch. as to sight and its objects, it is true that, as this organ varies in different persons, their taste is modified, with regard to colors. but the preference of light and delicate colors to dark and glaring ones, is almost universal among persons of sensibility. alison, indeed, ascribes the effects of all colors to association. "white," he says, "as it is the color of day, is expressive to us of the cheerfulness or gayety which the return of day brings: black, as the color of darkness [night], is expressive of gloom and melancholy." and he adds: "whether some colors may not of themselves produce agreeable sensations, and others disagreeable sensations, i am not anxious to dispute." but this is the very point into which alison ought to have inquired. nature does nothing without foundation in the simplest principles; and this foundation is not only anterior to, but is the cause of all association. that, independent of any association, blackness is naturally disagreeable, if not painful, is happily determined by the case of the boy restored to sight by cheselden, who tells us that the first time the boy saw a black object, it gave him great uneasiness; and that, some time after, upon accidentally seeing a negro-woman, he was struck with great horror at the sight. this appears to be perfectly conclusive. knight indeed says: "as to the uneasiness which the boy, couched by cheselden, felt at the first sight of a black object, it arose either from the harshness of its outline, or from its appearing to act as a partial extinguisher applied to his eyes, which, as every object that he saw, seemed to touch them, would, of course, be its effect." it is highly probable that black operates in both these ways; and it has therefore natural effects, independent of all association. as to sounds, alison observes, that the cries of some animals are sublime, as the roar of the lion, the scream of the eagle, &c.; and he thinks they become so, because we associate them with the strength and ferocity of the animals which utter them. by opposite associations, he accounts for the beauty of the notes of birds. and he says, that there is a similar sublimity or beauty, in the tones of the human voice, and that "such sounds are associated, in our imaginations, with the qualities of mind of which they are in general expressive, and naturally produce in us the conception of these qualities." this writer endeavors to establish his views on this subject, by observing, that "grandeur or sublimity of sound, can no otherwise arise from its loudness, than as that loudness excites an idea of power in the sonorous object, or in some other associated with it in the mind: for a child's drum, close to the ear, fills it with more real noise, than the discharge of a cannon a mile off; and the rattling of a carriage in the street, when faintly and indistinctly heard, has often been mistaken for thunder at a distance. yet no one ever imagined the beating of a child's drum, or the rattling of a carriage over the stones, to be grand or sublime; which, nevertheless, they must be, if grandeur or sublimity belong at all to the sensation of loudness. but artillery and lightning are powerful engines of destruction; and with their power we sympathize, whenever the sound of them excites any sentiments of sublimity." now, all this is directly opposed to the doctrine it is meant to support. it distinctly implies that loudness is so natural and so frequent a result of the violent contact of bodies, that we sometimes mistakenly ascribe power to objects, of which we have not correctly distinguished the sounds, owing to imitation, distance, &c. the occasional mistake implies the general truth. alison, himself, notwithstanding his doctrine of association, is accordingly led to observe, that "there are some philosophers who consider these as the natural signs of passion or affection, and who believe that it is not from experience, but by means of an original faculty, that we interpret them: and this opinion is supported by great authorities." he adds the following observations, which, notwithstanding the error they involve, are too much to the purpose to be omitted here, and which in reality illustrate a natural and true theory, better than they do his own:-"it is natural, however, to suppose, that in this, as in every case, our experience should gradually lead to the formation of some general rules, with regard to this expression. "the great divisions of sound are into loud and low, grave and acute, long and short, increasing and diminishing. the two first divisions are expressive in themselves: the two last, only in conjunction with others. "loud sound is connected with ideas of power and danger. many objects in nature which have such qualities, are distinguished by such sounds; and this association is farther confirmed from the human voice, in which all violent and impetuous passions are expressed in loud tones. "low sound has a contrary expression, and is connected with ideas of weakness, gentleness, and delicacy. this association takes its rise, not only from the observation of inanimate nature, or of animals, where, in a great number of cases, such sounds distinguish objects with such qualities, but particularly from the human voice, where all gentle, or delicate, or sorrowful affections are expressed by such tones. "grave sound is connected with ideas of moderation, dignity, solemnity, &c., principally, i believe, from all moderate, or restrained, or chastened affections being distinguished by such tones in the human voice. "acute sound is expressive of pain, or fear, or surprise, &c., and generally operates by producing some degree of astonishment. this association, also, seems principally to arise from our experience of such connexions in the human voice. "long or lengthened sound seems to me to have no expression in itself, but only to signify the continuance of that quality which is signified by other qualities of sound. a loud or a low, a grave or an acute sound prolonged expresses to us no more than the continuance of the quality which is generally signified by such sounds. "short or abrupt sound has a contrary expression, and signifies the sudden cessation of the quality thus expressed. "increasing sound signifies, in the same manner, the increase of the quality expressed. "decreasing sound signifies the gradual diminution of such qualities. "motion furnishes another sort of beauty. "figure, color, and motion, readily blend in one object, and one general perception of beauty. in many beautiful objects they all unite, and render the beauty greater." these characteristics are too universal not to support the doctrine of natural appropriation and power, of which association is merely a consequence. it may be said, that all this chiefly regards mere geometrical forms, not objects in nature. but, on referring to inanimate objects, it will be found that they everywhere present these forms. the round, the simplest form appears to characterize all elementary bodies and all that are free from compression, to be in fact the most elementary and the most readily assumed in nature. this form, accordingly, is presented by the drops of water and of every liquid, by every atom probably of oxygen, hydrogen, and azote, by the smallest as well as the largest bodies, even the innumerable celestial orbs. all the other, the angular forms are presented by inanimate bodies under compression, or by mineral crystals. thus, then, do these simple geometrical forms characterize the simplest bodies in nature; and it appears that this first kind of beauty is peculiarly their own. it will, in the sequel, be as clearly seen, that each of the other classes of natural beings presents beauty of a different kind, which similarly characterizes it. hence, no rational theory of beauty could be formed by writers, who indiscriminatingly jumbled together the characteristics of all the kinds of beauty, and expected to find them everywhere. as, then, from all that has been said, it appears that all the elements of beauty which have thus been noticed, belong to inanimate beings, and as this is shown by the passages i have quoted from the best writers, it seems surprising, not merely that they should not have seen this to be the case, but, that it should not have led them to observe, that there exists also a second beauty, of living beings, and third, of thinking beings, as well as others of the useful, the ornamental, and the intellectual arts respectively, in each of which some new element was only added to the characters of the preceding species. it seems still more surprising that alison, who deviates so widely from all fundamental principles, should have actually stumbled upon an observation of a few of the characteristics of inanimate beings, and traced them as they pass upward through some living and thinking beings--whose new characteristics, however, he did not discriminate. he observes, that "the greater part of those bodies in nature, which possess hardness, strength, or durability, are distinguished by angular forms. the greater part of those bodies, on the contrary, which possess weakness, fragility, or delicacy, are distinguished by winding or curvilinear forms. in the mineral kingdom, all rocks, stones, and metals, the hardest and most durable bodies we know, assume universally angular forms. in the vegetable kingdom, all strong and durable plants are in general distinguished by similar forms. the feebler and more delicate race of vegetables, on the contrary, are mostly distinguished by winding forms. in the animal kingdom, in the same manner, strong and powerful animals are generally characterized by angular forms; feeble and delicate animals, by forms of the contrary kind."[13] section ii. elements of beauty in living beings. i have now to show that, in living beings, while the characters of the first and fundamental beauty, that of inanimate beings, are still partially continued, new characteristics are added to them. plants accordingly possess both rigid parts, like some of those described in the preceding section, and delicate parts, which, in ascending through the classes of natural beings from the simplest to the most complex, are the very first to present to us new and additional characters totally distinct from those of the preceding class. i. to begin as nature does, then, we find the trunks and stems of plants, which are near the ground, resembling most in character the inanimate bodies from among which they spring. they assume the simplest and most universal form in nature, the round one; but as growth is their great function, they extend in height and become cylindrical. even the branches, the twigs, and the tendrils, continue this elementary character; but it is in them, or in the stem when, like them, it is tender, that such elementary characters give way to the purposes of life, namely, growth and reproduction, and that we discover the new and additional characters of beauty which this class presents to us. ii. to render this matter plain, i must observe that the formation of rings, which unite in tubes, appears to be almost universally the material condition of growth and reproduction. every new portion of these tubes, moreover, and every superadded ring, is less than that which preceded it. it is from this that results the first characteristic of this second kind of beauty, namely, fineness or delicacy. hence, burke made the possession of a delicate frame, without any remarkable appearance of strength, his fifth condition in beauty; and he here erred only from that want of discrimination which led him to confound together all the conditions of beauty, and prevented his seeing that they belonged to different genera. now, as fine and delicate bodies, which are growing, will shoot in that direction where space, air, and light, can best be had, and as this, amid other twigs and tendrils, will greatly vary, so will their productions rarely continue long in the same straight line, but will, on the contrary, bend. hence, the curved or bending form is the second characteristic of this kind of beauty. it is worthy of remark, that, as the trunks, stems, twigs, and tendrils, of plants assume the simplest and most universal form in nature, the round one, so their more delicate parts have again the tendency to bend into a similar form. in the young and feeble branches of plants, it is observed by alison, that the bending form is "beautiful, when we perceive that it is the consequence of the delicacy of their texture, and of their being overpowered by the weight of the flower.... in the smaller and feebler tribe of flowers, as in the violet, the daisy, or the lily of the valley, the bending of the stem constitutes a very beautiful form, because we immediately perceive that it is the consequence of the weakness and delicacy of the flower." from the circumstances now described, it results that all the parts of plants present the most surprising variety. they vary their direction every moment, as burke observes, and they change under the eye by a deviation continually carrying on, but for whose beginning or end you will find it difficult to ascertain a point. variety is therefore the third characteristic of this second kind of beauty; and in the indiscriminating views of burke, he made two similar conditions, viz: "thirdly, to have a variety in the direction of the parts; but, fourthly, to have those parts not angular, but melted as it were into each other;" thus applying these to beauty generally, to which they are not applicable, but in a confused and imperfect way. it is scarcely necessary to observe that variety, as a character of beauty, owes its effect to the need of changing impressions, in order to enliven our sensibility, which does not fail to become inactive under the long-continued impression of the same stimulant. it is connected with this variety that unequal numbers are preferred, as we see in the number of flowers and of their petals, in that of leaves grouped together, and in the indentations of these leaves. from all this springs the fourth and last characteristic of this second species of beauty, namely, contrast. this strikes us when we at once look at the rigid stem and bending boughs, and all the variety which the latter display. it will be observed, that, of all the characteristics of beauty, none tend to render our perceptions so vivid as variety and contrast. i conclude this section with a few remarks on the errors which alison has committed on this subject. "in the rose," says that writer, "and the white lily, and in the tribe of flowering shrubs, the same bending form assumed by the stem is felt as a defect; and instead of impressing us with the idea of delicacy, leads us to believe the operation of some force to twist it into this direction."--this, however, is no defect arising from the bending form not being abstractly more beautiful, but from its being contrary to the nature of the stem of flowering shrubs to bend, from its being, as he himself observes, the result of some force to twist it. he asserts, however, that in plants, angular forms are beautiful, when they are expressive of fineness, of tenderness, of delicacy, or such affecting qualities; and he thinks that this may perhaps appear from the consideration of the following instances:-"the myrtle, for instance, is generally reckoned a beautiful form, yet the growth of its stem is perpendicular, the junction of its branches form regular and similar angles, and their direction is in straight or angular lines. the known delicacy, however, and tenderness of the vegetable, at least in this climate, prevail over the general expression of the form, and give it the same beauty which we generally find in forms of a contrary kind."--the mistake here committed is in supposing the beauty of the myrtle to depend on its angularity, instead of its being evergreen, fragrant, and suggesting pleasures of association. "how much more beautiful," he says, "is the rose-tree when its buds begin to blow, than afterward, when its flowers are full and in their greatest perfection! yet, in this first situation, its form has much less winding surface, and is much more composed of straight lines and of angles, than afterward when the weight of the flower weighs down the feeble branches, and describes the easiest and most varied curves."--but he answers himself by adding: "the circumstance of its youth, a circumstance in all cases so affecting, the delicacy of its blossom, so well expressed by the care which nature has taken in surrounding the opening bud with leaves, prevail so much upon our imagination, that we behold the form itself with more delight in this situation than afterward, when it assumes the more general form of delicacy." "there are few things in the vegetable world," he says, "more beautiful than the knotted and angular stem of the balsam, merely from its singular transparency, which it is impossible to look at without a strong impression of the fineness and delicacy of the vegetable."--but it is its transparency, not its angularity, that is beautiful. the beauty of color is not less conspicuous than that of form in this class of beings. section iii. elements of beauty in thinking beings. i have next to show that, in thinking beings, while the characters of inanimate, and those of living beauty, are still more or less continued, new characteristics are also added to them. i. in animals, accordingly, the bones bear a close analogy to the wood of plants. they generally assume the same rounded form; but, as thinking beings are necessarily moving ones, their bones are hollow to combine lightness with strength, and they are separated by joints to permit flexion and extension. ii. as animals, like plants, grow and reproduce, a portion of their general organization, their vascular system, which serves the purpose of growth and reproduction, consists, like plants, of trunks, branches, &c.; and the surface of their bodies, the skin, is formed by a tissue of these vessels. accordingly, both the vessels themselves, and the tissue which they form, present the delicacy, the bending, the variety, and the contrast, which are the characters of the preceding species of beauty. the undulating and serpentine lines which art seeks always to design in its most beautiful productions, exist in greater number at the surface of the human body than at that of any other animal. wherever, as hogarth observes, "for the sake of the necessary motion of the parts, with proper strength and agility, the insertions of the muscles are too hard and sudden, their swellings too bold, or the hollows between them too deep, for their outlines to be beautiful; nature softens these hardnesses, and plumps up these vacancies with a proper supply of fat, and covers the whole with the soft, smooth, springy, and, in delicate life, almost transparent skin, which, conforming itself to the external shape of all the parts beneath, expresses to the eye the idea of its contents with the utmost delicacy of beauty and grace." it is principally in the features of the face, as has often been observed, and on the surface of the torso and of the members of a beautiful woman, that these delicate, bending, varied, and contrasted lines are multiplied: by their union, they mark the outlines of different parts, as in the region of the neck, of the bosom, at the shoulders, on the surface of the abdomen, on the sides, and principally in the gradual transitions from the head to the neck, and from the loins to the inferior extremities. these lines vary under different circumstances; much enbonpoint producing round lines, and leanness or old age producing straight ones. woman and man stand pre-eminent among animals as to this kind of beauty; and to them succeed the swifter animals, as the horse, the stag, &c. the animals, on the contrary, of which the surface presents right lines and square forms, are correspondingly deprived of beauty; as the toad, the hog, and all the animals which seem to us ugly. in all animals, also, the beauty of color, even when slightly varied, becomes extremely interesting.--in human beauty, considerable variety is produced by the different shades of the skin. such, indeed, is the variety resulting from all this, that some degree even of intricacy is produced. the undulating lines which cross in every direction, and the tortuous paths of the eye, are the means of an agreeable complication. hence burke, following hogarth, says: "observe that part of a beautiful woman where she is perhaps the most beautiful, about the neck and breasts: the smoothness, the softness, the easy and insensible swell, the variety of the surface, which is never for the smallest space the same, the deceitful maze, through which the unsteady eye slides giddily, without knowing where to fix, or whither it is carried. is not this a demonstration of that change of surface, continual, and yet hardly perceptible at any point, which forms one of the great constituents of beauty? the hair affords an excellent instance of this agreeable complication. soft curls agitated by the wind have been the theme of every poet. and yet, says hogarth, "to show how excess ought to be avoided in intricacy, as well as in every other principle, the very same head of hair, wisped and matted together, would make the most disagreeable figure; because the eye would be perplexed, and at a fault, and unable to trace such a confused number of uncomposed and entangled lines." iii. but animals have a higher system of organs and functions which peculiarly distinguishes them, and which presents new and peculiar characteristics of beauty. this consists of the organs by which they receive impressions from, and react upon the objects around them--the first organs which nature presents having altogether external relations, and the first, consequently, in which we look for fitness for any purpose. the importance of fitness to the beauty of such objects is learned imperceptibly. lines and forms, though the most elegant, fail to please us, if ill distributed in this respect: and objects, to a great extent destitute of the other characters of natural beauty, become beautiful when regarded in relation to fitness. thus would this sense appear to be so powerful, as in some measure to regulate our other perceptions of beauty. it is fitness which leads us to admire in one animal, what would displease us if found in another. "the variety," says barry, "and union of parts, which we call beautiful in a greyhound, are pleasing in consequence of the idea of agility which they convey. in other animals, less agility is united with more strength; and, indeed, all the different arrangements please because they indicate either different qualities, different degrees of qualities, or the different combinations of them." in relation to the various fitness of the human body, the same writer says: "we should not increase the beauty of the female bosom, by the addition of another protuberance; and the exquisite undulating transitions from the convex to the concave tendencies, could not be multiplied with any success. in fine, our rule for judging of the mode and degree of this combination of variety and unity, seems to be no other than that of its fitness and conformity to the designation of each species." but it is less necessary for me to adduce authorities in support of this truth, than to answer the objections that have been made to it by some of the ablest writers on the subject--objections which have generally their origin in the narrow views which these men have taken, and in those partial hypotheses which, even when true, led them to reject all other truth. "it is said," observes burke, "that the idea of a part's being well adapted to answer its end, is one cause of beauty, or indeed beauty itself.... in framing this theory, i am apprehensive that experience was not sufficiently consulted. for, on that principle, the wedgelike snout of a swine with its tough cartilage at the end, the little sunk eyes, and the whole make of the head, so well adapted to its offices of digging and rooting, would be extremely beautiful."--and so they are, when the beauty of fitness for their purpose is considered; but that purpose being the mere growth and fattening of an animal of sensual and dirty habits, it is a fallacy to represent this, without explanation, as a fair proof of the absence of connexion between fitness and beauty. "if beauty in our species," says the same writer, "was annexed to use, men would be much more lovely than women; and strength and agility would be considered as the only beauties."--burke was a stringer of fine words, not for woman, but for queens, when that served a selfish and venal purpose. the sentence just quoted shows that his gallantry was as ignorant as it was mean. he here asserts by implication that women are less useful than men, although it is to women that the care of the whole human race, during its most helpless years, is committed, and although they take upon themselves all that half of the duties of life which men are as little capable of performing, as women are of performing the portion suited to men. "and," says he, "i appeal to the first and most natural feelings of mankind, whether, on beholding a beautiful eye, or a well-fashioned mouth, or a well-turned leg, any ideas of their being well fitted for seeing, eating, or running, ever present themselves."--is running, then, the proper use of the leg in woman! rousseau more truly thought its use was to _fail_ in running, or _not_ to run! is eating the only use of her mouth! this, too from the man who deplored that "the age of chivalry was gone!"--nevertheless, i will venture to assert that such things never were and never will be seen, without suggesting ideas of fitness of some kind or other. "there is," he proceeds, "another notion current, pretty closely allied to the former; that perfection is the constituent cause of beauty. this opinion has been made to extend much farther than to sensible objects. but in these, so far is perfection, considered as such, from being the cause of beauty, that this quality, where it is highest in the female sex, almost always carries with it an idea of weakness and imperfection."--for this plain reason, that female perfection is utterly incompatible with great muscular perfection or strength, which would indeed be injurious to the performance of every feminine function. we may now advance another step in the subject under discussion. what, then, are the peculiar physical characters of beings thus possessing sense and motion, and thus characterized by fitness? "it must be remembered," says knight, "that irregularity is the general characteristic of trees, and regularity that of animals."--it would have been more correct to say that symmetry is this peculiar characteristic. there is little resemblance between the parts of one side; and it is symmetry which results from the uniform disposition of double parts, and from the regular division of single ones. hence an agreeable impression is produced by the corresponding disposition and the exact resemblance of the eyes, of the eyebrows, of the ears, of the hemispheres of the bosom, and of the different parts of which the limbs are composed; and the forehead, the nose, the mouth, the abdomen, the back, are agreeably distinguished by means of the median line which divides them. it appears that the eye is pleased by the exactness of corresponding parts; and that symmetry is the first character of beauty in thinking beings. occasional irregularity makes us better appreciate the importance of symmetry. the oblique direction of the eyes, squinting, twisting of the nose or lips, unequal magnitude of the hemispheres of the bosom, or unequal length of the limbs, disfigure the most beautiful person. but how does symmetry contribute to fitness, or why is it necessary? "all our limbs and organs," says payne knight, "serve us in pairs, and by mutual co-operation with each other: whence the habitual association of ideas has taught us to consider this uniformity as indispensable to the beauty and perfection of the animal form. there is no reason to be deduced from any abstract consideration of the nature of things, why an animal should be more ugly and disgusting for having only one eye, or one ear, than for having only one nose or one mouth; yet if we were to meet with a beast with one eye, or two noses, or two mouths, in any part of the world, we should, without inquiry, decide it to be a monster, and turn from it with abhorrence: neither is there any reason, in the nature of things, why a strict parity, or relative equality, in the correspondent limbs and features of a man or a horse, should be absolutely essential to beauty, and absolutely destructive of it in the roots and branches of a tree. but, nevertheless, the creator having formed the one regular, and the other irregular, we habitually associate ideas of regularity to the perfection of one, and ideas of irregularity to the perfection of the other; and this habit has been so unvaried, as to have become natural." this is the common cant of every weak man at loss for a reason. now, it is not by any "habitual association" with "our limbs and organs serving us in pairs," that we are "taught to consider this uniformity indispensable to beauty," but because, independent of all association, we could not conveniently walk upon one leg, or, indeed, on any unequal number of legs: and there being two sides in the moving organs, there are necessarily two in the sensitive organs, which are mere portions of the same general system. thus it is locomotion to be performed that renders "a strict parity, or relative equality, in the correspondent limbs and features of a man or a horse" absolutely essential to beauty; and it is the absence of locomotion which renders it utterly worthless, and therefore very rare, in "the roots and branches of a tree." in animals, proportion is not less essential than symmetry. it is indeed the second character of this kind of beauty. as this part of the subject has been perfectly well treated by mr. alison, i need only quote what he has said:-"it is this expression of fitness which is, i apprehend, the source of the beauty of what is strictly and properly called proportion in the parts of the human form. "we expect a different form, and a different conformation of limbs, in a running footman and a waterman, in a wrestler and a racing groom, in a shepherd and a sailor, &c. "they who are conversant in the productions of the fine arts, must have equally observed, that the forms and proportions of features, which the sculptor and the painter have given to their works, are very different, according to the nature of the character they represent, and the emotion they wish to excite. the form or proportions of the features of jove are different from those of hercules; those of apollo, from those of ganymede; those of the fawn, from those of the gladiator. in female beauty, the form and proportions in the features of juno are very different from those of venus; those of minerva, from those of diana; those of niobe, from those of the graces. all, however, are beautiful; because all are adapted with exquisite taste to the characters they wish the countenance to express." in "the hercules and the antinous, the jupiter and the apollo, we find that not only the proportions of the form, but those of every limb, are different; and that the pleasure we feel in these proportions arises from their exquisite fitness for the physical ends which the artists were consulting. "the illustration, however, may be made still more precise; for, even in the same countenance, and in the same hour, the same form of feature may be beautiful or otherwise." section iv. elements of beauty as employed in objects of art. i divide the arts into the useful, the ornamental, and the intellectual, commonly called the fine arts; and i shall endeavor to show, that the objects of each of these are characterized by a peculiar kind of beauty, corresponding to one of those already described. i shall endeavor to show that the objects of the useful arts are characterized by the simple geometrical forms which belong to inanimate beings; that those of the ornamental arts are characterized by the delicate, bending, varied, and contrasted forms of living beings; and that those of the intellectual arts are, in their highest efforts, characterized chiefly by thinking forms, as in gesture, sculpture, painting, or by functions of mind actually exercised, in oratory, poetry, music. in all these arts, purpose is implied--not purpose in the hypothetical sense, as applied to the existence, conditions, and objects, of natural beings--but in the common intelligible sense of the word, as expressing the intention of men in the pursuit of these arts. _beauty of useful objects._ here the purpose being utility, this kind of beauty arises from the perception of means as adapted to an end, which of course implies, the parts of anything being fitted to answer the purpose of the whole. this implies an act of understanding and judgment; for of no product of useful art can we perceive the extrinsic beauty, until we know its destination, and the relations which that involves. when these are known, so powerful is the sense of utility, that, though deviation from the elementary beauty never ceases to be felt, yet that sense sanctions it to a great extent. hence it is that an irregular dwelling-house may become beautiful, when its convenience is striking. hence it is that, in the forms of furniture, machines, and instruments, their beauty arises chiefly from this consideration; and that every form becomes beautiful by association, where it is perfectly adapted to its end. the greater, however, the elementary beauty, that can be introduced in useful objects, the more obvious will their utility be, and the more beautiful will they universally appear. this will be granted the moment i mention simplicity. of all the elements of beauty already spoken of--of all the means of producing accordant and agreeable relations--simplicity appears to be the most efficient; and in all the useful arts, no elementary consideration recommends their objects so much. this implies all the rest, regularity, uniformity, proportion, order, &c., as far as is compatible with purpose. thus, in regard to uniformity, says some one, a number of things destined for the same purpose, as chairs, spoons, &c., cannot be too uniform, because they are adapted to uniform purposes; but it would be absurd to give to objects destined for one purpose the form suited to those destined for another. so also the objects of useful art will resemble in form precisely as they resemble in purpose; and where the purpose is similar, and the deviation which is admissible is slight, this becomes a subject of great nicety, and, if ornament be at the same time admissible, a subject of exquisite taste. it was by the transcendent exercise of these qualities, that the greeks succeeded in fixing the orders of architecture. the most beautiful columns would have shocked the sight, if their mass had not corresponded to that of the edifice which they sustained; and the difference which existed in this respect, required a difference of ornament. home indeed observes, that "writers on architecture insist much upon the proportions of a column, and assign different proportions to the doric, ionic, and corinthian; but no architect will maintain, that the most accurate proportions contribute more to use, than several that are less accurate and less agreeable." that such a man should have committed such an error is surprising. it seems evident that the different proportion in the columns of these orders is admirably suited to the different quantity of matter in their entablatures. a greater superincumbent mass, required shorter and thicker columns; a less superincumbent mass, longer and slender ones. many experiments, much observation, were requisite to determine this; but the greeks had the means of making them, and solved every problem on the subject; and the result of the perfection they attained is, that all err who depart from the truth they have determined. it was, again, the differing quantities of matter in the entablatures, and the accurately-corresponding dimensions of the columns that determined, of course amid infinite experiment and observation, the nature of their ornaments. hence, the doric is distinguished by simplicity; the ionic by elegance; and the corinthian by lightness, in ornament as well as in proportion. even, therefore, if we were to destroy all the associations of elegance, of magnificence, of costliness, and, still more than all, of antiquity, which are so strongly connected with such forms, the pleasure which their proportions would afford, would remain, as in all cases where means are best adapted to their end. in his objections to proportion as an element of beauty, burke only confounds this kind of beauty with that which i have next to describe. "the effects of proportion and fitness," he says, "at least so far as they proceed from a mere consideration of the work itself, produce approbation, the acquiescence of the understanding, but not love, nor any passion of that species. when we examine the structure of a watch, when we come to know thoroughly the use of every part of it, satisfied as we are with the fitness of the whole, we are far enough from perceiving anything like beauty in the watchwork itself; but let us look on the case, the labor of some curious artist in engraving, with little or no idea of use, we shall have a much livelier idea of beauty than we ever could have had from the watch itself, though the masterpiece of graham." it is an emotion of pleasure which is the inevitable result of the perception of beauty, not love, nor any passion of the kind. these will or will not follow, according to the nature of the object, and of the mind of the observer. a hill, a valley, or a rivulet, may be beautiful, and it will excite an emotion of pleasure when its beauty is discerned; but it may produce no desire or passion of love. there may exist, then, the beauty of utility, as to the structure of the watch, and that of ornament as to its case; and some minds will more readily perceive the one; others, the other. when burke adds, "in beauty, the effect is previous to any knowledge of the use; but to judge of proportion, we must know the end for which any work is designed;" he forgets, that, in the instance of the barber's block, &c., he showed that the perception of beauty, as well as proportion, required observation, experience, and reflection. _beauty of ornamental objects._ there are three great arts which, under circumstances of high civilization, become ornamental, namely, landscape-gardening, architecture, and dress--the particular arts by which our persons are more or less closely invested;[14] and all of them, then, require beauty of the second kind, that which belongs particularly to vegetable beings, and is characterized by delicate, bending varied, and contrasted forms. all these, regarded as ornamental arts, have chiefly bodily and sensual pleasures for their purpose; and this i consider as distinguishing them from the intellectual arts, which have a higher purpose. of landscape-gardening, the materials are plants, and therefore its beauty is evidently dependant on, or rather composed of, theirs. the same kind of beauty will be found in every ornamental art. hence, alison says: "the greater part of beautiful forms in nature, are to be found in the vegetable kingdom, in the forms of flowers, of foliage, of shrubs, and in those assumed by the young shoots of trees. it is from them, accordingly, that almost all those forms have been imitated, which have been employed by artists for the purposes of ornament and elegance." on this kind of beauty, mistaking it for the only one, hogarth founded his peculiar doctrine. "he adopts two lines, on which, according to him, the beauty of figure principally depends. one is the waving line, or a curve bending gently in opposite directions. this he calls the line of beauty; and he shows how often it is found in flowers, shells, and various works of nature; while it is common also in the figures designed by painters and sculptors, for the purpose of decoration. the other line, which he calls the line of grace, is the former waving line, twisted round some solid body. twisted pillars and twisted horns exhibit it. in all the instances which he mentions, variety plainly appears to be so important an element of this kind of beauty, that he states a portion of the truth, when he defines the art of drawing pleasing forms to be the art of varying well; for the curve line, so much the favorite of painters, derives much of its beauty from its perpetual bending and variation from the stiff regularity of the straight line." it is evident, however, that in this, he mistakes one kind of beauty for all. of architecture, considered as a fine art, much of the beauty depends on the imitation of vegetable forms. employing materials which require the best characteristics of the first kind of beauty, it, in its choicest and ornamented parts, imitates both the rigid trunks, and the delicate and bending forms of plants. its columns, tapering upward, are copied from the trunks of trees; and their decorations are suited with consummate art to their dimensions, and the weight they support. the simple doric has little ornament; the elegant ionic has more; the light corinthian has most. on the subject of these finely-calculated ornaments, some observations have struck me, which i have not seen mentioned elsewhere. the doric presents only columns, without any other ornament than that of which their mere form admits. the ionic expresses increased lightness, by the interposition of its volute, as if the superincumbent weight had but gently pressed a soft solid into a scroll. the corinthian expresses the utmost lightness, by forming its capitals of foliage, as if the weight above them could not crush even a leaf. the composite expresses gayety, by adding flowers to the foliage. it is from imperfect views of this, that the meaning and effect of caryatides have been mistaken: instead of being oppressed by weight, they seem, when well employed, to have no weight to support. in nearly all internal architectural decorations, it is the delicate, bending, varied, and contrasted vegetable forms which are imitated. "there is scarce a room, in any house whatever," says hogarth, "where one does not see the waving line employed in some way or other. how inelegant would the shapes of all our moveables be without it? how very plain and unornamental the mouldings of cornices and chimney-pieces, without the variety introduced by the ogee member, which is entirely composed of waving lines." the distinctions i have here made, are farther illustrated by the remarks of alison, who says: "these ornaments being executed in a very hard and durable substance, are in fact only beautiful when they appear but as minute parts of the whole. the great constituent parts of every building require direct and angular lines, because in such parts we require the expression of stability and strength. it is only in the minute and delicate parts of the work, that any kind of ornament is attempted with propriety; and whenever ornaments exceed in size, in their quantity of matter, or in the prominence of their relief, that proportion which, in point of lightness or delicacy, we expect them to hold with respect to the whole of the building, the imitation of the most beautiful vegetable forms does not preserve them from the censure of clumsiness and deformity." in dress, considered as an ornamental art, and, as practised by the sex which chiefly studies it, the chief beauty depends on the adoption of winding forms in drapery, and of wreaths of flowers for the head, &c. these are essential to the variety and contrast, as well as to the gayety which that sex desires. "uniformity," says hogarth, "is chiefly complied with in dress, on account of fitness, and seems to be extended not much farther than dressing both arms alike, and having the shoes of the same color. for when any part of dress has not the excuse of fitness or propriety for its uniformity of parts, the ladies always call it formal." these irregular, varying, and somewhat complicated draperies excite that active curiosity, and those movements of imagination, to which skilful women never neglect to address themselves in modern costume. it is with the same feeling and intention, whether these be defined or not, that, in the head-dress, they seek for bending lines and circumvolutions, and that they combine variously the waves and the tresses of the hair. for the same reason, a feather or a flower is never placed precisely over the middle of the forehead; and if two are employed, great care is taken that their positions are dissimilar. it has sometimes struck me as remarkable, that precious stones are almost always arranged differently from flowers. while the latter are placed irregularly, and in waving lines, not only on the head, but the bosom, and the skirt of the dress, the former are in general regularly placed, either on the median line of the person, as the middle of the forehead and, in eastern countries, of the nose, or symmetrically in similar pendants from each ear, and bracelets on the arms and wrists. the instinctive feeling which gives origin to this is, that flowers adorn the system of life and reproduction, and by their color and smell, associate with its emotions, which they also express and communicate to others--they, therefore, assume the varied forms of that system; whereas, diamonds, attached generally to mental organs, or organs of sense, are significant of mental feelings, love of splendor, distinction, pride, &c.--they, therefore, assume the symmetrical form of these organs. hence, too, flowers are recommended to the young; diamonds are permitted only to the old. _beauty of intellectual objects._ i have already said, that the intellectual arts are, in their highest efforts, characterized chiefly by animal forms, as in gesture, sculpture, and painting, or by animal functions actually exercised, in oratory, poetry, and music. in the useful arts, the purpose is utility; in the ornamental arts, it is bodily or sensual pleasure; and in the intellectual arts, it is the pleasure of imagination. the first elements of beauty, however, are not forgotten in these arts. as simplicity is conspicuous in the works of nature, so is it a condition of beauty in all the operations of mind. in philosophy, general theorems become beautiful from this simplicity; and polished manners receive from it dignity and grace. the intellectual arts are especially dependant upon it: it has been a striking character of their most illustrious cultivators, and of their very highest efforts. how much the characters and accidents of elementary beauty influence intellectual art, has been well shown by mr. knight. "in the higher class of landscapes," he says, "whether in nature or in art, the mere sensual gratification of the eye is comparatively so small, as scarcely to be attended to: but yet, if there occur a single spot, either in the scene or the picture, offensively harsh and glaring--if the landscape-gardener, in the one, or the picture-cleaner, in the other, have exerted their unhappy talents of polishing, all the magic instantly vanishes, and the imagination avenges the injury offered to the sense. the glaring and unharmonious spot, being the most prominent and obtrusive, irresistibly attracts the attention, so as to interrupt the repose of the whole, and leaves the mind no place to rest upon." "it is, in some respects," he observes, "the same with the sense of hearing. the mere sensual gratification, arising from the melody of an actor's voice, is a very small part, indeed, of the pleasure which we receive from the representation of a fine drama: but, nevertheless, if a single note of the voice be absolutely cracked and out of tune, so as to offend and disgust the ear, it will completely destroy the effect of the most skilful acting, and render all the sublimity and pathos of the finest tragedy ludicrous." this, i may observe, is a concession of much that he elsewhere inconsistently contends for; for sensual beauty could never act thus powerfully, if it possessed not fundamental importance as an element even in the most complex beauty. that the second kind of beauty also enters into the acts or products of intellectual beauty, is sufficiently illustrated by the observation of hogarth, who on this subject observes, that all the common and necessary motions for the business of life are performed by men in straight or plain lines, while all the graceful and ornamental movements are made in waving lines. as alison has given the best view of the history and character of beauty in the intellectual arts, as that indeed constitutes the most valuable portion of his work, i shall conclude this section by a greatly abridged view of these as nearly as possible in his own words. there is no production of taste, which has not many qualities of a very indifferent kind; and our sense of the beauty or sublimity of every object accordingly depends upon the quality or qualities of it which we consider. this, mr. alison might have observed, is in great measure dependant upon our will. we can generally, when we please, confine our consideration of it to the qualities that least excite pleasurable or painful emotion, and that can least interest the imagination. it is in consequence of this, that the exercise of criticism always destroys, for the time, our sensibility to the beauty of every composition, and that habits of this kind generally destroy the sensibility of taste. when, on the other hand, the emotions of sublimity or beauty are produced, it will be found that some affection is uniformly first excited by the presence of the object; and whether the general impression we receive is that of gayety, or tenderness, or melancholy, or solemnity, or terror, &c., we have never any difficulty of determining. but whatever may be the nature of that simple emotion which any object is fitted to excite, if it produce not a train of kindred thought in our minds, we are conscious only of that simple emotion. in many cases, on the contrary, we are conscious of a train of thought being immediately awakened in the imagination, analogous to the character of expression of the original object. "thus, when we feel either the beauty or sublimity of natural scenery--the gay lustre of a morning in spring, or the mild radiance of a summer-evening--the savage majesty of a wintry storm, or the wild magnificence of the tempestuous ocean--we are conscious of a variety of images in our minds, very different from those which the objects themselves present to the eye. trains of pleasing or of solemn thought arise spontaneously within our minds; our hearts swell with emotions, of which the objects before us seem to afford no adequate cause; and we are never so much satiated with delight, as when, in recalling our attention, we are unable (little able, perhaps, and less disposed) to trace either the progress or the connexion of those thoughts, which have passed with so much rapidity through our imagination. "the effect of the different arts of taste is similar. the landscapes of claude lorraine, the poetry of milton, the music of the greatest masters, excite feeble emotions in our minds when our attention is confined to the qualities they present to our senses, or when it is to such qualities of their composition that we turn our regard. it is then only we feel the sublimity or beauty of their productions, when our imaginations are kindled by their power, when we lose ourselves amid the number of images that pass before our minds, and when we waken at last from this play of fancy, as from the charm of a romantic dream. "the degree in which the emotions of sublimity or beauty are felt, is in general proportioned to the prevalence of those relations of thought in the mind, upon which this exercise of imagination depends. the principal relation which seems to take place in those trains of thought that are produced by objects of taste, is that of resemblance; the relation, of all others the most loose and general, and which affords the greatest range of thought for our imagination to pursue. wherever, accordingly, these emotions are felt, it will be found, not only that this is the relation which principally prevails among our ideas, but that the emotion itself is proportioned to the degree in which it prevails. "what, for instance, is the impression we feel from the scenery of spring? the soft and gentle green with which the earth is spread, the feeble texture of the plants and flowers, the young of animals just entering into life, and the remains of winter yet lingering among the woods and hills--all conspire to infuse into our minds somewhat of that fearful tenderness with which infancy is usually beheld. with such a sentiment, how innumerable are the ideas which present themselves to our imagination! ideas, it is apparent, by no means confined to the scene before our eyes, or to the possible desolation which may yet await its infant beauty, but which almost involuntarily extend themselves to analogies with the life of man, and bring before us all those images of hope or fear, which, according to our peculiar situations, have the dominion of our heart!--the beauty of autumn is accompanied with a similar exercise of thought. "whatever increases this exercise or employment of imagination, increases also the emotion of beauty or sublimity. "this is very obviously the effect of all associations. there is no man who has not some interesting associations with particular scenes, or airs, or books, and who does not feel their beauty or sublimity enhanced to him by such connexions. the view of the house where one was born, of the school where one was educated, and where the gay years of infancy were passed, is indifferent to no man. "in the case of those trains of thought, which are suggested by objects either of sublimity or beauty, it will be found, that they are in all cases composed of ideas capable of exciting some affection or emotion; and that not only the whole succession is accompanied with that peculiar emotion which we call the emotion of beauty or sublimity, but that every individual idea of such a succession is in itself productive of some simple emotion or other. "thus the ideas suggested by the scenery of spring, are ideas productive of emotions of cheer fulness, of gladness, and of tenderness. the images suggested by the prospect of ruins, are images belonging to pity, to melancholy, and to admiration. the ideas, in the same manner, awakened by the view of the ocean in a storm, are ideas of power, of majesty, and of terror." to prevent circumlocution, such ideas may be termed ideas of emotion; and the effect which is produced upon the mind, by objects of taste, may be considered as consisting in the production of a regular or consistent train of ideas of emotion. "in those trains which are suggested by objects of sublimity or beauty, however slight the connexion between individual thoughts may be, it will be found, that there is always some general principle of connexion which pervades the whole, and gives them some certain definite character. they are either gay, or pathetic, or melancholy, or solemn, or awful, or elevating, &c., according to the nature of the emotion which is first excited. thus the prospect of a serene evening in summer, produces first an emotion of peacefulness and tranquillity, and then suggests a variety of images corresponding to this primary impression. the sight of a torrent, or of a storm, in the same manner, impresses us first with sentiments of awe or solemnity, or terror, and then awakens in our minds a series of conceptions allied to this peculiar emotion." the intellectual, or fine arts are those whose objects are thus addressed to the imagination; and the pleasures they afford are described, by way of distinction, as the pleasures of the imagination. summary of this chapter. thus, by analysis, generalization, and systematization, of the materials which the best writers present, i have, in this chapter, endeavored to take new and larger views; and, by an examination of the elements of beauty, i have endeavored to fix its doctrines upon an immoveable basis. i have shown that there exist elements of beauty equally invariable in themselves, and in the kind of effect they produce upon the mind; that these elements are modified, varied, and complicated, as we advance from the most simple to the most complex class of natural beings, or of the arts which relate to these respectively; that the elements of beauty in inanimate beings, consist in the simplicity, regularity, uniformity, proportion, order, &c., of those geometrical forms which are so intimately connected with mere existence; that the elements of beauty in living beings, consist in adding to the preceding the delicacy, bending, variety, contrast, &c., which are connected with growth, and reproduction; that the elements of beauty in thinking beings, consist in adding to the preceding the symmetry, proportion,[15] &c., which are connected with fitness for sense, thought, and motion; that the elements of beauty in the objects of useful art, consist in the same simplicity, regularity, uniformity, proportion, order, of geometrical forms which belong to inanimate beings; that the elements of beauty in the objects of ornamental art consist in the same delicacy, bending, variety, contrast, which belong to living beings; and that the elements of beauty in the objects of intellectual art consist in thinking forms, in gesture, sculpture, and painting, or in functions of mind actually exercised, in oratory, poetry, and music. the elements of beauty have hitherto been confounded by many writers, as more or less applicable to objects of all kinds; and as this general and confused application was easily disproved as to many objects, uncertainty and doubt have been thrown over the whole. the remaining writers have consequently been led to adopt, as characters of beauty, only one or two of these elements, which were consequently capable of application only to one or two classes of its objects. hence, no subject of human inquiry has hitherto been left in a more disgraceful condition than this, the very foundation of taste. i do not hesitate to state that, owing to the near approximations to truth, and the insensible transitions into error, which i have found in every writer, and the immense mass of confused materials which they present, this subject has cost me more trouble than any one i have ever investigated, except that of my work on the mind;[16] nor without some physiological knowledge, do i think tasks of this kind at all practicable. generally speaking, each branch of knowledge is most surely advanced by acquaintance with its related branches; and philosophers cannot too much bear in mind the words of cicero: "etenim omnes artes quã¦ ad humanitatem pertinent, habent quoddam commune vinculum, et quasi cognatione quadam inter se continentur." appendix to the preceding chapters. section i. nature of the picturesque.[17] in landscape, the nature of the beautiful and the sublime seems to be better understood than that of the picturesque. there are few disputes as to the former; many as to the latter. these disputes, moreover, are not as to _what is picturesque_, but as to _what picturesque is_. payne knight asserts, that the picturesque has no distinctive character, and merely designates what a painter would imitate. price, on the contrary, has given so many admirable illustrations of it, that its characteristics are before every reader. strange to tell, its nature or essence has not been penetrated, because these characteristics have not been rigidly analyzed. price has, indeed, generalized considerably on this subject, by showing that irregularity, roughness, &c., enter into all scenes of a picturesque description; and the examination of any one of them will certainly verify the truth of his observation. thus, on a remote country-road, we often observe the deep ruts on its surface which in winter would render it impassable--the huge and loose moss-grown stone, ready to encumber it by falling from the bank--the stunted pollard by its side, whose roots are exposed by the earth falling away from it, and which must itself be swept away by the first wind that may blow against it in an unfavorable direction--the almost ruined cottage, above and beyond these, whose gable is propped up by an old and broken wheel, and whose thatched roof, stained with every hue of moss or lichen, has, at one part, long fallen in--the shaggy and ragged horse that browses among the rank weeds around it--and the old man, bent with age, who leans over the broken gate in front of it. here, in every circumstance, is verified the irregularity and roughness which price ascribes to the picturesque. but he has failed to observe, that _the irregularity and roughness are but the signs of that which interests the mind far more deeply_, namely, the universal decay which causes them. this is the essence of the picturesque--the charm in it which begets our sympathy. confining his remark merely to ruins, the author of "observations on gardening," says: "at the sight of a ruin, reflections on the change, the decay, and the desolation, before us naturally occur; and they introduce a long succession of others, all tinctured with that melancholy which these have inspired; or if the monument revive the memory of former times, we do not stop at the simple fact which it records, but recollect many more coeval circumstances which we see, nor perhaps as they were, but as they are come down to us, venerable with age, and magnified by fame."--what is here said of ruins, and is indeed as to them sufficiently striking, is true of the picturesque universally, and it is only surprising that, amid such disputes, this simple and obvious truth should not have been observed. in landscape, therefore, the picturesque stands in the same relation to the beautiful and sublime, that the pathetic does to them in poetry. hence, speaking also of ruins only, alison says: "the images suggested by the prospect of ruins, are images belonging to pity, to melancholy, and to admiration." a thousand illustrations might be given in support of this truth and the principle which it affords; but i think it better to leave these to the suggestion or the choice of every reader. section ii. cause of laughter. this has been partly explained by beattie, partly by hobbes; and it is chiefly to vindicate the latter, who knew much more of the human mind than the people who have attacked him, that i write the pages immediately following. speaking of the quality in things, which makes them provoke the pleasing emotion or sentiment of which laughter is the external sign, beattie says: "it is an uncommon mixture of relation and contrariety, exhibited, or supposed to be united, in the same assemblage." and elsewhere he says: "laughter arises from the view of two or more inconsistent, unsuitable, or incongruous parts or circumstances, considered as united in one complex object or assemblage, or as acquiring a sort of mutual relation from the peculiar manner in which the mind takes notice of them." "the latter may arise from contiguity, from the relation of cause and effect, from unexpected likeness, from dignity and meanness, from absurdity, &c. "thus, at first view, the dawn of the morning and a boiled lobster seem utterly incongruous, but when a change of color from black to red is suggested, we recognise a likeness, and consequently a relation, or ground of comparison. "and here let it be observed, that the greater the number of incongruities that are blended in the same assemblage, the more ludicrous it will probably be. if, as in the last example, there be an opposition of dignity and meanness, as well as of likeness and dissimilitude, the effect of the contrast will be more powerful, than if only one of these oppositions had appeared in the ludicrous idea." the first part of the subject seems, indeed, so clear as to admit of no objection. hobbes, viewing more particularly the act of the mind, defines laughter to be a "sudden glory, arising from a sudden conception of some eminency in ourselves, by comparison with the infirmity of others, or with our own formerly." and elsewhere he says: "men laugh at jests, the wit whereof always consisteth in the elegant discovering and conveying to our minds, some absurdity of another."[18] dr. campbell objects that "contempt may be raised in a very high degree, both suddenly and unexpectedly, without producing the least tendency to laugh." but if there exist that incongruity in the same assemblage described as the fundamental cause of this sudden conception of our own superiority, laughter, as beattie has shown, "will always, or for the most part, excite the risible emotion, unless when the perception of it is attended with some other emotion of greater authority," dependant on custom, politeness, &c. dr. campbell also observes, that "laughter may be, and is daily, produced by the perception of incongruous associations, when there is no contempt. "we often smile at a witty performance or passage, such as butler's allusion to a boiled lobster, in his picture of the morning, when we are so far from conceiving any inferiority or turpitude in the author, that we greatly admire his genius, and wish ourselves possessed of that very turn of fancy which produced the drollery in question. "many have laughed at the queerness of the comparison in these lines, 'for rhyme the rudder is of verses, with which like ships they steer their courses,' who never dreamed that there was any person or party, practice or opinion, derided in them. "if any admirer of the hobbesian philosophy should pretend to discover some class of men whom the poet here meant to ridicule, he ought to consider, that if any one hath been tickled with the passage to whom the same thought never occurred, that single instance would be sufficient to subvert the doctrine, as it would show that there may be laughter where there is no triumph or glorying over anybody, and, consequently, no conceit of one's own superiority. now, the class of men laughed at in both cases is the same, namely, poets, whose lofty allusions are ridiculed by the former, and silly rhymes by the latter; nor can any one duly appreciate or be pleased with either, to whom this intention of the writer is not obvious. who ever dreamed of "turpitude in the author," as dr. campbell supposes! "as to the wag," says beattie, "who amuses himself on the first of april with telling lies, he must be shallow, indeed, if he hope, by so doing, to acquire any superiority over another man whom he knows to be wiser and better than himself; for, on these occasions, the greatness of the joke, and the loudness of the laugh, are, if i rightly remember, in exact proportion to the sagacity of the person imposed on."--no doubt; but it is because he is thrown into an apparent and whimsical, though momentary inferiority; and the greater his sagacity, the more amusing does this appear. "do we not," says he, "sometimes laugh at fortuitous combinations, in which, as no mental energy is concerned in producing them, there cannot be either fault or turpitude? could not one imagine a set of people jumbled together by accident, so as to present a laughable group to those who know their characters?"--undoubtedly; but then the slouch of one, and the rigidity of the other, &c., make both contemptible, as to physical characteristics at least, and there is no need of turpitude in either. the strongest apparent objection, however, is that of dr. campbell, who says: "indeed, men's telling their own blunders, even blunders recently committed, and laughing at them, a thing not uncommon in very risible dispositions, is utterly inexplicable upon hobbes's system. for, to consider the thing only with regard to the laugher himself, there is to him no subject of glorying, that is not counterbalanced by an equal subject of humiliation (he being both the person laughing, and the person laughed at), and these two subjects must destroy one another." but he overlooks the precise terms employed by hobbes, who says: "the passion of laughter is nothing else but sudden glory, arising from a sudden conception of some eminency in ourselves, by comparison with the infirmity of others, or with _our own formerly_. for men laugh at _the follies of themselves past_, when they come suddenly to remembrance, _except they bring with them any present dishonor_." it is not therefore true, as dr. campbell says, that "with regard to others, he appears solely under the notion of inferiority, as the person triumphed over." he, on the contrary, appears as achieving a very glorious triumph, that, namely, over his own errors. this shows also the error of addison's remarks, that "according to this account, when we hear a man laugh excessively, instead of saying that he is very merry, we ought to tell him that he is very proud."--a man may contemn the errors both of himself and others, without pride: and, indeed, in contemning the former, he proves himself to be far above that sentiment, and verifies dr. campbell's remark that no two characters more rarely meet in the same person, than that of a very risible man, and a very self-conceited supercilious man. it is curious to see a great man, like hobbes, thus attacked by less ones, who do not even understand him. section iii. cause of the pleasure received from representations exciting pity. many hypotheses have been proposed to explain this cause. according to the abbã© du bos,[19] in order to get rid of listlessness, the mind seeks for emotions; and the stronger these are the better. hence, the passions which in themselves are the most distressing, are, for this purpose, preferable to the pleasant, because they most effectually relieve the mind from the less endurable languor which preys upon it during inaction. the sophistry of this explanation is evident. pleasant passions, as dr. campbell has shown, ought in every respect to have the advantage, because, while they preserve the mind from this state of inaction, they convey a feeling which is agreeable. nor is it true that the stronger the emotion is, so much the fitter for this purpose; for if we exceed a certain measure, instead of a sympathetic and delightful sorrow, we excite only horror and aversion. the most, therefore, that can be concluded from the abbã©'s premises, is, that it is useful to excite passion of some kind or other, but not that the distressing ones are the fittest. according to fontenelle,[20] theatrical representation has almost the effect of reality: but yet not altogether. we have still a certain idea of falsehood in the whole of what we see. we weep for the misfortunes of a hero to whom we are attached. in the same instant, we comfort ourselves by reflecting, that it is nothing but a fiction. the short answer to this is, that we are conscious of no such alternation as that here described. according to david hume, whose hypothesis is a kind of supplement to the former two, that which "when the sorrow is not softened by fiction, raises a pleasure from the bosom of uneasiness, a pleasure which still retains all the features and outward symptoms of distress and sorrow, is that very eloquence with which the melancholy scene is represented." in reply, dr. campbell has shown that the aggravating of all the circumstances of misery in the representation, cannot make it be contemplated with pleasure, but must be the most effectual method for making it give greater pain; that the detection of the speaker's talents and address, which hume's hypothesis implies, is in direct opposition to the fundamental maxim, that "it is essential to the art to conceal the art;" and that the supposition that there are two distinct effects produced by the eloquence on the hearers, one the sentiment of beauty, or of the harmony of oratorical numbers, the other the passion which the speaker purposes to raise in their minds, and that when the first predominates, the mixture of the two effects becomes exceedingly pleasant, and the reverse when the second is superior, is altogether imaginary. according to hawkesworth,[21] the compassion in question may be "resolved into that power of imagination, by which we apply the misfortunes of others to ourselves;" and we are said "to pity no longer than we fancy ourselves to suffer, and to be pleased only by reflecting that our sufferings are not real; thus indulging a dream of distress, from which we can awake whenever we please, to exult in our security, and enjoy the comparison of the fiction with the truth." this hypothesis is evidently too gross to need reply. dr. campbell has answered the preceding hypotheses at great length, and quite satisfactorily. i regret to say that his own is as worthless, as well as remarkably confused and unintelligible. to burke, who wrote at a later period, it falls to my lot to reply at greater length. "to examine this point concerning the effect of tragedy in a proper manner," says that writer, "we must previously consider how we are affected by the feelings of our fellow-creatures in circumstances of real distress. i am convinced we have a degree of delight, and that no small one, in the real misfortunes and pains of others; for, let the affection be what it will in appearance, if it does not make us shun such objects, if on the contrary it induces us to approach them, if it makes us dwell upon them, in this case i conceive we must have a delight or pleasure of some species or other in contemplating objects of this kind.... our delight in cases of this kind is very greatly heightened, if the sufferer be some excellent person who sinks under an unworthy fortune.... the delight we have in such things hinders us from shunning scenes of misery; and the pains we feel, prompt us to relieve ourselves, in relieving those who suffer.... in imitated distress, the only difference is the pleasure resulting from the effects of imitation." a more monstrous doctrine than this was never perhaps enunciated. a very little analysis will expose its fallacy. in relation to events of this kind, there are three very distinct cases--real occurrence, subsequent inspection or historical narration, and dramatic representation; in each, the affection of the mind is very different; and nearly all the errors on this subject seem to have occurred from confounding them. burke has done this in the greatest degree. the real occurrence of unmerited suffering is beheld with no delight, but with unmixed pain, by every well-constituted mind. hume,[22] therefore, justly observes, that "the same object of distress, which pleases in a tragedy, were it really set before us, would give the most unfeigned uneasiness." it is only by confounding this with the next case, of subsequent inspection or historical narration, that burke gets into error here. "we do not," says burke, "sufficiently distinguish what we would by no means choose to do [or _to see done_--he should have added] from what we should be eager enough to see if it was once done. we delight in seeing things [_after they are done_--he should have added], which, so far from doing, our heartiest wishes would be to see redressed." that the additions i have made, more truly state the case, seems as evident, as it is, that they afford a very different conclusion from burke's, of our beholding unmerited suffering with delight. but he himself proves this by the very instance which he gives in illustration of his doctrine. "this noble capital," he says, "the pride of england and of europe, i believe _no man is so strangely wicked as to desire to see destroyed_ by a conflagration or an earthquake, though he should be removed himself to the greatest distance from the danger. but _suppose such a fatal accident to have happened_, what numbers from all parts would crowd to behold the ruins, and among them many who would have been content never to have seen london in its glory!" here the words which i have put in italics clearly show that i was right in the additions i suggested in his previous statement, and that he there confounded delight in seeing the infliction of unmerited suffering, with delight in seeing it after infliction, or of seeing it historically narrated; for, in this his illustration, it is the latter, and not the former, that he supposes--nay he now says "no man is so strangely wicked as to desire to see destroyed!" &c. indeed, it is quite plain that, supposing an attempt made to destroy london, so far would every one be from being delighted to see it done, that he would eagerly prevent it. there is here, therefore, on the part of this writer, only his common and characteristic confusion of ideas. "choose a day," he says, "on which to represent the most sublime and affecting tragedy we have; appoint the most favorite actors; spare no cost upon the scenes and decorations; unite the greatest efforts of poetry, painting, and music; and when you have collected your audience, just at the moment when their minds are erect with expectation, let it be reported that a state-criminal, of high rank, is on the point of being executed in the adjoining square; in a moment the emptiness of the theatre would demonstrate the comparative weakness of the imitative arts, and proclaim the triumph of the real sympathy." this presents only another instance of want of discrimination. if the "state-criminal, of high rank," were not a real criminal--if he were an unmerited sufferer, the place of execution, supposing his rescue impossible, would assuredly be fled from by every person of feeling and honor; as we read of in the public papers, lately, when a murder of that kind was perpetrating by some one of the base little jailor-princes of germany. and we know that, in the case of legal perpetrations of that kind in england, even upon real criminals, none but the most degraded wretches go to witness such scenes. in tragic representation, then, we know that the suffering is not real, else should we fly. there have, indeed, in such cases, been instances of a sort of momentary deception, but it is only children, and very simple people, utter strangers to theatrical amusements, who are apt to be so deceived; and as their case always excites the surprise and laughter of every one, it clearly proves that others are under no sort of deception. even burke, notwithstanding his want of discrimination, and his monstrous hypothesis, says: "imitated distress is never so perfect, but we can perceive it is imitation, and on that principle are somewhat pleased with it." and his case of desertion of the theatre, if it occur under any circumstances, illustrates this. burke adds, indeed: "but then i imagine we shall be much _mistaken_ if we attribute any considerable part of our satisfaction in tragedy to the consideration that tragedy is _a deceit_, and its representations _no realities_. [we seek no satisfaction of the kind: we know it to be a deceit throughout!] the nearer it approaches the reality, and the farther it removes us from all idea of fiction, the more perfect is its power." the nearest possible _approach_ to reality, is only necessary to the success of fiction, to the pleasure of imagination. he himself has said: "imitated distress is never so perfect, but we can perceive it is imitation!" again, therefore, here is only burke's characteristic confusion of ideas. my own doctrine on this subject is already obvious from the remarks made on others. _we never cease to know that tragic representation is a mere deception; our reason is never imposed upon; our imagination is alone engaged; we are perfectly conscious that it is so; and we have all the sensibility, fine feeling, and generosity of pity, as well as the satisfaction of being thereby raised wonderfully in our own esteem, at the small cost of three shillings!_ it is not a little curious, that this should not have been evident to those who have written so much about it. dr. campbell, alone, has approached it. "so great," he says, "is the anomaly which sometimes displays itself in human characters, that it is not impossible to find persons who are quickly made to cry at seeing a tragedy, or reading a romance, which they know to be fictions, and yet are both inattentive and unfeeling in respect of the actual objects of compassion who live in their neighborhood, and are daily under their eye.... men may be of a selfish, contracted, and even avaricious disposition, who are not what we should denominate hard-hearted, or unsusceptible of sympathetic feeling. such will gladly enjoy the luxury of pity (as hawkesworth terms it) when it nowise interferes with their more powerful passions; that is, when it comes unaccompanied with a demand upon their pockets."--this should have led him to the simple truth, and should have prevented his framing the most confused, unintelligible, and worthless hypothesis upon this subject. chapter vii. anatomical and physiological principles. to any inquiry respecting the beauty of woman, the replies are, in general, various, inconsistent, or contradictory. the assertion might, therefore, appear to be true, that, even under the same climate, beauty is not always the same. our vague perceptions, however, and our vague expressions respecting beauty, will be found to be, in a great measure, owing to the inaccuracy of our mode of examining it, and, in some measure, to the imperfect nomenclature which we possess for describing it. beauty, and even true taste, respecting it, are always the same; but, in the first place, we observe beauty partially and imperfectly; and in the second place, our actual preferences are dependant on our particular wants, and will be found to differ only because these wants differ in every individual, and even in the same individual at different periods of life. the laws regulating beauty in woman, and taste respecting it in man, have not been attempted to be explained, except in the worthless work alluded to in the advertisement. yet nothing perhaps is more universally interesting. as, in this view, the kinds of beauty demand the first and chief attention, the following illustrations are necessary:-we observe a woman possessing one species of beauty:--her face is generally oblong; her neck is rather long and tapering: her shoulders, without being angular, are sufficiently broad and definite; her bosom is of moderate dimensions; her waist, remarkable for fine proportion, resembles in some respects an inverted cone; her haunches are moderately expanded; her thighs, proportional; her arms, as well as her limbs, are rather long and tapering; her hands and feet are moderately small; her complexion is often rather dark; and her hair is frequently abundant, dark, and strong.--the whole figure is precise, striking, and brilliant. yet, has she few or none of the qualities of the succeeding species. we observe, next, another species of beauty:--her face is generally round; her eyes are generally of the softest azure; her neck is often rather short; her shoulders are softly rounded, and owe any breadth they may possess rather to the expanded chest, than to the size of the shoulders themselves; her bosom, in its luxuriance, seems laterally to protrude on the space occupied by the arms; her waist, though sufficiently marked, is, as it were, encroached on by the enbonpoint of all the contiguous parts; her haunches are greatly expanded; her thighs are large in proportion; but her limbs and arms, tapering and becoming delicate, terminate in feet and hands which, compared with the ample trunk, are peculiarly small; her complexion has the rose and lily so exquisitely blended, that we are surprised it should defy the usual operation of the elements; and she boasts a luxuriant profusion of soft and fine flaxen or auburn hair.--the whole figure is soft and voluptuous in the extreme. yet has she not the almost measured proportions and the brilliant air of the preceding species; nor has she the qualities of the succeeding one. we observe, then, a beauty of a third species:--her face is generally oval; her high and pale forehead announces the intellectuality of her character; her intensely expressive eye is full of sensibility; in her lower features, modesty and dignity are often united; she has not the expanded bosom, the general embonpoint, or the beautiful complexion, of the second species; and she boasts easy and graceful motion, rather than the elegant proportion of the first.--the whole figure is characterized by intellectuality and grace. such are the three species of beauty of which all the rest are varieties. now, as it is in general one only of these species which characterizes any one woman, and as each of these species is suited to the wants of, and is consequently agreeable to, a different individual, it is obvious why the common vague reports of the beauty of any woman are always so various, inconsistent, or contradictory. in the more accurate study of this subject, it is indispensable that the reader should understand the scientific principles on which the preceding brief analysis of female beauty, as reducible to three species, is founded. to attain this knowledge, and to acquire facility in the art of distinguishing and judging of beauty in woman, a little general knowledge of anatomy is absolutely essential. the writer begs, therefore, attention to the following sketch. it may not at first seem interesting to the general reader; but it is the sole basis of a scientific knowledge of female beauty; the study of it during one hour is sufficient to apprehend it in all its bearings; and it will obviate every future difficulty. in viewing the human organs in a general manner, a class of these organs at once obtrudes itself upon our notice, from its consisting of an apparatus of levers, from its performing motion from place to place or locomotion, and from these motions being of the most obvious kind.--a little more observation presents to us another class, which is distinguished from the preceding by its consisting of cylindrical tubes, by its transmitting and transmuting liquids, performing vascular action or nutrition, and by its motions being barely apparent.--farther investigation discovers a third, which differs essentially from both these, in its consisting of nervous particles, in its transmitting impressions from external objects, performing nervous action or thought, and in that action being altogether invisible. thus, each of these classes of organs is distinguished from another by the structure of its parts, by the purposes which it serves, and by the greater or less obviousness of its motions. the first consists of levers; the second, of cylindrical tubes; and the third, of nervous particles. the first performs motion from place to place or locomotion; the second transmits and transmutes liquids, performing vascular action or nutrition; and the third transmits impressions from external objects, performing nervous action or thought. the motion of the first is extremely obvious; that of the second is barely apparent; and that of the third is altogether invisible. not one of them can be confounded with another: for, considering their purposes only, it is evident that that which performs locomotion, neither transmits liquids nor sensations; that which transmits liquids, neither performs locomotion nor is the means of sensibility; and that which is the means of sensibility, neither performs locomotion nor transmits liquids. now, the organs employed in locomotion are the bones, ligaments, and muscles; those employed in transmitting liquids or in nutrition, are the absorbent, circulating, and secreting vessels; and those employed about sensations or in thought, are the organs of sense, cerebrum, and cerebel, with the nerves which connect them. the first class of organs may, therefore, be termed locomotive, or (from their very obvious action) mechanical; the second, vascular or nutritive, or (as even vegetables, from their possessing vessels, have life) they may be termed vital; and the third may be named nervous or thinking, or (as mind results from them) mental. the human body, then, consists of organs of three kinds. by the first kind, locomotive or mechanical action is effected; by the second, nutritive or vital action is maintained; and by the third, thinking or mental action is permitted. anatomy is, therefore, divided into three parts, namely, that which considers the mechanical or locomotive organs; that which considers the nutritive or vital organs; and that which considers the thinking or mental organs. under the mechanical or locomotive organs are classed, first, the bones or organs of support; second, the ligaments or organs of articulation; and third, the muscles or organs of motion. under the nutritive or vital organs are classed, first, the absorbent vessels or organs of absorption; second, the bloodvessels, which derive their contents from the absorbed lymph, or organs of circulation; and third, the secreting vessels, which separate various matters from the blood, or organs of secretion.[23] under the thinking or mental organs are classed, first, the organs of sense, where impressions take place; second, the cerebrum or organ of thought, properly so called, where these excite ideas, emotions, and passions; and third, the cerebel or organ of volition, where acts of the will result from the last.[24] we may now more particularly notice the functions of these organs, which are the subject of physiology. in the locomotive functions, the bones at once give support, and form levers for motion; the ligaments form articulations, and afford the points of support; and the muscles are the moving powers. to the first, are owing all the symmetry and elegance of human form; to the second, its beautiful flexibility; and to the third, all the brilliance and grace of motion which fancy can inspire, or skill can execute. in the nutritive functions, the food, having passed into the mouth, is, after mastication, aided by mixture with the saliva, thrown back, by the tongue and contiguous parts, into the cavity behind, called fauces and pharynx; this contracting, presses it into the oesophagus or gullet; this also contracting, propels it into the stomach, which, after its due digestion aided by the gastric juice, similarly contracting, transmits whatever portion of it, now called chyme, is sufficiently comminuted to pass through its lower opening, the pylorus, into the intestines; these, at the commencement of which it receives the bile and pancreatic juice, similarly pressing it on all sides, urge forward its most solid part to the anus; while its liquid portion partly escapes from the pressure into the mouths of the absorbents. the absorbents arising by minute openings from all the internal surfaces, and continuing a similar contractile motion, transmit it, now called chyle, by all their gradually-enlarging branches, and through their general trunk, the thoracic duct, where it is blended with the lymph brought from other parts, into the great veins contiguous to the heart, where it is mixed with the venous or returning and dark-colored blood, and whence it flows into the anterior side of that organ. the anterior side of the heart, forcibly repeating this contraction, propels it, commixed with the venous blood, into the lungs, which perform the office of respiration, and in some measure of sanguification; there, giving off carbonaceous matter, and assuming a vermilion hue and new vivifying properties, it flows back as arterial blood, into the posterior side of the heart. the posterior side of the heart, still similarly contracting, discharges it into the arteries; these, maintaining a like contraction, carry it over all the system; and a great portion of it, impregnated with carbon, and of a dark color, returns through the veins in order to undergo the same course. much, however, of its gelatinous and fibrous parts is retained in the cells of the parenchyma, or cellular, vascular, and nervous substance forming the basis of the whole fabric, and constitutes nutrition, properly so called; while other portions of it become entangled in the peculiarly-formed labyrinths of the glands, and form secretion and excretion--the products of the former contributing to the exercise of other functions, and those of the latter being rejected. as digestion precedes the first, so generation follows the last of these functions, and not only continues the same species of action, but propagates it widely to new existences in the manner just described. in the thinking functions, the organs of sense receive external impressions, which excite in them sensations; the cerebrum, having these transmitted to it, performs the more complicated functions of mental operation, whence result ideas, emotions, and passions; and the cerebel, being similarly influenced, performs the function of volition, or causes the acts of the will. it is not unusual to consider the body as being divided into the head, the trunk, and the extremities; but, in consequence of the hitherto universal neglect of the natural arrangement of the organs and functions into locomotive, nutritive, and thinking, the beauty and interest which may be attached to this division, have equally escaped the notice of anatomists. it is a curious fact, and strongly confirmative of the preceding arrangements, that one of these parts, the extremities, consists almost entirely of locomotive organs, namely, of bones, ligaments, and muscles; that another, the trunk, consists of all the greater nutritive organs, namely, absorbents, bloodvessels, and glands; and that the third, the head, contains all the thinking organs, namely, the organs of sense, cerebrum, and cerebel.[25] it is a fact not less curious, nor less confirmative of the preceding arrangements, that, of these parts, those which consist chiefly of locomotive or mechanical organs--organs which, as to mere structure, and considered apart from the influence of the nervous system over them, are common to us with the lowest class of beings, namely, minerals[26]--are placed in the lowest situation, namely, the extremities; that which consists chiefly of nutritive or vital organs--organs common to us with a higher class of beings, namely, vegetables[27]--is placed in a higher situation, namely, the trunk; and that which consists chiefly of thinking or mental organs--organs peculiar to the highest class of beings, namely, animals[28]--is placed in the highest situation, namely, the head. it is not less remarkable, that this analogy is supported even in its minutest details; for, to choose the nutritive organs contained in the trunk as an illustration, it is a fact, that those of absorption and secretion, which are most common to us with plants, a lower class of beings, have a lower situation--in the cavity of the abdomen; while those of circulation, which are very imperfect in plants,[29] and more peculiar to animals, a higher class of beings, hold a higher situation--in the cavity of the thorax. it is, moreover, worthy of remark, and still illustrative of the preceding arrangements, that, in each of these three situations, the bones differ both in, position and in form. in the extremities, they are situated internally to the soft parts, and are generally of cylindrical form; in the trunk, they begin to assume a more external situation and a flatter form, because they protect nutritive and more important parts, which they do not, however, altogether cover; and, in the head, they obtain the most external situation and the flattest form, especially in its highest part, because they protect thinking and most important organs, which, in some parts, they completely invest. the loss of such general views is the consequence of arbitrary methods.[30] we may now apply these anatomical and physiological views to the art of distinguishing and judging of beauty in woman. it is evidently the locomotive or mechanical system which is highly developed in the beauty whose figure is precise, striking, and brilliant. it is evidently the nutritive or vital system which is highly developed in the beauty whose figure is soft and voluptuous. it is not less evidently the thinking or mental system which is highly developed in the beauty whose figure is characterized by intellectuality and grace. thus can anatomical principles alone at once illustrate and establish the accuracy of the three species of beauty which i have analytically described. chapter viii. of the ages of woman in relation to beauty. the variations of the organization of woman do not distinctly mark the seasons of life. many connected phenomena glide on imperceptibly; and we can distinguish the strong characters of different and distinct ages, only at periods remote from each other. although, therefore, woman is perpetually changing, it requires some care to discriminate the principal epochs of her life. the first age of woman extends from birth to the period of puberty. in beginning the career of life, woman is not yet truly woman; the characters of her sex are not yet decided; she is an equivocal being, who does not differ from the male of the same age even by the delicacy of the organs; and we observe between them a perfect identity of wants, functions, and movements. their existence is, then, purely individual; we perceive none of the relations which afterward establish between them a mutual dependance; each lives only for self. this conformity and independence of the sexes are the more remarkable, the earlier the age and the less advanced the development. confining our view to woman alone, it is not only in dimensions that, at this age, her person differs from that in which the growth is terminated: it presents another model. the various parts have not, in relation to each other, the same proportions. the head is much more voluminous; and this is not a result of the extent of the face, for that is small and contracted, because the apparatus of smell and of mastication are not yet developed. nor is the head only more voluminous; it is also more active, and forms a centre toward which is directed all the effort of life. the spine of the back has not either the minuter prominences or the general inflexions which favor the action of the extensor muscles, a circumstance which is opposed to standing perpendicularly during the first months. the infant consequently can only crawl like a quadruped. little distinction can then be drawn, and that with difficulty, from the comparative width of the haunches, and magnitude of the pelvis. that part is scarcely more developed in the female than in the male; its general form is the same; and its different diameters have similar relations to each other. the length of the trunk is great in proportion to the limbs, which are slightly and imperfectly developed. owing to the great length of the chest, and the imperfection of the inferior members, the middle of the body then corresponds to the region of the umbilicus. an infant having other proportions, would appear to be deprived of the characters of its age. in the locomotive system, the muscles have not yet acted with sufficient power and frequency to modify the direction of the bones, and to bestow a peculiar character upon their combination in the skeleton. the fleshy and other soft parts do not yet appear to differ from those of the male, either as to form or as to relative volume. the vital functions of digestion, of circulation and respiration, of nutrition, secretion, and excretion, are performed in the same manner. the want of nourishment is unceasingly renewed, and the movements of the pulse, and of inspiration and expiration, are rapidly performed, owing to the extreme irritability of all the organs. the mental functions present the same resemblance; the ideas, the appetites, the passions, have the greatest analogy; and similar moral dispositions prevail. little girls, it has been observed, have in some measure the petulance of little boys, and these have in some measure the mobility and the inconstancy of little girls. owing to the pelvis not being yet developed, little girls walk nearly like children of the other sex. these points of resemblance do not continue during a long period: the female begins to acquire a distinct physiognomy, and traits which are peculiar to her, long before we can discern any of the symptoms of puberty; and although the especial marks which distinguish her sex do not yet show themselves, the general forms which characterize it may be perceived. these differences, however, are only slight modifications, more easily felt than determined. the cartilaginous extremities of the bones appear to enlarge; and the mucous substance, which ultimately gives the soft reliefs which distinguish woman, is not yet secreted. she is now perhaps more easily distinguished by the nature of her inclinations and the general character of her mind: while man now seeks to make use of his strength, woman endeavors to acquire agreeable arts. the movements, the gait, of the little girl begin to change. these shades are so much the more sensible as the development is more advanced. still, woman, in advancing toward puberty, appears to remove less than man from her primitive constitution; she always preserves something of the character proper to children; and the texture of her organs never loses all its original softness. at the near approach to puberty, woman becomes daily more perfect. we observe a predominance of the action of the lungs and the arteries; the pelvis enlarges; the haunches are rounded; and the figure acquires elegance. there is in particular a remarkable increase of the capacity of the pelvis, of which the circumference at last presents the circular form; it being no longer, as in the little girl and in man, the anteroposterior diameter which is the greatest, but the transverse one. it has been observed that the same occurs in the females of the greater quadrupeds. the pelvis, however, does not acquire, till the moment of perfect puberty, its proper form and dimensions. the changes which the same cause produces at the surface, are a general development of the cellular tissue, the delicacy of all the outlines, the fineness and the animation of the skin, and the new state of the bosom. the fire of the eyes, and the altogether new expression of the physiognomy, show that there now also exists the sensation of a new want, which various circumstances may for a time enfeeble or silence, but can never entirely stifle; and with it come those tastes, that direction of the mind, and those habits, which are the effect of an internal power now called into activity. the gait and bearing of woman are now no longer the same; and the voice changes as well as the physiognomy. in all that has yet occurred, it will be observed that nutrition and growth take place with great rapidity in woman. her internal structure, her external form, her faculties, are all developed promptly. it would appear that the parts which compose her body, being less, less compact, and less strong, than those of man, require less time to attain their complete development. woman consequently arrives earlier at the age of puberty, and her body is commonly, at twenty years of age, as completely formed as that of a man at thirty. thus beauty and grace, as has been observed, seem to demand of nature less labor and time than the attributes of force and grandeur. in many women, however, nutrition languishes even until the sexual organs enter into action, and determine a revolution under the influence of which growth is accomplished. still it is certain that, for several years, the locomotive system predominates in young women, even in figures promising the ultimate development of the vital system in the highest degree. the second age of woman extends from puberty to the cessation of the menses, or, we may say, from the period of full growth, the general time of bearing children, to the time of ceasing to bear--generally perhaps from twenty to forty. it is at the beginning of this period that woman has acquired all her attributes, her most seducing graces. she is not now distinguished merely by the organs which are the direct instruments of reproduction: many other differences of structure, having a relation to her part in life, present themselves to our view. at this maturer age, the whole figure is, in the female, smaller and slenderer than in the male. the ancients accordingly gave seven heads and a half to the venus, and eight heads and some modules to the apollo. the relations between the dimensions of the different parts differ also in the two sexes. in woman, the head, shoulders, and chest, are small and compact, while the haunches, the hips, the thighs, and the parts connected with the abdomen, are ample and large. hence, her body tapers upward, as her limbs taper downward. and this is the most remarkable circumstance in her general form. owing to smaller stature, and to greater size of the abdominal region, the middle point, which is at the pubis in the male, is situated higher in the female. this is the next remarkable circumstance in a general view. the inferior members still continue shorter. in general, woman is not only less in stature, and different in her general proportions, but her haunches are more apart, her hips more elevated, her abdomen larger, her members more rounded, her soft parts less compact, her forms more softened, her traits finer. during youth, especially, and among civilized nations, woman is farther distinguished by the softness, the smoothness, the delicacy, and the polish, of all the forms, by the gradual and easy transitions between all the parts, by the number and the harmony of the undulating lines which these present in every view, by the beautiful outline of the reliefs, and by the fineness and the animation of the skin. the soft parts which enter into the composition of woman, and the cellular tissue which serves to unite them, are also more delicate and more supple than those of man. all these circumstances indicate very clearly the passive state to which nature has destined woman, and which will be fully illustrated in a future volume. if, in a living body, any part liable to be distended had too much firmness, or even elasticity, it might press against some essential organ; and the liquids being impeded in their course, would in that case be speedily altered, if the neighboring parts offered not flexible vessels for their reception. now, in the body of woman, certain parts are exposed to suffer great distentions and compressions. it is therefore necessary that her organs should be of such structure as to yield readily to these impressions, and to supply each other when their respective functions are impeded. from this it follows, that woman never enjoys existence better, than when a moderate plumpness bestows on her organs, without too much weakening them, all the suppleness of which they are capable. this leads to the consideration of the natural mobility of the organs of woman. their mobility is a necessary consequence, in the first place, of their littleness. the movements of all animals, appear to be executed with more rapidity, the less their bulk. it has been observed, that the arteries of the ox beat only thirty-five times, while those of the sheep beat sixty, and that the pulse of women is smaller and more rapid than that of men. a second physical quality, which concurs to render more mobile the various parts of woman, is their softness. a certain feebleness is the necessary consequence of these two circumstances. but it is thence that spring woman's suppleness and lightness of movement, and her capacity for grace of attitude. it has been conjectured, that even the elements of the parts which constitute woman, have a particular organization, on which depends the elegance of the forms, the vivacity of the sensations, and the lightness of the movements, which characterize her. the result of these circumstances is that, while man possesses force and majesty, woman is distinguished by beauty and grace. the characteristics of woman are less imposing and more amiable; they inspire less admiration than love. as has been observed, a single trait of rudeness, a severe air, or even the character of majesty, would injure the effect of womanly beauty. lucian admirably represents to us the god of love frightened at the masculine air of minerva. while man, by force and activity, surmounts the obstacles which embarrass him, woman, by yielding, withdraws from their action, and adds to beauty, a gentle and winning grace which places all the vaunted power of man at her disposal. it is evidently the influence of the organs distinguishing the two sexes, which is the primary cause of their peculiar beauty. as the liquid which, in man, is secreted in certain vessels for the purpose of reproduction, communicates a general excitement and activity to the character, so when, in woman, the periodical excretion appears, the breasts expand, the eyes sparkle, the countenance becomes more expressive, but at the same time more timid and reserved, and a character of flexibility and grace distinguishes every motion. conformably with this view, the appearance and the manners of eunuchs approach to those of women, by the softness and feebleness of their organization, as well as by their timidity, and by their acute voice. the very opposite is naturally the result of the extirpation of the ovaries in women. pott, giving an account of the case of a female, in whom both the ovaries were extirpated, says, the person "has become thinner, and more apparently muscular; her breasts, which were large, are gone; nor has she ever menstruated since the operation, which is now some years." haighton found that, by dividing the fallopian tubes, which connect the ovaries with the womb, sexual feelings were destroyed, and the ovaries gradually wasted. the women, also, in whom the uterus and the ovaries remain inert during life, approximate in forms and habits to men. it is stated, in the philosophical transactions for 1805, that an adult female, in whom the ovaries were defective, presented a corresponding defect in the state of the constitution. to the same general principle, it has been observed, we must refer the partial growth of a beard on females in the decline of life, and the circumstance that female-birds, when they have ceased to lay eggs, occasionally assume the plumage, and, to a certain extent, the other characters of the male. under the influence of this cause, the first exercise of her new faculty determines remarkable modifications in woman. her neck swells and augments in size- "non illam nutrix orienti luce revisens hesterno collum poterit circumdare filo;[31] her voice assumes another expression; her moral habits totally change: and many women owe to love and marriage more splendid beauty. the women thus happily constituted are not those of hot climates, but those of cooler regions and calmer temperament, whose placid features and more elastic forms announce a gentler and more passive love. impassioned women, on the contrary, do not so long preserve their freshness: the expansive force, from which the organs derived their form and coloring, abates; and a less agreeable flaccidity succeeds to the elasticity with which they were endowed, if the plumpness which adult age commonly brings does not sustain them. during pregnancy and suckling, the firstmentioned class of women retain a remarkable freshness and plumpness. the lastmentioned class of women most frequently become meager, and lose their freshness during the continuance of these states. if, however, during these states, suitable precautions and preservative cares be not employed, it is the first class who most suffer from traces of maternity. conception, pregnancy, delivery, and suckling, being renewed more or less frequently during the second age, hasten debility in feeble and ill-constituted women; especially if misery or an improper mode of life increase the influence of these causes. in the third age of woman, extending generally from forty to sixty, the physical form does not suddenly deteriorate; and, as has often been observed, "when premature infirmities or misfortunes, the exercise of an unfavorable profession, or a wrong employment of life, have not hastened old age, women during the third age preserve many of the charms of the preceding one." at this period, in well-constituted women, the fat, being absorbed with less activity, is accumulated in the cellular tissue under the skin and elsewhere; and this effaces any wrinkles which might have begun to furrow the skin, rounds the outlines anew, and again restores an air of youth and freshness. hence, this period is called "the age of return." this plumpness, though juvenile lightness and freshness be wanting, sustains the forms, and sometimes confers a majestic air, which, in women otherwise favorably organized, still interests for a number of years. the shape certainly is no longer so elegant; the articulations have less elasticity; the muscles are more feeble; the movements are less light; and in plump women we observe those broken motions, and in meager ones that stiffness, which mark the walk or the dance at that age. at this period occurs a remarkable alteration in the organs of voice. women, therefore, to whom singing is a profession, ought to limit its exercise. when women pass happily from the third to the fourth age, their constitution, as every one must have observed, changes entirely; it becomes stronger: and nature abandons to individual life all the rest of existence. beauty, however, is no more; form and shape have disappeared; the plumpness which supported the reliefs has abandoned them; the sinkings and wrinkles are multiplied; the skin has lost its polish; color and freshness have fled for ever. these injuries of time, it has been observed, commonly begin by the abdomen, which loses its polish and its firmness; the hemispheres of the bosom no longer sustain themselves; the clavicles project; the neck becomes meager; all the reliefs are effaced; all the forms are altered from roundness and softness to angularity and hardness. that which, amid these ruins, still survives for a long time, is the entireness of the hair, the placidity or the fineness of the look, the air of sentiment, the amiable expression of the countenance, and, in women of elegant mind and great accomplishments, caressing manners and charming graces, which almost make us forget youth and beauty. finally, and especially in muscular or nervous women, the temperament changes, and the constitution of woman approaches to that of man; the organs become rigid; and, in some unhappy cases, a beard protrudes. old age and decrepitude finally succeed. chapter ix. of the causes of beauty in woman. the crossing of races is often spoken of as a means of perfecting the form of man, and of developing beauty; and we are told that it is in this manner that the persians have become a beautiful people, and that many tribes of tartar origin have been improved, especially the turks, who now present to us scarcely anything of the mongol. in these general and vague statements, however, the mere crossing of different races is always deemed sufficient; whereas, every improvement depends on the circumstance that the organization of the races subjected to this operation is duly suited to each other. it is in that way only, that we can explain the following facts stated by moreau:-in one of the great towns of the north of france, the women, half a century ago, were rather ugly than pretty; but a detachment of the guards being quartered there, and remaining during several years, the population changed in appearance, and, favored by this circumstance, the town is now indebted to strangers for the beauty of the most interesting portion of its inhabitants. the monks of citeaux exercised an influence no less remarkable upon the beauty of the inhabitants of the country around their monastery; and it may be stated, as the result of actual observation, that the young female-peasants of their neighborhood were much more beautiful than those of other cantons. and, adds this writer, "there can be no doubt that the same effect occurred in the different places whither religious houses attracted foreign inmates, whom love and pleasure speedily united with the indigenous inhabitants!" the other circumstances which contribute to female beauty, are, a mild climate, a fertile soil, a generous but temperate diet, a regular mode of life, favorable education, the guidance and suppression of passions, easy manners, good moral, social, and political institutions, and occupations which do not injure the beautiful proportions of the body. beauty, accordingly, is more especially to be found in certain countries. thus, as has often been observed, the sanguine temperament is that of the nations of the north; the phlegmatic is that of cold and moist countries; and the bilious is that of the greater part of the inhabitants of southern regions. each of these has its degree and modification of beauty. the native country of beauty is not to be found either in regions where cold freezes up the living juices, or in those where the animal structure is withered by heat. a climate removed from the excessive influence of both these causes constitutes an essential condition in the production of beauty; and this, with its effect, we find between the 35th and 65th degree of northern latitude, in persia, the countries bordering upon caucasus, and principally tchercassia, georgia and mongrelia, turkey in europe and asia, greece, italy, some part of spain, a very small part of france, england, holland, some parts of germany, poland, denmark, sweden, and a part of norway and even of russia. even under the same degree of latitude, it is observed that the position of the place, its elevation, its vicinity to the sea, the direction of the winds, the nature of the soil, and all the peculiarities of locality which constitute the climate proper to each place, occasion great differences in beauty. in relation to the causes of beauty, some observations which seem to be important, arise out of the remarks of de pauw on the greeks. de pauw endeavored to show, that, though the men of ancient greece were handsome, the women of that country were never beautiful. he thence accounted for the excessive admiration which there prevailed of courtesans from ionia, &c. this, however, was so contrary to the notions formed of the beauty of that people from what was known of their taste, that it was considered as a paradox. travellers, accordingly, sought for such beauty in the women of modern greece. they were disappointed in not finding it. what rendered this the more remarkable was, that in various places they found the ancient and beautiful cast of countenance among the men, and not among the women of that country--thus corroborating in all respects the doctrine of de pauw. on considering that doctrine, however, and comparing it with more extended observations, it would seem to be only a particular application of a more general law unknown to de pauw--that, in most countries, one of the sexes excels the other in beauty. thus, in some parts of the highlands of scotland, we find the men as remarkable for beauty as the women for ugliness; while, in some eastern counties of england, we find precisely the reverse. the strong features, the dark curled hair and the muscular form, of the highlander, are as unsuitable to the female sex, as the soft features, the flaxen hair, and the short and tapering limbs, of the woman of the eastern coast, are unsuitable to the male. if the soil, climate, and productions, of these countries be considered, we discover the causes of the differences alluded to. the hardships of mountain life are favorable to the stronger development of the locomotive system, which ought more or less to characterize the male; and the luxuriance of the plains is favorable to those developments of the nutritive system, which ought to characterize the female. this is illustrated even in inferior animals. oxen become large-bodied and fat in low and rich soils, but are remarkable for shortness of legs; while, in higher and drier situations, the bulk of the body is less, and the limbs are stronger and more muscular. the quantity and quality of the aliments are another cause, not less powerful in regard to beauty. abundance, or rather a proper mediocrity, as to nutritious food, contributes to perfection in this respect. beauty is also, in some measure, a result of civilization. women, accordingly, of consummate beauty, are found only in civilized nations. professions can rarely be said to favor beauty; but they do not impede its development when their exercise does not compel to laborious employments an organization suited only to sedentary occupations. chapter x. of the standard of beauty in woman. the ideas of the beautiful vary in different individuals, and in different nations. hence, many men of talent have thought them altogether relative and arbitrary. "ask," says voltaire, "a negro of guinea [what is beauty]: the beautiful is for him a black oily skin, deep-seated eyes, and a broad flat nose." "perfect beauty," says payne knight, "taking perfect in its most strict, and beauty in its most comprehensive signification, ought to be equally pleasing to all; but of this, instances are scarcely to be found: for, as to taking them, or, indeed, any examples for illustration, from the other sex of our own species, it is extremely fallacious; as there can be little doubt that all male animals think the females of their own species the most beautiful productions of nature. at least we know this to be the case among the different varieties of men, whose respective ideas of the beauty of their females are as widely different as those of man, and any other animal, can be. the sable africans view with pity and contempt the marked deformity of the europeans; whose mouths are compressed, their noses pinched, their cheeks shrunk, their hair rendered lank and flimsy, their bodies lengthened and emaciated, and their skins unnaturally bleached by shade and seclusion, and the baneful influence of a cold humid climate.... who shall decide which party is right, or which is wrong; or whether the black or white model be, according to the laws of nature, the most perfect specimen of a perfect woman?... the sexual desires of brutes are probably more strictly natural inclinations, and less changed or modified by the influence of acquired ideas, or social habits, than those of any race of mankind; but their desires seem, in general, to be excited by smell, rather than by sight or contact. if, however, a boar can think a sow the sweetest and most lovely of living creatures, we can have no difficulty in believing that he also thinks her the most beautiful." "among the various reasons," says reynolds, "why we prefer one part of nature's works to another, the most general, i believe, is habit and custom; custom makes, in a certain sense, white black, and black white; it is custom alone determines our preference of the color of the europeans to the ethiopians, and they, for the same reason, prefer their own color to ours. i suppose nobody will doubt, if one of their painters were to paint the goddess of beauty, but that he would represent her black, with thick lips, flat nose, and woolly hair; and it seems to me, he would act very unnaturally if he did not; for by what criterion will any one dispute the propriety of his idea? we indeed say, that the form and color of the european are preferable to those of the ethiopian; but i know of no other reason we have for it, but that we are more accustomed to it." the coquetry of several tribes, it has been observed, leads them to mutilate and disfigure themselves, to flatten their forehead, to enlarge their mouth and ears, to blacken their skin, and cover it with the marks of suffering.--we make ugliness in that way, says montaigne. but, to confine our observations to individual nations, and these civilized ones; we every day see irregular or even common figures preferred to those which the enlightened judge deems beautiful. how, then, it is asked, amid these different tastes, these opposite opinions, are we to admit ideas of absolute beauty? these are the strongest objections against all ideas of absolute and essential beauty in woman. to establish, in opposition to these objections, a standard of womanly beauty, equal talent has been employed; but the reasoning, though sufficient for such objections, has been rather of a vague description. as, however, the subject is of great importance, i shall endeavor to abridge and concentrate the arguments of which it consists, before i point out the surer method which is founded on the elements of beauty already established. to refute these objections, it has been thought sufficient to examine the chief conditions which are necessary, in order to appreciate properly the impression of those combinations, which woman presents, and to expose the principal circumstances which are opposed to the accuracy of opinions, and judgments respecting them. the conditions necessary to enable us to pronounce respecting the real attributes of beauty, are, first, a temperate climate, under which nature brings to perfection all her productions, and gives to their forms and functions, generally, and to those of man in particular, all the development of which they are capable, without excess in the action of some, and defect in that of others;--secondly, in man in particular, a brain capable of vigorous thought, sound judgment, and exquisite taste;--and thirdly, a very advanced civilization, without which these faculties cannot be duly exercised or attain any perfection. it is evident enough that none of these conditions are to be met with in the whimsical judgments and tastes of many nations. the consequence of the absence of these conditions, in relation to the uncivilized and ignorant inhabitants of hot climates, is marked in their deeming characteristics of beauty, the thick lips of negresses, the long and pendent mammã¦ of the women in several nations both of africa and america, or the gross forms of those of egypt. the consequence of the absence of these conditions, in relation to the uncivilized and ignorant inhabitants of cold climates, is equally marked in their deeming characteristics of beauty the short figures of the women of icy regions, in which, deprived of the vivifying action of heat and light, living beings appear only in a state of deformity and alteration; and in their similarly deeming beautiful the obliquely-placed eyes of the chinese and japanese, and the crushed nose of the calmucs, &c., &c. those who take these views, which are true, though somewhat vague and inconclusive, should, i think, have seen and added, that the deviations from beauty in the forms of the women of hot climates are commonly in _excess_, owing to the great development of organs of sense or of sex; while the deviations from beauty, in the forms of the women of cold climates, are commonly in _defect_, owing to the imperfect development of organs of sense, and of the general figure. this view renders it more clear that both these kinds of deviation are deformities, incompatible with the consistent and harmonious development of the whole. and without this view, the preceding arguments are indeed too vague to be easily tenable. in relation more especially to the second of the preceding conditions, the possession of a brain capable of vigorous thought, sound judgment, and exquisite taste, hume observes that the same excellence of faculties which contributes to the improvement of reason, the same clearness of conception, the same exactness of distinction, the same vivacity of apprehension, are essential to the operations of true taste. here, again, those who take these true, but vague and inconclusive views, should, i think, have seen and added that this excellence of the thinking faculties is incompatible with the obviously constricted brain, which is a defect common both to the negro and the mongol--a _defect_ which is incompatible with beauty either of form or function, and which i have shown, in my work on physiognomy, to be intimately connected with climate. this renders the argument sufficiently strong. those who employ these arguments as to a standard of beauty in woman, proceed to show the modes in which defects of this kind unfit persons to judge of beauty; and though their farther arguments are similarly vague, they nevertheless tend to support the truth. if, say they, among the forms and the features which we compare, some are associated by us with certain qualities or sentiments which please us, they equally lead us to a predilection or prejudice, in consequence of which the most common or the least beautiful figure is preferred to the most perfect. in this case, the imagination has perverted the judgment. winckelmann truly observes, that young people are most exposed to such errors: placed under the influence of sentiment and of illusion, they often regard, as very beautiful, women who have nothing capable of charming, but an animated physiognomy, in which breathe desire, voluptuousness, and languor. the results of this as to life may easily be foreseen. of the excess to which such prejudice may go, a good instance is adduced in descartes, who preferred women who squinted to the most perfect beauties, because squinting was one of the most remarkable features of the woman who was the first object of his affections. winckelmann observes that even artists themselves have not always an exquisite sentiment of beauty: their first impressions have often an influence which they cannot overcome, nor even weaken, especially when, at a distance from the admirable productions of the ancients, they cannot rectify their first judgments. circumstances of profession, it is truly observed, may also lead to associations of ideas capable of deceiving us in our opinions respecting beauty. men are apt to refer everything to their exclusive knowledge and the mode of judging which it employs. the "what does that prove" of the mathematician, when judging the finest products of imagination, has passed into a proverb. and every one knows of that other cultivator of the same science, who declared that he never could discover anything sublime in milton's paradise lost, but that he could never read the queries at the end of one of the books in newton's optics, without his hair standing on end and his blood running cold. the necessity of the third condition, namely, advanced civilization, to a right judgment respecting a standard of beauty in woman, is evident, when we consider that it requires a taste formed by the habit of bringing things together and of comparing them. one accustomed to see, says hume, "and examine, and weigh the several performances, admired in different ages and nations, can alone rate the merits of a work exhibited to his view, and assign its proper rank among the productions of genius." from all this, it is certainly evident--not merely that that which pleases us is not always beautiful; that numerous causes may form so many sources of diversity and of error on this subject; and that we cannot thence conclude that the ideas of beauty are relative and arbitrary--but that certain conditions are indispensable to form the judgment respecting beauty; and that the principal of these conditions are, a temperate climate and fertile soil, a well-developed brain, sound judgment, and delicate taste, and a highly-advanced civilization. this is perfectly conformable with the practical fact that it was under a most delightful climate, among a people of unrivalled judgment, genius, and taste, and amid a civilization which the world has never since witnessed, that the laws of nature as to beauty were discovered, and applied to the production of those immortal forms which the unfavorable accidents occurring to the existence of all beings, have never permitted nature herself to combine in any one individual. though i have endeavored to amend these arguments respecting a standard of beauty in woman, i prefer those which may be founded on the doctrine i have laid down respecting the elements of beauty. it will be found that the greatest number of these elements are combined in the woman whom we commonly deem the most beautiful. to illustrate this, it will be sufficient to examine their most striking and distinctive characteristic, namely, their fair complexion, which is intimately connected with all their other characteristics, and which gives increased splendor and effect to their form and features. it is remarkable that even alison, though the advocate of all beauty being dependant on association, grants that the pure white of the countenance is expressive to us, according to its different degrees, of purity, fineness, gayety; that the dark complexion, on the other hand, is expressive to us of melancholy, gloom, or sadness; and that so far is this from being a fanciful relation, that it is generally admitted by those who have the best opportunities of ascertaining it, the professors of medical science. he also observes that black eyes are commonly united with the dark, and blue eyes with the fair complexion; and that, in the color of the eyes, blue, according to its different degrees, is expressive of softness, gentleness, cheerfulness, or severity; and black, of thought, or gravity, or of sadness. even this, however, is less conclusive than the pathological or physiological facts stated by cheselden, as to the boy restored by him to sight, namely, that the first view of a black object gave him great pain, and that that of a negro-woman struck him with horror. independently of this, white, as every one is aware, is the color which reflects the greatest number of luminous rays; and, for that reason, it bestows the brilliance and splendor upon beautiful forms with which all are charmed. winckelmann, indeed, observes that the head of scipio the elder, in the palazzo rospigliosi, executed in basalt of a deep green, is very beautiful. but, in that case, it is the form, not the color, of the head, that is beautiful. while greenness of complexion would not be beautiful in a man, it would certainly be hideously ugly in a woman. moreover, while, in a dead black or any dark color of face, it cannot be pretended that, considering its color only, we should have more than blackness or darkness for admiration, it is evident that, in a fair complexion, we have, in addition to its general brilliance or splendor, the infinite variety of its teints, their exquisite blendings, and the beautiful expression of every transient emotion. i have now only to expose the sophistry which payne knight has employed upon this subject. "i am aware," he says, "indeed, that it would be no easy task to persuade a lover that the forms upon which he dotes with such rapture, are not really beautiful, independent of the medium of affection, passion, and appetite, through which he views them. but before he pronounces either the infidel or the skeptic guilty of blasphemy against nature, let him take a mould from the lovely features or lovely bosom of this masterpiece of creation, and cast a plum-pudding in it (an object by no means disgusting to most men's appetite), and i think he will no longer be in raptures with the form, whatever he may be with the substance." now, it happens that a grosser incongruity can scarcely be supposed than that which exists between lovely features or a lovely bosom and a plum-pudding, or between the sentiment of love and the propensity to gluttony; and therefore to place the substance of the pudding, in which internal composition is alone of importance, and shape of none, under the form of features or a bosom, in which internal structure is unknown or unthought of, and shape or other external properties are alone considered, is a gross and offensive substitution, intended, not to enlighten judgment respecting form, but to pervert it, and to degrade the higher object by comparison with the lower one. the shape, moreover, is a true sign in the one case, and a false one in the other.--of nearly similar character is the following:-"if a man, perfectly possessed both of feeling and sight--conversant with, and sensible to the charms of women--were even to be in contact with what he conceived to be the most beautiful and lovely of the sex, and at the moment when he was going to embrace her, he was to discover that the parts which he touched only were feminine or human; and that, in the rest of her form, she was an animal of a different species, or a person of his own sex, the total and instantaneous change of his sentiments from one extreme to another, would abundantly convince him that his sexual desires depended as little upon that abstract sense of touch, as upon that of sight." that, in detecting an imposture of this kind, admiration would give place to disgust, only proves that the external qualities which were admired were the natural and appropriate signs of the internal qualities expected to be found under them, and that they now cease to interest only because they have become, not naturally less the signs of these qualities, but because they have by a mere trick been rendered insignificant, because truth and nature have been violated, and because the mind feels only disgust at the imposture. i cannot help saying that if knight was in earnest when he framed such arguments, his mind was sometimes dull as well as perverse. "the redness of any morbid inflammation," he says, "may display a gradation of teint, which, in a pink or a rose, we should think as beautiful as 'the purple light of love and bloom of young desire;' and the cadaverous paleness of death or disease, a degree of whiteness, which, in a piece of marble or alabaster, we should deem to be as pure, as that of the most delicate skin of the fairest damsel of the frigid zone: consequently, the mere visible beauty is in both the same; and the difference consists entirely in mental sympathies, excited by certain internal stimuli, and guided by habit." there is here the same confusion of heterogeneous and inconsistent objects, as in the preceding cases. to judge of beauty in simple objects, each quality may be separately considered; and in this view, if the inflammation presented the same teint as the pink or the rose, then, as a mere teint, abstracted from every other quality of the respective objects, it would be precisely as beautiful in the one as in the other; but as the color of a rose on the human body would indicate that flow of blood to the skin which can result only from excessive action, it ceases to be considered intrinsically, and is regarded only as a sign of disease. the same observations are applicable to the other case here adduced. "the african black," he says, "when he first beholds an european complexion, thinks both its red and white morbid and unnatural, and of course disgusting. his sunburnt beauties express their modesty and sensibility by variations in the sable teints of their countenances, which are equally attractive to him, as the most delicate blush of red to us." in treating of the elements of beauty, i have endeavored to show, that the more those simpler elements of beauty, which characterize inanimate bodies, are retained in more compound ones, the more beautiful these become; but that the latter retain these elements in very different degrees, dependant upon internal or external circumstances, and that such elementary beauty is often sacrificed to the higher ones of life or mind. now, in the case of the african, he is born whitish, like the european, but he speedily loses such beauty for that of adaptation, by his color, to the hot climate in which he exists. the latter beauty is the higher and more important one, and forms for the african a profitable exchange; but the european is still more fortunate, because, in the region he inhabits, the simple and elementary beauty is compatible with that of adaptation to climate. the climate of africa, the cerebral structure of its inhabitants, and the degree of their civilization, are as unfavorable to the existence of beauty as to the power of judging respecting it. what he adds as to variation in sable countenances is a mere exaggeration. "were it possible for a person to judge of the beauty of color in his own species, upon the same principles and with the same impartiality as he judges of it in other objects, both animal, vegetable, and mineral, there can be no doubt that mixed teints would be preferred; and a pimpled face have the same superiority over a smooth one, as a zebra has over an ass, a variegated tulip over a plain one, or a column of jasper or porphyry over one of a common red or white marble." here the same mistake is committed. elementary beauty is preferred to that of adaptation to climate, fitness for physiognomical expression, &c. knight's other arguments all involve similar errors, and admit of similar answers. chapter xi. the three species of female beauty generally viewed. these have been already briefly mentioned. they are repeated and illustrated here. the view which is given of them will throw light on the celebrated temperaments of the ancients. it will appear that all the disputes which have occurred respecting these, have arisen from their being founded, not on precise data, but on empirical observation, at a time when the great truths of anatomy and physiology were unknown; that, to the rectification of the doctrine of temperaments, the arrangement of these sciences, laid down in a preceding chapter, is indispensable; that some of these temperaments are comparatively simple, and consist in an excessive or a defective action of locomotive, nutritive, or thinking organs; that others, which have been confounded with these, are, on the contrary, compound; and that, from this want of classification, their nature has been imperfectly understood. to make this clear, it is necessary to lay before the reader a succinct view of the doctrine of temperaments. the ancients classed individuals in one or other of four temperaments, founded on the hypothesis of four humors, of which the blood was supposed to be composed--the red part, phlegm, yellow and black bile. these were regarded as the elements of the body, and their respective predominance passed for the cause of the differences which it presented. hence were derived the names of the sanguine, the phlegmatic, the choleric, and the melancholic temperament. although the hypothesis on which this doctrine was founded is universally discarded, the phenomena which observation had taught the ancients, and which they had hypothetically connected with these elements, were so true, that that classification has been more or less employed in all the hypotheses which have since been invented to explain their cause; and their nomenclature has continued in use to the present day. a temperament may be defined a peculiar state of the system, depending on the relative proportion of its different masses, and the relative energy of its different functions, by which it acquires a tendency to certain actions. the predominance of any particular organ or system of organs, its excess of force, extends its sphere of activity to all the other functions, and modifies them in a peculiar manner. thus, conforming in the illustration to the preceding arrangement, in one person, the muscles are more frequently employed than the brain; in another, the stomach or the organs of reproduction are more employed than the muscles; and in a third, the brain and nerves are more employed than either. this predominance or excess establishes the temperament. the relative feebleness of any organ or system of organs, similarly forms modifications not less important. thus in one person, the organs of the abdomen are less employed; in another, those of the chest; in a third, the brain. disease, it is observed, "commonly enters into the organization by these feeble points: death even attacks them first; extends afterward from one to another; and makes progress more or less rapid, according to the importance of the organ primitively affected." temperaments, however, vary infinitely. it may be said that every individual has a peculiar one, to which he owes his mode of existence and his degree of health, ability, and happiness. the temperament, moreover, of each individual is not always characterized by well-marked symptoms; and even where it has been strongly marked by nature, education, age, the influence of climate, the exercise of professions and trades, and various habits, produce in it infinite changes. temperaments also combine together, so that all men are, in some degree, at once sanguine and bilious, or otherwise compound. thus all intermediate shades of temperament are produced; and it is often difficult, or, under particular circumstances, impossible, to determine under which temperament individuals may be classed. the simple temperaments are therefore abstractions, which it is difficult to realize; and the influence of any temperament is sometimes undiscoverable except in some extraordinary circumstances of disorder or disease, during which it may be observed. cullen admits the four temperaments of hippocrates, and remarks concerning them, that it is probable they were first founded upon observation, and afterward adapted to the theory of the ancients, since we find they "have a real existence." dr. prichard remarks, that "this division of temperaments is by no means a fanciful distinction." to the four temperaments of hippocrates, gregory adds a fifth, the nervous temperament. thus are formed five temperaments generally admitted, namely, 1st, the phlegmatic or relaxed; 2d, the sanguine arterial; 3d, the sanguine venous or bilious; 4th, the nervous; and, 5th, the muscular or athletic. some writers join to these the partial temperaments which determine the ascendency of the functions exercised by particular organs; whence principally come the temperaments which they call the cerebral, epigastric, abdominal, hepatic, genital, &c. as already said, it will in the sequel appear that some of these temperaments are comparatively simple, that others are compound, and that from this want of classification, their nature has been imperfectly understood.[32] chapter xii. first species of beauty--beauty of the locomotive system. the average stature of woman, as already said, is two or three inches less than that of man. the bones of woman remain always smaller than those of man; the cylindrical ones being more slender, and the flat ones thinner, while the former are also rounder. the muscles render the surfaces of the bones less uneven; the projections of the latter are less; and all their cavities and impressions have less depth. the bones of woman have likewise less hardness than those of man. such being the solid and fundamental parts of this system in woman, the most remarkable circumstances in their combination should next be noticed. in woman, the magnitude of the pelvis or lower part of the trunk, has the greatest influence on the apparent proportion of parts, and on the general figure. the most remarkable differences between the two sexes, in relation to this system, are consequently those presented by the inferior and superior part of the trunk in each. the breast and the haunches are in an inverse proportion in the two sexes. man has the breast larger and wider than that of woman: woman has the haunches less circumscribed than those of man. the upper part of the body is also less prominent, and the lower part more prominent, in woman than in man; and therefore, when they stand upright, or lie on the back, the breast is most prominent in the male, and the pubes in the female. the indication this affords of the fitness of woman for impregnation, gestation, and parturition, is obvious. from the same cause, the back of woman is more hollow. still farther to increase the capacity of the lower part of the body, woman has the loins more extended than man. this portion of her body is in every way enlarged at the expense of neighboring parts. hence, the chest is shorter above; and the thighs and legs are shorter below. the thigh-bones of woman are also more separated superiorly; the knees are more approximated; the feet are smaller; and the base of support is less extended. the reader desirous of thoroughly understanding these matters, should compare the beautiful plates of the male and female skeletons by albinus and soemmerring. beauty of the locomotive system in woman, depends especially upon these fundamental facts, and those tendencies of structure which thus distinguish her from man. in the woman possessing this species of beauty, therefore, the face is generally somewhat bony and oblong;--the neck, less connected with the nutritive system, is rather long and tapering;--the shoulders, without being angular, are sufficiently broad and definite for muscular attachments;--the bosom, a vital organ, is of but moderate dimensions;--the waist, enclosing smaller nutritive organs, is remarkable for fine proportion, and resembles, in some respects, an inverted cone;--the haunches, for the same reason, are but moderately expanded;--the thighs are proportional;--the arms, as well as the limbs, being formed chiefly of locomotive organs, are rather long and moderately tapering;--the hands and feet are moderately small;--the complexion, owing to the inferiority of the nutritive system, is often rather dark;--and the hair is frequently dark and strong.--the whole figure is precise, striking, and often brilliant.--from its proportions, it sometimes seems almost aerial; and we would imagine, that, if our hands were placed under the lateral parts of the tapering waist of a woman thus characterized, the slightest pressure would suffice to throw her into the air. to this class belong generally the more firm, vigorous, and even actively-impassioned women: though it may doubtless boast many of greatly modified character. _first variety or modification of this species of beauty._ it may here be observed, that the varieties or modifications of each species of beauty naturally correspond with the greater or less development of some one of the various organs on which the species is founded. thus, the modifications of beauty of the locomotive system correspond with the greater or less development of the bones, the ligaments, or the muscles; those of the nutritive system correspond with the greater or less development of the absorbents, the bloodvessels, or the glands; and those of the thinking system correspond with the greater or less development of the organs of sense, the brain, or the cerebel. a little reflection will show, that some of these modifications will be more, and others less beautiful. to understand the present variety, the bony structure on which it especially depends, must now be more minutely described. commencing with the trunk of the body--the chest in woman is shorter but more expanded; the breast-bone is shorter but wider; the two upper ribs are flatter; the collar-bones are more straight or less curved, and do not present that prominent relief which appears on the chest of man; the shoulders are carried farther back, and project less from the trunk. the haunches, as already stated, are proportionally wider in woman than in man, and the interior cavity of the pelvis, which is between them, being adapted to gestation, is more capacious. this greater capacity of the pelvis arises from the lateral parts having in woman more convexity outward; from the bones called ossa pubis, which form the anterior part, touching at a smaller number of points, and running obliquely or forming a greater angle, to enlarge the space which is between them and the inferior extremity of the posterior part of the pelvis; from the arch of the pubis being larger; from the greater concavity and breadth of the os sacrum or posterior bone of the pelvis, its posterior part forming a greater prominence outward; and from the whole pelvis being thus wider and less deep, its circumference approaching more to the circular form. the cavities, it may be added, in which the heads of the thigh-bones are received, are of course farther apart: they are also oblique and less deep. the arms of woman are shorter than in man.--as these members are well marked in beauty of the locomotive system, they may the more fully be considered here.--the arms, and especially their extremities, are susceptible of a degree of beauty of which we see few examples. their bases, the bones, ligaments, and muscles, belong to the locomotive system; and their fundamental beauty consequently depends upon its proportions; but to the nutritive system are owing the circumstances that, in woman, the arm is fatter and more rounded, has softer forms and more flowing and purer outlines. the hand in woman is smaller, more plump, more soft, and more white. it is peculiarly beautiful when full; when it is gently dimpled over the first joints; when the fingers are long, round, tapering toward the ends; when the other joints are marked by slight reliefs and shadows; and when the fingers are delicate and flexible. beauty of the hand becomes the more precious, because it is the principal organ of a sense which may be considered as the most valuable of all. in regard to the lower extremities, it has been observed, that the lateral convexity of the pelvis causes the bones of the thighs attached to them to be farther separated from each other; and this separation of the bones of the thighs causes an increase of the size of the haunches. it is over the posterior part of the space thus produced, that we observe the reliefs which the inferior members present superiorly, and which unite them with the trunk, by forms so beautifully rounded. the thighs are also proportionally larger, on account of this separation: they are more rounded, as well as much more voluminous: they are also more curved before than in man. at their inferior part, they approximate; and the knees project a little inward. it has been truly observed, that this conformation manifests, relatively to gestation and parturition, advantages of which the exterior expression is not found in the women who are commonly regarded as well made, and who, however, are not so, if the best conformation or beauty result from a direct and well-marked relation between the form of the organs and their functions. it is owing to the thighs of woman being thus carried more inward when she walks, that the change of the point of gravity which marks each step, is in her much more remarkable. all the other parts of the inferior members are in general distinguished by forms more softly rounded; the leg is remarkable for its delicacy; the long line of the anterior bone is entirely hid under its envelope; its inferior part is shaped with more elegance; the foot is smaller; and the base of support is less extended. the feet, like the hands, are susceptible of a kind of beauty of which nature is sparing. from all this it appears that the only bones which nature tends to enlarge in woman are those of the pelvis; that all the rest are small; and that they proportionally diminish in size, as we pass from that central part to the extremities. the first modification, therefore, of this species of beauty, is that in which the development of the bones, those of the pelvis excepted, is proportionally small. this character will be especially apparent where the long bones approach the surface; as in the arm immediately above the wrist, and, in the leg, immediately above the ankle. its effect will be proportionally delicate and feminine. various subordinate modifications of this kind of beauty are found in various countries, and under the influence of various circumstances. the women of rome, we are told, present beauty of the shoulders in the highest degree, when they arrive at that period of life in which plumpness succeeds to juvenile elasticity. it has been suggested, that the greek or ionian women, whose arms were of so perfect a form, owed that beauty in some measure to the custom of leaving them nude, or covered only by loose drapery: as in that case, no pressure constricted the roundness of the fleshy parts, and prevented their development; no ligature, binding the upper part of the arm, altered the color of the skin; and the arm, being always uncovered, received at the toilet the same attention as other parts. hence, it is supposed antique statuary has left us such admirable models of the beauty of this part. it is certainly not improbable that we may attribute the absence of this beauty, in some measure, to a custom which, in many cases, medicine may approve, but which is unfavorable to the arm, that of wearing long sleeves; but want of exercise is its great cause. the form of the hand often announces the occupation of the person to whom it belongs, and sometimes even her particular capabilities. there certainly are hands that we may call intellectual; and there are others that we may call foolish or stupid. of the hand, lavater says, that, whether in movement or in repose, its expression cannot be mistaken: its most tranquil position indicates our natural dispositions; its flexions, our actions and our passions. the ancients, it has been observed, attached much importance to the form of the feet: the philosophers did not neglect it in the general view of the physiognomy; and the historians as well as the poets made mention of their beauty, in speaking of polyxene, aspasia, and others; as they did of their deformities in speaking of the emperor domitian. perfection or deformity of the feet is no doubt in general hereditary; but good management will preserve the former of these, and repair the latter. we commonly deform these parts by means of our shoes: the second toe, observes a writer on this subject, which naturally projects most, as we see from the antique, is arrested in its development, and the foot, which ought, in the outline of its extremity, to approach to the elegant form of the ellipsis, is rounded without beauty, and is disfigured by our ridiculous compressions.[33] _second variety or modification of this species of beauty._ the joints generally are small in woman, and especially so in the extremities. the elbow joint is softly rounded; and the various joints of the fingers are marked chiefly by little reliefs and faint shadows. the articulation of the knee is feebly indicated; the ankles are disposed in such a manner as to offer only agreeable outlines; and there are dimples over the first joints of the toes, with exceedingly gentle indications of the other joints. the second modification, therefore, of this species of beauty, is that in which the development of the ligaments and the articulations they form, is proportionally small. this conformation will be especially apparent--in the arm, at the wrist--and, in the leg, at the ankle. its effect will be proportionally handsome. _third variety or modification of this species of beauty._ the muscles of women are more slender and feeble than those of man; their bundles are rounder; their fibres are finer, more humid, soft, and delicate, and less compact; their central parts or bellies are less prominent; their reliefs do not appear in any strength at the surface of the body; but being, on the contrary, surrounded on all sides by a loose cellular tissue, they only render that surface beautifully rounded. although, however, the muscular system of woman is weaker, and the muscles proportionally smaller, yet, as already said, in some parts the muscular system is more developed than in man. this, owing to the magnitude of the pelvis, is most remarkable about the thighs. the muscles of these parts having larger origins from the pelvis, and being less compressed by reciprocal contact, have more liberty to extend themselves. it is from this, that results much of the delicacy of the female form, as well as the ease, suppleness, and capability of grace in its movements. it is otherwise in all parts remote from the pelvis. women, accordingly, can less be said to have calves, than legs which, like their arms and fingers, gently taper. the third modification, therefore, of this species of beauty, is that in which the development of the muscles is proportionally large around the pelvis, and delicate elsewhere. this conformation being concealed by the drapery, may nevertheless be conjectured from the imperfect view of the hip, or of the calf of the leg, or more accurately by means of the external indications of forms which are given in a subsequent chapter. its effect will be proportionally elegant. woman's power of muscular motion being thus limited to the vicinity of the pelvis, that of her extremities is generally feeble. other causes contribute to this. thus, with regard to the upper extremities, it has been observed, that the collar-bone, not separating so much the arm from the axis of the body, the extent of its movements is limited; and this circumstance explains why women, who wish to overcome great resistances with the superior members, experience difficulty in doing so--why, for example, when they wish to throw a stone, they are obliged to turn the body on the foot opposite to the arm with which they throw. thus also the largeness of the pelvis, and the approximation of the knees, influence the gait of woman, and render it vacillating and unsteady. conscious of this, women, in countries where the nutritive system in general and the pelvis in particular are large, affect a greater degree of this vacillation and unsteadiness. an example of this is seen in the lateral and rotary motion which is given to the pelvis in walking, by certain classes of the women of london. for the same reason, united to a smaller foot, and some other circumstances, women, it is observed, who execute gentle and light movements with so much skill, do not attempt with advantage great evolutions, run with difficulty and without grace, and fly--in order to be caught, as rousseau has said. in woman, however, the muscular fibre is thus soft, yielding, feeble, and incapable of great evolutions, because it is necessary that it should easily adapt itself to remarkable changes. from all this, from women having more address in the use of their fingers, from their aptitude for little and light domestic works, the care of children, and sedentary occupations, it is evident that they cannot devote themselves to toilsome labors without struggling against their organization, and suffering proportionally. the voice being connected with the motive organs, it may here be noticed that the larynx or flute part of the throat in woman is more contracted and less prominent than in man; that the glottis does not enlarge in the same proportion; that the tongue-bone is much smaller; and that the tongue, its muscles, and the organs of speech in general, being, like all the other parts, more mobile, young girls articulate and pronounce much more quickly. their voice is also so much more acute, that if man and woman sing in unison, there is always between them the relation of an octave, which forms the most natural and most agreeable consonance. it is evidently the union of all that is good in these varieties which renders beauty in the locomotive system perfect. this is perfectly represented in the diana of grecian sculpture, in which, with admirable taste, it is neither the nutritive nor the thinking, but the locomotive system, which is developed. * * * * * i have already said, that the temperaments of the ancients are only partial views of some of the varieties i am now describing. the _athletic temperament_ falls under the _last of these varieties_; and it is the only one that falls under this species. happily, it does not occur in woman. this temperament results from a great development of the bones and muscles, and it is that of mere physical strength. it is marked by all the outward signs of strength: the head is small, the neck thick behind, the shoulders broad, the chest expanded, the haunches firm, the intervals of the muscles deeply marked, the tendons apparent through the skin, and all the joints not covered by muscles, seemingly small. in this temperament, muscular strength prevails over the functions of the other organs, and especially usurps the energies necessary to the production of thought; the perceptions are deficient in quickness, delicacy, accuracy, and strength; and all the mental functions are with difficulty excited; but the body is capable of great exertion, and it surmounts great physical resistance when roused. the farnese hercules, says a french physiologist, exhibits a model of the physical attributes of this constitution; and that which fabulous antiquity relates of the exploits of this demi-god, gives us the idea of the moral dispositions that accompany it. in the history of his twelve labors, without reflection, and as by instinct, we see him courageous, because he is strong, seeking obstacles to conquer them, certain of overwhelming whatever resists him, but joining to such strength so little subtlety, that he is cheated by all the kings he serves, and by all the women he loves. chapter xiii. second species of beauty--beauty of the nutritive system. with the vital system of woman, the capacity of the pelvis, and the consequent breadth of the haunches, are still more connected than with the locomotive system; for, with these, all those functions which are most essentially feminine--impregnation, gestation, and parturition--are intimately connected. camper, in a memoir on physical beauty, read to the academy of design, at amsterdam,[34] showed, that, in tracing the forms of the male and female within two elliptical areas of equal size, the female pelvis extended beyond the ellipsis, while the shoulders were within; and the male shoulders reached beyond their ellipsis, while the pelvis was within.--the pelvis of the african woman is said by some to be greater than that of the european. the abdominal and lumbar portion of the trunk, as already said, is longer in woman. in persons above the common stature, there is almost half a face more in the part of the body which is between the mammã¦ and the bifurcation of the trunk. the abdomen, placed below the chest, has more projection and roundness in woman than in man: but it has little fulness in a figure capable of serving as a model; and the slightest alteration in its outlines or its polish is injurious. the waist, which is most distinctly marked in the back and loins, owes all its advantages to its elegance, softness, and flexibility. the neck should, by the gentlest curvature, form an almost insensible transition between the body and the head. it should also present fulness sufficient to conceal the projection of the flute part of the throat in front, and of the two large muscles which descend from behind the ears toward the pit above the breast-bone.[35] over all these parts, the predominance of the cellular tissue, and the soft and moderate plumpness which is connected with it, are a remarkable characteristic of the vital system in woman. while this facilitates the adaptation of the locomotive system to every change, it at the same time obliterates the projection of the muscles, and invests the whole figure with rounded and beautiful forms. it has been well observed that the principal effect of such forms upon the observer must be referred to the faculties which they reveal; for, as remarked by roussel, if we examine the greater part of the attributes which constitute beauty, if reason analyze that which instinct judges at a glance, we shall find that these attributes have a reference to real advantages for the species. a light shape, supple movements, whence spring brilliance and grace, are qualities which please, because they announce the good condition of the individual who possesses them, and the greater degree of aptitude for the functions which that individual ought to fulfil. beauty, then, of the nutritive system in woman, depends especially upon these fundamental facts, and those tendencies of structure which thus distinguish her from man. in the woman possessing this species of beauty, therefore, the face is generally rounded, to give greater room to the cavities connected with nutrition;--the eyes are generally of the softest azure, which is similarly associated;--the neck is often rather short, in order intimately to connect the head with the nutritive organs in the trunk;--the shoulders are softly rounded, and owe any breadth they may possess rather to the expanded chest, containing these organs, than to any bony or muscular size of the shoulders themselves;--the bosom, a vital organ, in its luxuriance seems laterally to protrude on the space occupied by the arms;--the waist, though sufficiently marked, is, as it were, encroached on by that plumpness of all the contiguous parts, which the powerful nutritive system affords;--the haunches are greatly expanded for the vital purposes of gestation and parturition;--the thighs are large in proportion;--but the locomotive organs, the limbs and arms, tapering and becoming delicate, terminate in feet and hands which, compared with the ample trunk, are peculiarly small;--the complexion, dependant upon nutrition, has the rose and lily so exquisitely blended, that we are surprised it should defy the usual operation of the elements;--and there is a luxuriant profusion of soft and fine flaxen or auburn hair.--the whole figure is soft and voluptuous in the extreme. to this class belong all the more feminine, soft, and exquisitely-graceful women. the kind of beauty thus characterized is seen chiefly in the saxon races of our eastern coast; and it is certainly more frequent in women of short stature. the vital system is peculiarly the system of woman; and so truly is this the case, that any great employment, either of the locomotive or mental organs, deranges the peculiar functions of woman, and destroys the characteristics of her sex. women who greatly occupy the locomotive organs, acquire a coarse and masculine appearance; and so well is this incompatibility of power, in the use of locomotive organs with the exercise of vital ones, known to the best female dancers, that, during the time of their engagements, they generally live apart from their husbands. as to intellectual ladies, they either seldom become mothers, or they become intellectual when they cease to be mothers. these few facts are worth a thousand hypotheses and dreams, however amiable they may be. the vital system is relatively largest in little women, especially after they have been mothers. the shorter stature of woman ensures, indeed, in almost all, a relative excess of the vital system after, if not before, they become mothers; for, whatever the stature, the mammã¦, abdomen, &c., necessarily expand. in those of short stature, these parts, of course, become nearly as large as in the tall; and this circumstance causes them to touch on the limits of each other in little women. as, in pregnancy and suckling, the abdomen and mammã¦ necessarily expand, and as they would afterward collapse and become wrinkled, were not a certain degree of plumpness acquired, that acquisition is essential to beauty in mothers. meagerness in them, accordingly, becomes deformity. a french writer indeed says: "most of our fashionables are extremely slender; they have constituted this an essential to beauty; leanness is in france necessary to the _air ã©lã©gant_." it must be remembered, however, that the vital system--that which we have just said is peculiarly the system of woman--is, in its most beautiful parts, peculiarly defective in france; and that, owing in a great measure to that circumstance, the women of france are among the ugliest in europe.--but of that in its proper place. _first variety or modification of this species of beauty._ it may here be observed, that the varieties of beauty of the locomotive system, and also those of beauty of the mental system, are easily explicable, because these systems are, in some respects, more limited and simple. the varieties of beauty of the vital system are, on the contrary, more difficult of explanation, because that system is, in some respects, more diffused and complicated. even the preparatory vital organs and functions differ somewhat in the two sexes. woman has frequently a smaller number of molar teeth than man; those called wisdom teeth not always appearing. mastication is also less energetic in woman. the stomach, in woman, is much smaller; the appetite for food is less; hunger does not appear to press her so imperiously; and her consumption of food is much less considerable.[36] hence, indubitable cases of long abstinence from food, have generally occurred in females. in the choice and the preference of certain aliments, woman also differs much from man. in general, women prefer light and agreeable food, which flatters the palate by its perfume and its savor. their appetites are also much more varied. women, whom vicious habits have not depraved, use also beverages less abundantly than men. fermented, vinous, and spirituous beverages are indeed used only by the monsters engendered in the corruptions of towns--amid the insane dissipation of the rich, or the wretched and pitiable suffering of the poor; and both are then brought to one humiliating level, marked by the red and pimpled, or the pallid face, the swimming eye, the haggard features, the pestilential breath. the scarf-skin in these cases divides all that may be worthy from all that is utterly worthless: the worthy part may be external to the cuticle, in substantial, though polluted clothing; the worthless is the yet living portion, which, whether called body or soul, is no longer worth picking off a dunghill.[37] digestion in woman is made, however, with great rapidity; and the whole canal interested in that process, possesses great irritability. the absorbent vessels in woman are much more developed, and seem to enjoy a more active vitality. the circumstances of pregnancy and suckling, appear also to augment the energy of these vessels. the first modification, therefore, of this species of beauty, is that in which the digestive and absorbent system is small but active; for the great purpose of life in woman is secretion, whether it regard the formation of the superficial adipose substance which invests her with beautiful and attractive forms, or the nutrition of the new being which is the object of her attractions and of her life. hence it is, that women naturally and instinctively affect abstemiousness and delicacy of appetite. hence it is, that they compress the waist, and endeavor to render it slender. _second variety or modification of this species of beauty._ women have, in greater abundance than men, several of the fluids which enter into the composition of the body. they appear to have a greater quantity of blood; and they certainly have more frequent and more considerable hemorrhages. there is less force in the circulation and respiration; but the heart beats more rapidly. the pulse also is less full, but it is quicker. in woman, the purer lily and more vivid rose of complexion, depend on various causes. it would appear that, in women, the blood is in general carried less abundantly to the surface and to the extremities, where also the white vessels are more developed; and that, to this, as well as to the subjacent adipose substance, the skin owes its whiteness. in youth, however, one of the constituent parts of the skin, the reticular tissue, or whatever the substance under the scarf-skin may be called, appears to be more expanded, especially in women; and it would seem that this tissue is then filled with a blood which is less dark, and which forms the coloring of youth. this, differently modified by the scarf-skin, gives the blue, the purple, and all the teints formed by these and the color of the skin. where the vessels are more patent, and the skin more thin, delicate, and transparent, as in the cheeks, the hue of the rose is cast over that of the lily. in addition to this, the slightest emotions of surprise, of pleasure, of love, of shame, of fear, often diversify all these teints. lightness of complexion, however, is probably dependant more particularly on the arterial circulation, and darkness of complexion on the venous circulation; for we know that in fairer woman the arteries possess greater energy, while in darker man the veins are more developed, larger, and fuller. farther confirmation of this is afforded by an observation, which physiologists have neglected to make, that the kidneys, receiving arterial blood, are the artery-relieving glands, while the liver, receiving venous blood, is the vein-relieving gland. now, it is certain that, in cold climates, the urinary secretion and fairness prevail; while, in hot climates, the hepatic secretion and darkness prevail. many physiologists have indeed made the insulated remark, that the dark complexion has much to do with the hepatic secretion. the more abundant urinary and hepatic secretions, however, may not be the causes, but only concomitant effects of the same cause with fairness and darkness of complexion. the second modification, therefore, of this species of beauty, is that in which the circulating vessels, being moderately active and finely ramified, bestow upon the skin a whiteness, a transparency, and a complexion, which are necessary to beauty. the whiteness, the transparency, and the color of the skin, have, in all highly civilized nations, been deemed essential conditions of beauty. the ancients regarded whiteness, in particular, as the distinctive character of beauty; and they estimated that character so highly, that the name of venus, from the celtic _ven_, _ben_, or _ban_, signifies white, or whiteness; and venus herself is said to be fair and golden-haired. among the civilized moderns, also a taste which women seek always to satisfy, is that for whiteness of the skin: hence, the white lily, new-fallen snow, white marble, or alabaster, are the images which poetry employs, when the color of a woman is its subject. so greatly, indeed, does whiteness contribute to beauty, that many women deemed beautiful by us, have little other right to that epithet except what they derive from a beautiful skin. _third variety or modification of this species of beauty._ the branches of the great artery of the body, the aorta, supplying the abdomen and pelvis, are larger in woman than in man, as well as more habitually liable to variation in the quantity of their contents. the quantity of blood, also, which passes to the abdomen, is greater. at the same time, the excretions are generally less in woman. hippocrates says: "_nam corpus muliebre minus dissipatur quam virile_;" the expenditure of the body of woman is less than that of man. it is evident, then, that the secretions, nutrition, in particular, must be greater. we actually know them to be so. but the nourishment of the organs concerned in locomotion is less active, and that of the cellular and adipose substance is generally more active, than in man. and on this, important consequences depend. woman is subject to crises which would destroy all her organs, if they offered too powerful a resistance. some parts of her body are exposed to great shocks, to alternate extensions, compressions, and reductions, which could not take place with impunity, but by means of this predominance of the cellular and adipose structure. the cellular expansion, the general basis of the structure, appears then to be more abundant in woman, more lax and yielding, more dilated and fuller of liquids; and it is by yielding gradually, by decomposing and weakening shocks by means of the general suppleness of the different organs, thus procured, that nature seems, in woman, to avoid, or to destroy, every hurtful effort. it is observed, moreover, that certain parts, naturally more loose, receive into all their vessels a more considerable quantity of liquid, and assume a particular enlargement, at the moment when their sympathy with the uterus causes them to enter into action in concert with it; and it is also observed that they dilate more easily during pregnancy. it is thus, then, that nature gives to all the parts of woman that suppleness which renders her capable of easily yielding to the great revolutions which affect her organization in regard to reproduction, as well as mark the different periods of her life. the great development of the cellular and fatty tissue in woman is illustrated by the remarkable fact, that anciently the romans, in order to burn the bodies of dead men, were obliged to join to them those of women, the fat of which greatly facilitated combustion. now, with the great purposes described above, beauty is naturally associated. it is principally this excess of the cellular and fatty tissues which gives to the members of woman those round and beautiful outlines, that soft and polished surface, which the body of man does not possess. in every part, however, of the human figure, as observed by reynolds, "when not spoiled by too great corpulency, will be found distinctness, the parts never appearing uncertain or confused, or as a musician would say, slurred; and all those smaller parts which are comprehended in the larger compartment are still found to be there, however marked." now, while all this is the case, it appears that the true skin is much thinner and more delicate in woman than in man, and that it derives more or less of its clear whiteness from the quantity of fat which is below it; for meagerness inevitably tarnishes and dries it. hence, to possess a fine, soft, white, and fresh skin, it is also indispensable to possess plumpness. in relation to this purer white, it must also be observed, that transpiration, which might soil it, appears to be much less abundant in woman; and that the liver or vein-relieving gland, is very large. the excretions of the skin in women are indeed chiefly limited to certain parts; and it is thence that it has, in various parts, an odor which a french writer observes "it is difficult to describe, but which an exercised sense of smell easily succeeds in distinguishing in women who fully enjoy all the attributes of their sex, and who are women even in the atmosphere which exhales from them." while the skin is thus more white in women, it is also more transparent. the reticular tissue, or substance interposed between the true skin and scarf-skin, appears to have more clearness and turgescence, especially on the face, where, under the influence of various emotions, it easily permits a passage to the blood, as we see in blushing. it is in youth that this turgescence and clearness are most evident. hence, the skin in woman less conceals the veins, of which the color, only enfeebled or modified by the skin, "gives all those shades of azure which the charmed eye follows with so much pleasure on the surface of the bosom and of all the parts where the skin has least of thickness." all this constitutes freshness, or animation, which is nearly synonymous with health, and without which there is no beauty. when that quality, as observed by roussel, "is wanting, all other attractions strike but feebly, because the prompt judgment, which instinct suggests, warns us that the woman whose person does not present all the characters of perfect health, is in a disposition little favorable to the plan of nature, relatively to the maintenance of the species." the whiteness and the animation of the skin, however, do not alone constitute its beauty: there is still another quality which is absolutely necessary to it. this is the softness and the polish which, as the reader has seen, is one of the first conditions of physical beauty. in woman, this is probably derived from a slight degree of oleaginous secretion. hence, she has few asperities of the skin, especially on the surface of the bosom, and other parts, where the skin is excessively smooth. brown women, who probably have more of this oleaginous secretion, are said to possess in a greater degree the polish of skin which gives impressions so agreeable to the organ of touch; and hence, winckelmann has said that persons who prefer brown women to fair ones allow themselves to be captivated by the touch rather than the sight. there is reason, however, to doubt the accuracy of this. brown women appear to have greater softness, but less smoothness of skin. the body of woman is nearly deprived of hairs upon all parts, except the head, axillã¦, &c.; and the hair of her head is generally long, fine, and flexible. the quantity and the color of the hair are always in relation to the constitution of the individual to which it belongs, and generally to the temperature of the place. the people of northern countries have the hair of a silken fineness and of surprising length. the hair which is most admired is not only very fine and flexible, but light colored. fair golden hair was, of all its teints, that which the ancient artists preferred. in woman, the hair of the head whitens and falls later than in man. it is curious that, in regard to the hair, the distinctive characters of the sexes should not always have been preserved. though nature gives long hair to woman, it has sometimes been the fashion to wear it short; and though man has naturally shorter hair, it has sometimes been the fashion to cherish its growth, and to shave the beard from his face. the latter has especially been the case in degenerate and effeminate times; and this has sometimes been accompanied by remarkable consequences. one of the greatest misfortunes, says a french writer, which france ever had to lament, the divorce of louis le jeune from elinor of guyenne, resulted from the fashion, which this prince wished to introduce, of shaving his chin and cropping his head. the queen, his wife, who appears to have possessed, with a masculine beauty, considerable acuteness of intellect, observed with some displeasure, that she imagined herself to have espoused a monarch, not a monk. the obstinacy of louis in shaving himself, and the horror conceived by elinor at the sight of a beardless chin, occasioned france the loss of those fine provinces which constituted the dowry of this princess; and which, devolving to england by a second marriage, became the source of wars which desolated france during four hundred years. the habit of wearing the beard is a manly and noble one. nature made it distinctive of the male and female; and its abandonment has commonly been accompanied not only by periods of general effeminacy, but even by the decline and fall of states. they were bearded romans who conquered the then beardless greeks; they were bearded goths who vanquished the then beardless romans; and they are bearded tartars who now promise once more to inundate the regions occupied by the shaven and effeminate people of western europe. in farther illustration of the manliness of this habit we may observe, that throughout europe, wars have generally led to its temporary and partial introduction, as at the present day. those assuredly blunder, who ridicule the wearing of the beard. silly affectation, on the contrary, is imputable only to those who, by removing the beard, take the trouble so far to emasculate themselves! and who think themselves beautified by an unnatural imitation of the smoother face of woman! as appendages of the skin, the nails may here be noticed. their beauty consists in their figure, their surface, and their color. by their figure, they serve as a defence to the delicate extremities of the fingers, which would otherwise be easily hurt against hard bodies. they form at once shields and supporting arches to the fingers; and they give facility in laying hold of bodies which would escape from their smallness. they ought accordingly to be arched, and to extend as far as the flesh which terminates the fingers.--the form of the nails depends much on the care employed in cutting them during infancy, and still more on the mode of employing the hand. the nails ought also to be smooth and polished, somewhat transparent, and rose-colored. their rosy color seems to show that their texture has less density and more transparence. it is in this view of the nutritive system and the characteristics which render it beautiful, and especially after this portion of it which regards the organs and functions of secretion, that the mammã¦ and their beauty should be considered. in woman, the bust is smaller and more rounded than in man; and it is distinguished by the volume and the elegant form of the bosom. the external and elevated position of the mammã¦ is by far the most suitable for a nursling, which, no longer deriving subsistence from within the mother, nor yet able of itself to find it without, must be gently and softly borne toward her; an admirable position, says a french writer, "which, in keeping the infant under the eyes and in the arms of the mother, establishes between them an interesting exchange of tenderness, of cares, and of innocent caresses, which enables the one the better to express its wants, and the other to enjoy the sacrifices which she makes, in continually contemplating their object." according to buffon, in order that the mammã¦ be well placed, it is necessary that the space between them should be as great as that from the mammã¦ to the middle of the depression between the clavicles, so that these three points form an equilateral triangle. the two portions of the mammã¦ should be well detached. the whole presents, in beautiful models, more elegance than volume; and the areola, it may be observed, is red in fair women and deeper colored in brown ones. winckelmann observes that, in the antique statues, the mammã¦ terminate gently in a point, and that they have always virginal forms, as a consequence of the system of the ancient artists, which consists in not recalling in the ideal the wants and the accidents of humanity. finally on this particular head, i must observe that the reproduction of the species is, in woman, the most important object of life, and that every thing in her physical organization has evident reference to it. of all the passions in woman, says richerand, "love has the greatest sway: it has even been said to be her only passion. all the others are modified by it, and receive from it a peculiar cast, which distinguishes them from those of man.... fontenelle used to say of the devotion of some women, 'one may see that love has been here.' it has been said, in speaking of st. theresa, '_to love god, is still to love_.' thomas maintains that, 'with women a man is more than a nation.'--'love,' says madame de stael, 'is but an episode in the life of man; it is the whole history of the life of woman.'" the third modification, therefore, of this species of beauty, is that in which the secreting vessels being active, not only cause the plumpness, &c., necessary to beauty, but furnish the mammary and uterine secretions, on which progeny is dependant. this must inevitably be followed by moderate excretions. it should not pass unobserved that there exist, in some women, a fair skin and dark hair, forming a rather extraordinary and striking combination. as such women have the skin remarkably smooth and moist, this is probably connected with some peculiarity of secretion and excretion. * * * * * it is evidently the union of all that is good in these varieties which renders beauty in the vital system perfect. this union is nowhere so frequently to be seen, as in england and in holland. it is curious that cleanliness among women seems necessarily to increase with the development of this system; and that, in general slovenliness and filth increase as we pass from england and holland, toward france, italy, spain, and portugal, even among women of the highest condition. * * * * * of the temperaments of the ancients, which, as already said, are only partial views of some of the varieties i am now describing, two, the _phlegmatic temperament_ and the _sanguine temperament_, appear to belong fundamentally to _this species_. it has been supposed, that the first affects the absorbent, the second the circulating system. they appear to me to be exactly opposite affections of the whole nutritive system at least. the phlegmatic temperament may exist in both sexes. the causes which tend to develop it, are infancy, humidity with cold, the absence of light, indolence, and the feeble influence of the reproductive functions upon the general system. in this temperament, there exists an excess in the proportions of the absorbent vessels; the pulse is weak, slow, and soft; there is a turgescence of the cellular tissue, and a more marked development of the glands; the internal stimulants, having less energy than in the other temperaments, life is less active, and all its actions are more or less languid; even the uterus is not endowed with suitable energy. but these characteristics are not confined to the nutritive system: they extend to the thinking one. the attention is not continuous; the perceptions succeed with some difficulty; the memory is not to be trusted; the imagination is weak; and the propensities, the appetites, and the passions, are so languid, as to be scarcely capable of troubling the quietude and the indolence which depend on such a constitution. these characteristics of the phlegmatic temperament, present to us forms more rounded and less expressive, a general softness, a feeble color of the skin, a sort of etiolation, a pale countenance, a light and abundant hair, and, generally, an insurmountable inclination to sloth, averse alike to labors of the mind and body. it has been observed, that the sanguine temperament, so generally met with among northern nations, is the necessary consequence of the continual and very energetic reaction of the powers of circulation, against the effects of external cold; that it is only by the constant activity of the heart and vessels that calorification can be effected with the necessary vigor: and that the effects of this redoubled action are the same to the organs of circulation as to the muscles, under the influence of volition; exertion in both increasing the power of the organs exerted. in the sanguine temperament, the lymphatic, circulating, and secreting systems appear to be in a sort of equilibrium; the chest is larger, and the lungs more voluminous; the circulation is more rapid, the arterial predominance is obvious; the pulse is sharp, frequent, and regular; the complexion is ruddy; all the vital actions are extremely easy; and the health is rarely altered. the mental functions correspond. the conception is quick; the memory is prompt; the imagination is lively; the judgment has more readiness than depth and extent; the mind, easily affected by the impressions of outward objects, passes rapidly from one idea to another; the tastes, propensities, appetites, passions, are equally ephemeral; and there is much activity, but the strength is soon exhausted. in persons of this temperament, the countenance is animated; the hair is fair, and inclining to chestnut; the shape is good; the form is softened, though distinct; and the muscles are of tolerable consistence, and moderate development. the whole appearance is generally so amiable, that this temperament may be called that of health, beauty, and happiness. in the women who present the attributes of their sex with the greatest unity, we distinguish, especially during youth and adult age, the traits of the sanguine temperament, which may be regarded as the most suitable to the organization of woman. chapter xiv. third species of beauty--beauty of the thinking system. in woman, the organs of sense are proportionally larger, and the sensibility is more quick and delicate than in man. hence, also, the mental quickness and delicacy of woman are greater. her perceptions succeed with rapidity and intenseness; and the last of them generally predominates. in well-organized women, accordingly, the forehead and the observing faculties are peculiarly developed. the general nervous system of woman is likewise far more mobile than that of man. beauty of the thinking system in woman depends especially upon these fundamental facts, and those tendencies of structure, which thus distinguish her from man. in the woman possessing this species of beauty, accordingly, the greater development of its upper part gives to the head, in every view, a pyriform appearance;--the face is generally oval;--the high and pale forehead announces the excellence of the observing faculties;--the intensely expressive eye is full of sensibility;--in the lower features, modesty and dignity are often united;--she has not the expanded bosom, the general plumpness, or the beautiful complexion, of the second species of beauty;--and she boasts easy and graceful motion, rather than the elegant proportion of the first.--the whole figure is characterized by intellectuality and grace. this species of beauty is less proper to woman, less feminine, than the preceding. it is not the intellectual system, but the vital one, which is, and ought to be most developed in woman. _first variety or modification of this species of beauty._ in woman, the nervous extremities appear to be larger than in man; a pulpy appearance is more remarkable in them; and the papillã¦ in which they terminate, appear to have less rigidity. the organs of sense are proportionally larger, and more delicately outlined. there is indeed in woman more development in the organs of sensation, than in that of understanding, reasoning, and judging; while the contrary is the case in man. the sensations, accordingly, are in woman more acute, and their minute differences are more easily discerned. man reflects more than he feels: woman always feels more than she reflects. the first modification, therefore, of this species of beauty, is that in which the development of the organs of sense is proportionally large, and the sensibility greater. it ought to be observed, that though, in woman, when well organized, the whole head is proportionally less than in man, yet, the organs of sense will be found to be proportionally larger. this sufficiently indicates the importance of such proportional development. upon it, indeed, depend that increased sensibility and quickness of observation, which are essential to the female character. _second variety or modification of this species of beauty._ of all parts of the brain in woman, when well formed, the forehead, especially, is found to be large. without this, she would have sensibility without observation, a most unhappy condition of the nervous system. in woman, the brain partakes of the softness of all the other parts of her structure. the cellular tissue which covers it, and which descends between its convolutions, is more abundant, mucous, and loose. the mind, correspondingly, is more impressed by any new object of thought; the whole nervous system is more extensively affected by impressions on the brain; the propensity to emotion is stronger, and women are more habitually under its influence. the intimate connexion of the thinking, with a peculiar modification of the reproductive faculties, inspires in woman the want of maternity, which is more powerful than life, and which renders her capable of every sacrifice. associated with this, are her affection, tenderness, and compassion. upon the whole, sensibility in woman is greater than understanding; the involuntary play of the imagination, more active than its regulated combinations; and passion, generally of the gentler kind, predominates rather than resolve or determination. she has, therefore, more finesse and activity, than depth or force of thought; and her nervous system is also more frequently deranged by accidents unknown to man. the extent of the brain, anteriorly, is measured by the different degrees of the opening of an angle, which camper has called the facial angle; and so far it is favorable to woman well conformed; but it gives no notion of the magnitude of the brain superiorly, posteriorly, or laterally.[38] the brain of woman, however, in general, extends a good deal posteriorly as well as anteriorly, though it narrows in the former of these directions; and, to the proportional length thus acquired, is owing that intensity in her functions, which i have just described. superiorly, centrally, and laterally, the brain of woman is generally much less than that of man; and hence the want of elevation, depth, and endurance, in her mental faculties.[39] upon the whole, the brain of woman is less than that of man, and it is especially less in its superior, central, and, intellectually considered, more important portions. the second modification, therefore, of this species of beauty, is that in which the development of the brain is proportionally small. this is an evident corollary from what we have just stated as to the first modification of this species; for it is not possible that the organs of sense should be proportionally large, without the rest of the head being proportionally small. this is not quite conformable with the wishes of phrenology; but we must leave any dispute between that art and nature to its own issue. a venus, moreover, with a small, yet beautifully proportioned head, is often seen to be the mother of a boy who has a large head; the difference of sex causing a vast modification and difference of development. _third variety or modification of this species of beauty._ from what has been already said, it may be concluded that, in action or conduct, women are less guided by intellect, and are more biased by feeling and emotion; and it may also be concluded, that all their movements to fulfil the purposes of feeling and emotion, are made in a manner more easy and more prompt, though less sustained. this is increased by the ready obedience of the muscular fibre, and the relative shortness of the stature. this more easy and less forcible action is perfectly conformable physically with the small and elongated form of the cerebel, or organ of the will, in woman; as it is morally with the part which woman performs in life, and her desire to please, while it is that of man to protect and to defend. conformably with the smaller size of the cerebel, and especially with its smaller breadth (the influence of which is explained in the work last referred to), the disposition of woman to sustained exertion, whether mental or bodily, is much less; and hence the character "_varium et mutabile semper foemina_." it is, then, the prompt and easily-affected sensibility of woman, not her understanding or force of mind, which renders her so eminently fit to be interested in infancy, which enables her to surmount maternal pains by the sentiment of affection and pity, and which makes agreeable to her the cares and the details of housekeeping; and it is this which sometimes renders nothing too irksome or too painful for a mother, a wife, or a mistress, to endure. hence, the constitution of woman is perfectly adapted to these functions; hence, her existence is more sedentary than man's; hence, she has more gentleness of character than he; and hence, she is less acquainted with great crimes. the third modification, therefore, of this species of beauty, is that in which the development of the cerebel or organ of the will, as well as the muscles which it actuates, is proportionally small. the situation of this considerable organ is in the back and lower part of the head, and may be pretty accurately indicated by saying, that a line passing through it would complete, posteriorly, a longer line passing backward from the nose through the lower part of the ear. when this organ, which is that of the will, is high, and more especially when it is large, a determination and force seem to be given by it to the character, which render it the reverse of feminine. having spoken here of the ready exercise of the will in woman, and its adaptation to her wish to please, it seems to be here that some circumstances dependant on these should be noticed. with this ready exercise of the will and desire to please, are evidently connected the light carelessness, the graceful ease, and the gentle softness, which add so much to the power of beauty. hence, artists give to woman the bending form which associates so well with all her characteristics; for all feel with hogarth that undulating lines are more or less formed in all movements executed with the intention of expressing sentiments of courtesy, respect, benevolence, or love. but it is grace that we must especially consider here--grace which directly emanates from this ready exercise of the will and desire to please, especially when combined with observing faculties so perfect and so perpetually active as those of woman. "gracefulness," says burke, "is an idea not very different from beauty; it consists in much the same thing.... gracefulness is an idea belonging to posture and motion. in both these, to be graceful, it is requisite that there be no appearance of difficulty; there is required a small inflexion of the body; and a composure of the parts in such a manner, as not to encumber each other, nor to appear divided by sharp and sudden angles. in this ease, this roundness, this delicacy of attitude and motion, it is that all the magic of grace consists, and what is called '_je ne scais quoi_.'" it is not in these mere physical qualities, that all the magic of grace consists, which, in the state of burke's knowledge, he might indeed well call "_je ne scais quoi_!" let the reader hear what is said on this subject by a man who could look a little deeper than burke, and who owed no fame to the little art of substituting a flash of words for depth of thought, and serving by it a venal purpose as little as the art itself. "what grace," says smith, "what noble propriety do we not feel in the conduct of those who exert that recollection and self-command which constitute the dignity of every passion, and which bring it down to what others can enter into! we are disgusted with that clamorous grief, which, without any delicacy, calls upon our compassion with sighs and tears, and importunate lamentation. but we reverence that reserved, that silent and majestic sorrow, which discovers itself only in the swelling of the eyes, in the quivering of the lips and cheeks, and in the distant, but affecting address of the whole behavior. it imposes the like silence upon us; we regard it with respectful attention, and watch over our whole behavior, lest, by any impropriety, we should disturb that concerted tranquillity which it requires so great an effort to support." this is eloquence, indeed. alison duly appreciates this earliest definition of grace. "it is," he says, "this 'recollection and self-command,' which in such scenes constitute what even in common language is called the graceful in behavior or deportment; and it is the expression of the same qualities in the attitude and gesture, which constitutes, in my apprehension, the grace of such gestures or attitudes.... wherever, in the movements of the form, self-command or self-possession is expressed, some degree of grace, at least, is always produced.... whenever in such motions grace is actually perceived, i think it will always be found to be in slow, and, if i may use the expression, in restrained or measured motions. "the motions of the horse, when wild in the pasture, are beautiful; when urged to his speed, and straining for victory, they may be felt as sublime; but it is chiefly in movements of a different kind that we feel them as graceful, when, in the impatience of the field, or in the curvetting of the manege, he seems to be conscious of all the powers with which he is animated, and yet to restrain them, from some principle of beneficence or of dignity. every movement of the stag almost is beautiful, from the fineness of his form and the ease of his gestures; yet it is not in these or in the heat of the chase that he is graceful: it is when he pauses upon some eminence in the pursuit, when he erects his crested head, and when, looking with disdain upon the enemy who follows, he bounds to the freedom of his hills. it is not, in the same manner, in the rapid speed of the eagle when he darts upon his prey, that we perceive the grace of which his motions are capable. it is when he soars slowly upward to the sun, or when he wheels with easy and continuous motion in airy circles in the sky. "in the personification which we naturally give to all inanimate objects which are susceptible of movement, we may easily perceive the influence of the same association. we speak commonly, for instance, of the graceful motions of trees, and of the graceful movements of a river. it is never, however, when these motions are violent or extreme, that we apply to them the term of grace. it is the gentle waving of the tree in slow and measured cadence which is graceful, not the tossing of its branches amid the storm. it is the slow and easy winding which is graceful in the movements of the river, and not the burst of the cataract, or the fury of the torrent. "it is only in the perfection of the human system, in the age when the form has assumed all its powers, and the mind is awake to the consciousness of all the capacities it possesses, and the lofty obligations they impose, that the reign of physical grace commences; and that the form is capable of expressing, under the dominion of every passion or emotion, the high and habitual superiority which it possesses, either to the allurements of pleasure or the apprehensions of pain. it is this age, accordingly, which the artists of antiquity have uniformly represented, when they sought to display the perfection of grace, and when they succeeded in leaving their compositions as models of this perfection to every succeeding age." * * * * * it is evidently the union of all that is good in the varieties now described which renders beauty, in the thinking system, perfect. this is well illustrated in the minerva of the giustiniani gallery, which, in this respect, is scarcely the less valuable because it is draped, for it is the head that ever bears the greatest impress of intellectuality. this union is by no means perfect in the english female head, although, from the considerable development of the forehead and the moderate one of the backhead, the general form of that head is beautiful. as to the french female head, a frenchman, writing under the name of count stendhal, scruples not to say: "the form of the head in paris is ugly; the cranium approaches to that of the ape; and this occasions the women to have the appearance of age very early in life." the women of paris differ not, in this respect, from those of france generally. nearly all have the character here described. * * * * * it is under this species that the _nervous temperament_ falls, which is constituted by great sensibility and corresponding mobility, and therefore belongs to the _first and the last of those varieties_; a temperament chiefly to be found among women. this temperament scarcely exists in the athletic, is weak in the phlegmatic, is moderate in the sanguine, and is rather active in the bilious. it is characterized by the smallness and the emaciation of the muscles, the quickness and intensity of the sensations, and the suddenness and fickleness of the determinations. it is seldom natural, but commonly depends on a sedentary and inactive life, on a diseased condition of the brain produced by reading works of imagination, and on habits of sensual indulgence. in confirmation of this, we are told that the roman ladies became subject to nervous affections only in consequence of those depraved manners which marked the decline of the empire; and that these affections were extremely common in france in the licentious times preceding the fall of the corrupt and corrupting monarchy. another partial view falling under this species, and properly under the _second variety_, is the _cerebral temperament_, which results from the energy and influence of the brain. this temperament, being thus determined by an excess in the power of the brain, has been called the temperament of genius. when it is increased by education and habits, the other organs are generally more feeble. in woman, the cerebral temperament is more particularly characterized by a predominance of imagination, which is evidently dependant on the organization which has already been described. it has been truly observed, that to contribute to the perfection of reason as well as to the preservation of health, the brain ought to be exercised and developed in every direction; that the mere exercise of memory carried too far renders persons foolish; that the predominance of imagination disposes to nervous affections, and even to alienation; that meditation alters the digestive functions; and that the dry and minute contention which business requires, disposes, when joined to a defect of exercise (and i may add the vinous excesses in which men of business indulge), to apoplexy and to paralysis. chapter xv. beauty of the face in particular. "it is probable," says dr. prichard, "that the natural idea of the beautiful in the human person has been more or less distorted in almost every nation. peculiar characters of countenance, in many countries, accidentally enter into the ideal standard. this observation has been made particularly of the negroes of africa, who are said to consider a flat nose and thick lips as principal ingredients of beauty; and we are informed by pallas that the kalmucs[40] esteem no face as handsome, which has not the eyes in angular position, and the other characteristics of their race. the aztecs of mexico have ever preferred a depressed forehead,[41] which forms the strongest contrast to the majestic contour of the grecian busts: the former represented their divinities with a head more flattened than it is ever seen among the caribs, and the greeks, on the contrary, gave to their gods and heroes a still more unnatural elevation." knowing, as the reader now does, what constitutes the worth, the dignity, and the beauty, of the various organs, this statement tends to show the value of that standard of beauty which we owe to the greeks. i proceed to illustrate it in regard to the face. the beauty of the human countenance is described by various writers, as including the beauty of form, in the various features of the face; the beauty of color, in the shades of the complexion; the beauty of character, in some distinctive and permanent relations; and the beauty of expression, in some immediate and temporary feeling. in regard to the form of the face, considered as a whole, the opening of the facial angle of camper, in measuring geometrically the extent of the upper part of the head, marks the development of the brain or organ of thought, and shows the proportion which it bears to the middle and lower part of the face, or to the organs of sense and expression. this development of the upper part of the head contributes essentially to beauty, by giving to the whole head that pyriform appearance already described, by which in every view it is larger at the superior part, diminishes gradually as it descends, and terminates by the agreeable outline of the chin. in the most beautiful race of men, the facial angle extends to eighty-five degrees, acquiring an increase of ten degrees above the inferior varieties; the face is diminished; the eyes are better placed; the nose assumes a more elegant form; and all appearance of muzzle vanishes. in the greek ideal head, the development presenting a facial angle of ninety degrees, confers the highest beauty of the form of the head, the majesty of the forehead, the position of the eyes upon a line which divides the face into two equal parts, the elegant projection of the nose, the absence of all tumidity of the lips.--but of that, in the sequel. in the face, generally, as observed by winckelmann, beauty of form depends greatly upon the profile, and particularly on the line described by the forehead and nose, by the greater or less degree of the concavity or declivity of which, beauty is increased or diminished. the nearer the profile approaches to a straight line, the more majestic, and at the same time softer, does the countenance appear, the unity and simplicity of this line being, as in everything else, the cause of this grand, yet soft harmony. the face being the seat of several organs, each must be examined in its turn. winckelmann observes, that "a large high forehead [an excess, in this respect] was regarded by the ancients as a deformity."--and "arnobius says, that those women who had a high forehead, covered a part of it with a fillet." the reason of this will afterward be pointed out. the sense of touch resides in all parts of the face, but especially in the lips. it is most perfect, however, at the tips of the fingers. a thinner skin permits to the touch of woman, more vivacity, delicacy, and profoundness. it seizes the details which generally escape the touch of man. it is more easily hurt by hard, rough and angular, cold or hot bodies. hence, woman requires vestments which are light and smooth; and she enjoys more than man the pleasure of reposing on flocculent substances which softly resist her pressure. in the face, the lips are peculiarly the organ of touch. of all the organs of sense, the mouth admits, i believe, of the greatest beauty and the greatest deformity. considered in repose, nothing certainly is more lovely than this organ when beautifully formed in a beautiful woman. and in action, during speech, the simplest words passing through it receive a charm altogether peculiar. the mouth ought to be small, and not to extend much beyond the nostrils: a large mouth and thick lips are contrary to beauty. the curve of the upper lip is said to have served as a model to the ancient artists for the bow of love. the lower lip should be most developed, rounded and turned outward; so as to produce, between it and the chin, that beautiful hollow which assists so much in giving the latter a more perfect rotundity. both, but especially the upper, should become thin toward the angle of the mouth. although we see many lips without evident and offensive defects, there are very few of them really beautiful; and indeed it is only persons of great delicacy and of refined taste who attach the highest value to perfect beauty of the lips. lips of beautiful form and of vermillion hue, teeth which are small, equal, slightly rounded, white, clean, and well arranged, and a pure breath, are the circumstances which constitute a beautiful mouth. the sense of taste is more delicate and more exquisite in woman than in man. she accordingly seeks for savors which are less rough and irritating than those which are agreeable to him. the nose is the most prominent and conspicuous feature of the face; it is the central fixed point around which are arranged all its other parts; and it is thus essential to the regularity of the features. when these, moreover, are in action, the nose, by its immobility, marks the degree of change which they undergo, and renders intelligible all the movements produced by admiration, joy, sadness, fear, &c. to perfect beauty of the nose, it is necessary that it should be nearly in the same direction with the forehead, and should unite with that part, without leaving more than a slight inflexion to be seen. this constitutes the greek profile; and the various degrees of deviation from it constitute, as to this organ, the various degenerations from beauty the most consummate to ugliness the most disgusting. nature says winckelmann, is sparing of this beauty both in burning climates and in frozen regions.[42] the same writer says: "the flat compressed nose of the kalmucs, chinese, and other distant nations, is also a defect, because it destroys the harmony of forms, according to which all the other parts are constructed: nor is there any reason why nature should compress and hollow it, instead of continuing the straight line begun in the forehead." the fact is true; the reasoning false, as will be seen in a subsequent chapter, to which this point properly belongs. under the influence of passion, the nostrils expand and are drawn upward; and these two motions are the only ones of which the lower and moveable part of the nose is capable. the sense of smell, like that of taste, is more delicate and more exquisite in woman than in man. woman accordingly enjoys more, and suffers more, by that sense than man does; and its influence is said to dispose her more than man to those pleasures which have remarkable relations to that sense. to beauty of the eye, magnitude and elongated form contribute more perhaps than color: if its form be bad, no color will render it beautiful. in woman, however, the most beautiful eyes, in relation to color, are those which appear to be blue, hazel, or black. but no color of the eye is beautiful without clearness in every part. "the more obliquely, and at an angle to each other," says winckelmann, "that the eyes are placed, as in cats, the more their position is removed from the base, or from the fundamental lines of the human face, which form a cross that divides it into four parts, the nose dividing it perpendicularly into two equal parts, and the eyes dividing it horizontally. when the eyes are placed obliquely, they form an angle with a line parallel to that which we suppose to pass through their centre. and this indeed is doubtless the reason why it displeases us to see a mouth which goes awry, because it generally offends the eye to see two lines diverging from each other without any reason. thus eyes placed obliquely, as may be seen sometimes among ourselves, and commonly among the chinese, japanese, and in egyptian heads, are an irregularity and a deformity." here, again, winckelmann's fact is true, and his reasoning false, or rather, perhaps, superficial. the real cause of the deformity of obliquely-placed eyes is, that the vital parts of the head preponderate. the cavities of the upper jaw, which open into the internal nose, are, in the mongelic races, so large, that they raise the cheek-bones, throw the orbit upward at its lateral part, and encroach apparently upon the space which should contain a nobler organ, the brain. the causes assigned by winckelmann are but consequences of this. the eyelids in woman, when well formed, present the gentlest inflexions. the eyelashes, when long and silky, form a sign of gentleness, and sometimes of softness. the eyebrows ought to be furnished with fine hairs, arched, and separated: if they are too thin, they do not sufficiently protect the organ of sight: if they unite, they render the physiognomy sombre; their too-marked approximation, and their extreme separation, are real deformities. the sense of sight in woman is rapid and active; yet, in her, the slow and languid motion of the eye is generally employed, and is more beautiful than a brisk one. woman requires a mild light, and colors of moderate vividness, rather than otherwise. the beauty of the ear is too little regarded. to an experienced eye it presents great beauties, and great deformities, in form, magnitude, and projection. the size and prominence of the ear, which characterize several nomadic tribes, are contrary to beauty, not merely because they alter the regularity of the oval of the head, and surcharge its outline with prominences, but because they are in themselves ugly, indicating rather the coarse strength common to inferior animals than the delicacy to be found in man. in woman, the ear is also more delicate, more sensible, but more feeble, than in man. strong sounds, loud noises, which may be agreeable to the ear of man, are offensive to her. she prefers soft and tender, gay, or pathetic music, to every other; and whatever may be the perfection of her musical education, she also prefers sweet and tender melody to the most complicated sclavonic harmony. such are the organs of sense or those of impression, which form the first and most important portion of the face of woman.--the organs of expression, the muscles of the face, on the contrary, are feeble in her; and correspondingly feeble and rounded are the bony points to which they are attached. woman presents very little prominence of the frontal sinuses; the cheek-bones display beautiful curves; the edges of the alveoli containing the teeth are much more elliptical than in man; and the chin is softly rounded. of the chin, it should be observed that it is a distinctive character of the human species, and is not found in any other animal. when well formed, it is full, united, and generally without a dimple; and it passes gently and almost insensibly into the neighboring parts. in woman especially, the chin ought to be finely rounded; for when projecting, it expresses, owing to its connexion with muscular action and power, a firmness and a determination which we do not wish to discover in her character. "the apparent convexity of the cheeks," says winckelmann, "which in many heads appears greater than natural, contributes to this rotundity: it is not, however, ideal, but taken from natural beauty." the muscles of the face express all the shades of emotion and passion, not because such expression is the primary, or the proper object of their motion, but because their various motions adapt the organs to the farther purposes required of them in consequence of preceding impressions; and these motions become expressive to us only because we are thus enabled to infer the feeling and purpose of the person in whom they occur. this is a fundamental principle of physiognomy; and its not being understood has led to many of our errors in that science. in woman, the countenance is more rounded, as well as more abundantly furnished with that cellular and, fatty tissue which fills all the chasms, effaces, all the angles, and unites all the parts by the gentlest transitions. at the same time, the muscles are feebler, more mobile, resigned for a shorter time to the same contraction, and as inconstant as the emotions and passions which their rapid play expresses. the result of all this is, that the muscles do not profoundly modify the face, which consequently has not so much of permanent character as that of a man, and which permits us more difficultly to discover, through the rounded, short, and shifting parts, the nature of her various feelings. as, however, the abundance of the cellular tissue diminishes with age, and as the sentiments become at the same time less ephemeral, the physiognomical character and expression of woman become more decided. as to color of the face, it may be observed that the forehead, the temples, the eyelids, the nose, the upper part of the superior lip, and the lower part of the inferior lip, ought in woman to be of a beautiful and rather opaque white. the approach to the cheeks and the middle of the chin ought to have a slight teint of rose-color, and the middle of the cheeks ought to be altogether rosy, but of a delicate hue.--cheeks of an animated white are preferable to those of a red color, although less beautiful than those of rosy hue. with regard to the hair, it may be observed, that sometimes, rising from its bulbs, it turns in irregular rings, and, by displaying a forehead rather large, confers a certain sanguine, as well as open air upon the physiognomy. this, however, is most frequently seen in men, and chiefly in men of exuberant vitality, rather than intellectuality: it indeed depends entirely on the former. in other men, and almost always in women, the hair generally divides in a line extending from the crown to the forehead, and falls over the temples. the line thus formed, uniting with the median line, of the face in general, and that of the nose in particular, gives to the whole of the features a peculiar symmetry and beauty. i have said, already, that symmetry is a characteristic of thinking beings, and i have explained the reason of this. the present case admirably illustrates it. this symmetrical arrangement of the hair bestows an intellectual air; and it well may, for, when natural, it derives its tendency to fall on each side, from the top of the head, either from the general elevation of the calvarium, or from the particular elevation of the forehead, which is characteristic of beauty in woman. it accordingly announces in the individual higher observing faculties: hence, the ancient sculptors never omitted this in their highest personages: hence, we find it in the heads of raffaelle and guido. "a fair hue, [greek: xanthos]," says winckelmann, "has ever been regarded as the most beautiful; and flaxen-colored hair was assigned to the most beautiful, not only among the gods, as apollo [[greek: chrysokoman apollã´na], golden-haired apollo] and bacchus, but also among the heroes: alexander the great had flaxen hair." the modern italians call cupid "il biondo dio." having concluded what i have here to say of the parts of the face, i may observe, that the _different effects of the same face_, even in a state of repose, have often been observed, never explained. i have, however, in another work, shown that the face is composed of motive, nutritive, and thinking parts or organs. now, circumstances bring these variously into action; and the different effects alluded to, in reality depend on the motive, or the nutritive, or the intellectual expression being at the time, respectively, most apparent, or most attended to by us. the study of this subject, which i have not space here to develop, is of infinite importance to the man of taste, the physiognomist, and the artist. the latter cannot easily excel without understanding it. another curious fact, not hitherto observed, is, that though beauty of face is, owing to the power of the vital system, almost universal at a certain age, there is always a _faulty feature_, which the physiognomist may observe, and which ever continues to exaggerate, until it terminate in relative ugliness. thus we scarcely observe the long upper lip during youth, in some women; and yet it afterward gives to them the sober grimace of baboons. we admire in youth the spirit of the piercing eye, and aquiline nose in others, to whom these afterward give the look of so many old hawks. in others, still, we are charmed with the round, rosy, and innocent cheeks, which, when they become paler and more pendent, confer on them the aspect either of seals or of mastiffs, according to other circumstances of temper and disposition. i could easily trace these, and many more, from youth to middle age, and illustrate them convincingly, by drawings: but i have no room for it here. each, indeed, of the subjects of the two immediately preceding paragraphs, is worthy of a volume; for the first is as essential to all judgment of existing beauty at the instant of its being before us, as the second is to all prescience of what beauty will very soon be--to all who have no love for a leap in the dark. i add to this chapter but a few words on the very _different organization of the head and face_, and the very different mind, of the greeks and romans. whoever, for the purpose of comparing the heads of these two nations, may walk into the british museum, will be struck with the difference between them. the forehead is almost always rather narrow, and rather high, in the most illustrious greeks; and this could not so uniformly have been so represented, in sculpture, unless it had been so also in fact. this is verified, in the third room of the townley collection, by the heads of homer, hippocrates, epicurus, pericles, &c.--by the almost universal conformation of greek heads, to which there are but few exceptions: sophocles, in this room, and demosthenes, in the eleventh, are rather broader. on the contrary, the forehead, the face, the jaws, are excessively broad, and the cranium is depressed and low, in the romans--in severus, nero, caracalla, &c., in the sixth room, and in tiberius and augustus, in the eleventh; nor is this owing to the circumstance that these generally were men degraded in feeling or intellect, for nearly the same configuration is found in trajan, hadrian, &c., in the fourth, sixth, and other rooms. the faces of the romans are not less ugly than their heads; and those of their women are absolutely detestable, as may be seen in faustina, plautilla, sabina, domitia, &c., in the sixth of these rooms. if farther illustration of this be wanting, it may be found in the circumstance that, while the greeks preferred the rather high forehead, and invented the ideal one, the romans, on the contrary, preferred a little forehead and united eyebrows. ovid assures us that the women of his time painted their eyebrows in such a manner, that they might appear to form only one. in the work so often referred to, i have shown that the intensity of functions is as the length of their organs, and the permanence of functions as the breadth of their organs. no truth can be better illustrated than this is, in the organization and the faculties of the greeks and romans. with the higher and larger head of the greeks was united an intensity of genius, which no other people has yet rivalled; and with the broader head of the romans, a perseverance, equally obstinate and unfeeling, which has been similarly unrivalled. a good illustration of the vaunted roman virtue is recorded in porcia, the daughter of cato, the wife of brutus, who plunged a toilet-knife into her thigh, and kept it eight days in the wound, without complaining, to prove to her husband that her courage and her discretion rendered her worthy of entering into the conspiracy, which he meditated; and who also destroyed herself by swallowing burning coals, when she heard of his defeat. obstinacy and insensibility were great sources of the crimes either perpetrated, or, by their lying historians, pretended to be perpetrated, under the name of roman virtue. * * * * * it would be out of place, here, to enter farther into the character and expression of the face. those whom these remarks dispose to do so, may refer to the physiognomical work, which i have been so often compelled to allude to.[43] to those who are satisfied, neither with the vague, though tasteful inspirations of lavater, nor with the empyrical or unreasoned manifestations of gall and spurzheim, but who desire _the assignment of a reason for every description of physiognomical character or expression_, that work may afford some satisfaction. that the greeks, either intuitively or reasonedly, distinguished the three species of beauty as to the figure, has been already seen. the heads of diana, venus, and minerva, respectively present beauty of the locomotive, vital, and mental systems. chapter xvi. combinations and transitions of the three species of female beauty. as to the combinations of beauty, it must now be observed, that some one of these species of beauty always characterize the same individual during every stage of life; and, to the experienced observer, it never is difficult to say which of them predominates. attention to the preceding principles will render this easy. it is right to mention here the cause of this general predominance of one species of beauty over the rest. it depends on this, that the slightest original or accidental preponderance of strength in one system above that of the rest, though unobserved at first, leads to a more frequent employment of its functions, and therefore to a more perfect development of its organs, until at last the disproportion between these and those of the other systems, becomes characteristic of the individual. in a truly beautiful woman, none of the systems described can exist in a great degree of degradation; but of the three, the nutritive or vital system is to woman the most essential. in england, from thirty to forty is generally the age of its highest perfection. it often, however, occurs, that two, or even the whole of these species of beauty, are blended in considerable perfection. in those females in which it is found, the locomotive system is well developed in the length and elegance of the limbs; the vital or nutritive system everywhere presents soft forms, and rounds both body and limbs; and the mental or thinking system displays a capability of grace in action, notwithstanding the constrained attitude assumed to conceal the face. although there can indeed be no great degree of beauty in which this combination is not more or less the case, yet a union of all the three species of beauty, in the greatest compatible degree, is to be found only in some of those immortal images of ideal beauty, which were created by the genius and the chisel of the greeks. having briefly spoken of these combinations, i may notice also those _combinations which similarly occur among the temperaments_, which, as already said, constitute partial views of the varieties i have been describing. in relation to a combination of the _phlegmatic_ and _nervous_ temperament, i may refer to richerand, who says, that, "among the moderns, the easy michael montaigne, all of whose passions were so moderate, who reasoned on everything, even on feeling, was truly pituitous. but in him the predominance of the lymphatic system was not carried so far, but that he joined to it a good deal of nervous susceptibility." of women, more especially, it is observed, that they rarely present examples of the lymphatic temperament, unmodified by nervous mobility; whence come extreme vivacity in the sensations with great feebleness, determinations equally precipitate and unsteady, excited imagination and ephemeral tastes, absolute will, &c. the _sanguine_ temperament is similarly combined with the _nervous_ one. hence, the physiologist above quoted says, that "to the extreme love of pleasure, sanguine men join, when circumstances require it [he should have said, in some cases], great elevation of thought and character, and can bring into action the highest talents in every department: the history of henry iv., of mirabeau, and others, proves that." the ancients gave the name of _bilious_, to a temperament in which the sanguineous system is energetic, the pulse strong, hard, and frequent, the subcutaneous veins prominent, the development of the liver excessive, the superabundance of bile remarkable, the sensibility easily excited, yet capable of dwelling upon one object, the passions violent, the movements abrupt and impetuous, and the character inflexible. this is evidently a very compound temperament, and should never have been classed, any more than the two preceding, with the simple temperaments, the athletic or muscular, the phlegmatic or lymphatic, the sanguine, and the nervous, which i have noticed under the heads to which they belong. in persons of this temperament, the skin is of a yellowish brown, the hair black, the muscles marked, the form harshly expressed. "bold in the conception of a project," says richerand, "constant and indefatigable in its execution, it is among men of this temperament, that we find those who, in different ages, have governed the destinies of the world: full of courage, boldness, and activity, they have signalized themselves by great virtues or great crimes, and have been the terror or admiration of the universe. such were alexander, julius cesar, brutus, mahomet, charles xii., the czar peter, cromwell, sixtus v., cardinal richelieu [and, he should have added, bonaparte].... to attain to results of such importance, the profoundest dissimulation and the most obstinate constancy are equally necessary; and these are the most eminent qualities of the bilious." a still more compound temperament is the _melancholic_, in which disease is added to the bilious temperament, a derangement of the functions of the nervous system, and the diseased obstruction of some one of the organs of the abdomen, so that the nutritive functions are feebly or irregularly performed, the bowels sluggish, the pulse hard and contracted, the excretions difficult, the imagination gloomy, the disposition suspicious. in persons of this temperament, the skin is of a still deeper hue, and the look uneasy and gloomy. rousseau and tiberius are excellent examples of this temperament, as associated with genius and virtue in one, and with truly royal vice in the other. in women, this temperament is rarely so intense as in men. of the transitions of beauty, i have now to observe, that, though one species of beauty always characterizes the same individual during every stage of life, yet it is remarkable, that the young woman (whatever species of beauty predominates) has always a tendency to beauty of the locomotive system;--that the middle-aged woman has always a tendency to beauty of the nutritive system;--and that the woman of advanced age has always a tendency to beauty of the thinking system. some women would seem, in the progress of life, to pass through all these systems (and the more perfect the whole organization, the more will this seem to be the case); but the accurate observer will always see the predominance of the same system. chapter xvii. proportion, character, expression, etc. winckelmann says: "i cannot imagine beauty without the proportion which is always its foundation.--the drawing of the naked figure is founded upon the idea and the knowledge of beauty; and this idea consists partly in measures and relations, and partly in forms, the beauty of which was, as cicero observes, the object of the first grecian artists: the latter determine the figure; the former fix the proportions." the great variety of proportions presented by the human body causes much difficulty in determining with precision what are the best. the difficulty becomes quite insurmountable if we attempt to assign precise dimensions to the details of configuration or to minute parts. many circumstances are opposed to the exactness of these measures. even in the same person, one part is rarely in all respects similar to the corresponding part; we are taller in the morning than in the evening; and the proportions change at different periods of life. in different individuals, the differences are still more evident. moreover, habits, professions, trades, all unite to oppose regularity in the proportions. it has farther been observed that, in the conformation of woman, both as regards the whole and as regards the various parts, nature still more rarely approaches determinate proportions than in man. it is remarked by hogarth, whose views i now abridge, that in society we every day hear women pronounce perfectly correct opinions as to the proportions of the neck, the bosom, the hands, and the arms of other women, whom they have an interest in observing with severity. it is evident that, for such an examination, they ought to be capable of seizing, with great precision, the relation of length and thickness, and of following the slight sinuosities, the swellings, the depressions, almost insensible and continually varying, at the surface of the parts observed. if so, it is certainly in the power of a man of science, with as observing an eye, to go still farther, and conceive many other necessary circumstances concerning proportion. but he says: "though much of this matter may be easily understood by common observation, assisted by science, still i fear it will be difficult to raise a very clear idea of what constitutes or composes the utmost beauty of proportion.... we shall soon find that it is chiefly to be effected by means of the nice sensation we naturally have of what certain quantities or dimensions of parts are fittest to produce the utmost strength for moving or supporting great weights, and of what are most fit for the utmost light agility, as also for every degree, between these two extremes." after some illustrations of this, which naturally leave the method very vague, he adds: "i am apprehensive that this part of my scheme, for explaining exact proportion, may not be thought so sufficiently determinate as could be wished." so that hogarth's method as to proportions, both general and particular, reduces itself to the employment of the eye and the nice sensation we have of quantities or dimensions. but the greek artists had not only done what hogarth thus vaguely speaks of, but advanced much farther; and indeed all that has been done on this important subject belongs rather to the history of art than that of nature. "it is not," says buffon, "by the comparison of the body of one man with that of another man, or by measures actually taken in a great number of subjects, that we can acquire this knowledge [that of proportion]: it is by the efforts which have been made exactly to copy and imitate nature; it is to the art of design that we owe all that we know in this respect. feeling and taste have done all that mechanics could not do; the rule and the compass have been quitted in order to profit by the eye; all the forms, all the outlines, and all the parts of the human body, have been realized in marble; and we have known nature better by the representation than by nature itself. it is by great exercise of the art of design and by an exquisite sentiment, that great statuaries have succeeded in making us feel the just proportions of the works of nature. the greeks have formed such admirable statues, that with one consent they are regarded as the most exact representation of the most perfect human body. these statues, which were only copies from man, are become originals, because these copies were not made from any individual, but from the whole human species well observed, so well indeed, that no man has been found whose figure is so well proportioned as these statues: it is then from these models that the measures of the human body have been taken." it is now necessary to lay before the reader the principles of the greeks, as to the proportions of the human body. much has been well done on this subject by winckelmann, bossi, and others; but, at the same time, from want of enlarged anatomical and physiological views, they have overlooked some fundamental considerations, and have failed to unravel the greatest difficulties which the subject presents. that the reader may be satisfied of the accuracy of my representations, i shall lay the statements of these writers before him in their own words, rendering them only as succinct as possible.[44] of the first epoch of art among the etruscans and greeks, mengs says: "they preferred the most necessary things to those which were less so; and therefore they directed their attention first to the muscles, and next to _proportion_, these constituting the two parts the most useful and necessary of the human form; and this is, throughout, the character of their primitive taste. all this we observe in history, and in the divine and human figures which they have represented. "in these figures," he farther observes, "we find a proportion, impossible to be known and practised, without an art which furnishes sure _rules_. these rules could not be founded otherwise than in proportion, which was invented and practised by the greeks." in this, flaxman agrees, when he says: "it must not be supposed that those simple geometrical forms of body and limbs, in the divinities and heroes of antiquity, depended upon accidental choice, or blind and ignorant arbitration. they are, on the contrary, a consequence of the strict and extensive examination of nature, of rational inquiry into its most perfect organization and physical well-being, expressed in outward appearance." "that the greeks," says bossi, "wrote much on this subject [their doctrine respecting symmetry] we have ample evidence in pliny, vitruvius himself, philostratus the younger, and others. "polycletus did not confine himself to giving a commentary upon this fundamental point, but, in illustration of his treatise, according to galen, made an admirable statue that confirmed the precepts laid down in the work; and 'the rule of polycletus,' the name given to this statue, became so famous for its beauty, that it passed into a proverb to express a perfect body, as we may find in lucian. "but of so many writings, which ought at least to equal the works that remain to us, and probably were superior, inasmuch as it is easier to lay down precepts than to put them in execution--of so many treatises, i say, not a fragment remains [except the few lines of vitruvius], nor is there, now, any hope that a vestige will be found, unless something may remain for posterity among the papyri of herculaneum." now, to approach to the ancients in excellence is quite impossible, until some one shall explain the great principles on which they acted. assuredly they are, in some of the most important respects, unknown at present. servile imitation will never answer the purpose; and to learn as the ancients did, and reach perfection, perhaps, in as many ages, is not very rational, when we can avail ourselves of their practice to discover their principles. i will, in this chapter, endeavor to point out some of these principles in the practice of art, as i have already done in the general theory of beauty. "it is probable," says winckelmann, "that the grecian artists, in imitation of the egyptians, had fixed, by well-determined rules, not only the largest, but even the very smallest proportions, and the measure of the length proper to every age and to every kind of contour; and probably all these rules were learned by young persons, from books that treated of symmetry." these rules, we know, were of three kinds--numerical, geometrical, and harmonic; and we shall see, in the sequel, that the loss of them has been much deplored. it is not a little curious, however, that the numerical and geometrical methods are, in some measure, actually practised even at the present day, and that the harmonic method (the loss of which has caused the greatest confusion) is easily deducible from anatomical and physiological principles, as i shall endeavor to show. as to the numerical method, it is evidently that of which vitruvius has preserved some notions, and which is at present practised by artists. "as it is the painter's business," says bossi, "to imitate a great variety of human bodies, and as the difference of parts in beautiful bodies is generally slight, and becomes, as it were, imperceptible, in the most usual imitations less than life, leonardo perceived it was necessary for the artist to use a general measure, for the purpose of preparing historical compositions quickly. he required that the figure to be employed should be carefully selected on the model of some natural body, the proportions of which were generally considered beautiful.--this measure, he required, should be employed solely for _length_, and not for width, which requires more evident variety." "it has been observed," says flaxman, "that vitruvius, from the writings of the most eminent greek painters and sculptors, informs us that they made their figures eight heads high, or ten faces, and he instances different parts of the figure measured according to that rule, which the great michael angelo adopted, as we see by a print from a drawing of his." winckelmann, however, shows that the foot served the greeks as a measure for all their larger dimensions, and that their sculptors regulated their proportions by it, in giving six times its length, as the model of the human figure. vitruvius says, "_pes vero altitudinis corporis sextã¦_." "the foot," says winckelmann, "which among the ancients was used as the standard of measures of every magnitude (for a given measure of fluids was also called by this name), was very useful to sculptors in fixing the proportions of the body, and with reason; for the foot was a more determinate measure than that of the head or face, of which the moderns generally make use. the ancient artists regulated the size of their statues by the length of the foot, making them, according to vitruvius, six times the length of the foot. upon this principle, pythagoras determined the height of hercules, by the length of the feet with which he measured the olympic stadium at elis. "this proportion of six to one between the foot and the body, is founded upon experience of nature, even in slender figures: it is found correct, not only in the egyptian statues, but also in the grecian; and it will be discovered in the greater part of the ancient figures where the feet are preserved." "we would not omit mentioning," says bossi, "the erroneous opinion of those, who esteem the feet of females beautiful in proportion to their smallness. the beauty of the feet consists in the handsomeness and neatness of their shape, not in their being short, or extremely small: were it otherwise, the feet of the chinese and japanese women would be beautiful, and those of the venus de medici frightful." such, then, is evidently the numerical method of the ancients.--of the geometrical method, we have many illustrations. a man standing upright, with his arms extended, is, as leonardo da vinci has shown, enclosed in a square, the extreme extent of his arms being equal to his height. this is evidently the most general measure of the latter kind. of the latter kind, also, is camper's ellipsis for measuring the relative size of the shoulders in the male, and the pelvis in the female. so also is the measure from the centre of one mammã¦ to that of the other, as equal to the distance from each to the pit over the breast-bone. we now approach the chief difficulty, which evidently formed a stumbling-block even to leonardo da vinci--that harmonic method which, strange as it may appear, will be found to afford rules that are at once perfectly _precise_, and yet infinitely _variable_. the apparent impossibility indeed of such a rule seems to have embarrassed every one. and the statement which bossi makes in regard to leonardo da vinci, in this respect, is exceedingly interesting. "he thought," says bossi, "but little of any general measure of the species; and that _the true proportion_ admitted by him, and acknowledged to be of difficult investigation, is solely _the proportion of an individual in regard to himself_, which, according to true imitation, should be _different in all the individuals of a species_, as is the case in nature. thus, says he, '_all the parts of any animal should correspond with the whole_; that which is short and thick, should have every member short and thick; that which is long and thin, every member long and thin; and that which is between the two, members of a proportionate size.' from this and other precepts, it follows, that, when he speaks of proportion, he is to be understood as referring to the _harmony of the parts of an individual_, and not to the general rule of imitation in reference to dimensions."--how clearly (notwithstanding the error as to _all_ being short and thick) does this point to the harmonic method of proportion forthwith to be explained? "it would seem he felt within himself that he did not reach the perfection of those wonderful ancients of whom he professed himself the admirer and disciple. "it became, therefore, leonardo's particular care and study to approach as nearly as he could to the ancients in the true imitation of beautiful nature under the guidance of philosophy. "but whether from want of great examples, or from not sufficiently penetrating, as he himself thought, into these artifices, or from comprehending them too late, he modestly laments that he did not possess the ancient art of proportions. he then protests that he has done the little he was able to do, and asks pardon of posterity that he has not done more. such are the sentiments that platino exhibits in the following epitaph: "leonardus vincia (sic) florentinus statuarius pictor que nobilissimus de se parce loquitur. "non sum lysippus; nec apelles; nec policletus, nec zeuxis; nec sum nobilis ã¦re myron. sum florentinus leonardus vincia proles; mirator veterum discipulusque memor. _defuit una mihi symmetria prisca_: peregi quod potui: veniam da mihi posteritas." "it is evident that these sentiments are not to be attributed to the imagination of the poet." bossi, having no glimpse of the great principles for which leonardo sought in vain, says: "since, then, this great man could not satisfy himself in the difficult task of dimensions, while on other points he seems to dread no censure, it should give us a strong idea of the difficulty of determining the laws of beautiful symmetry, and preserving it in works with _that harmony which is felt, but cannot be explained, and which varies in every figure, according to the age, circumstances, and particular character of each_. "and when we recollect that, though leonardo sought successfully in vitruvius the proportions which vitruvius himself seems to have drawn from the greeks, he yet lamented that he did not possess the ancient symmetry, it is easily seen that he did not mean by this science, as already stated, a determinate general measure for man, but _that harmony of parts which is suited to each individual, according to the respective circumstances of sex, age, character, and the like_." again, how clearly does this point to the harmonic method of proportion to be presently explained! "but," bossi proceeds, "how difficult it is to combine the beautiful and elegant, with easy and harmonic measures, may be judged from the vain attempts of many otherwise ingenious men, as i will here relate for the benefit of artists. the difficulty will be still more evident if we reflect how arduous a task it is to make the proportions that the greeks denominated numerical, harmonic, and geometrical, agree together, and to apply them thus agreeing, to the formation of rules and measures of a visible object so various in its component parts as the human body."--in despair, bossi tries to show its absolute impossibility! "in the second place, to penetrate completely the natural reason of the proportions of the human body, would require a knowledge of physics, which it is not in man's power to obtain. the universal equilibrium of the numerous constituent parts of the human machine, every one of which eminently attains the end for which it was destined, without interrupting the course that every other part takes to its respective end, in which true proportion seems to consist, is more easily stated than understood. and even if an artist could arrive at such a knowledge of man as to be able, so to speak, to compose him, he would have done but little, because he would have made but one man. by the alteration of only one of the infinite parts that compose the human frame, the equilibrium and respective relation of the others are necessarily altered: in short, each separate individual would be the subject of a totally new study. "every human habit, of whatever nature it may be, has an influence over the human figure, and from the indefinable variety and incalculable mixture of such habits, there results an infinite variety of figures. thus, it is evident that true general proportions cannot be laid down without violating nature, which it is the object of art to imitate."--if, by "general proportions," bossi here means proportions applicable to all or to a great number, he completely loses sight of the object of the great man on whose opinions he comments; for he sought _a rule for the harmony of parts in each distinct individual_! again, bossi abandons, as impossible, the finding of the harmonic rule, which was the great object of leonardo.--"from what has been said, we may finally conclude that large proportions only can be established, and that placing too much confidence in measures, retards, rather than favors the arts. "it was written of raphael, and is seen, that he had as many proportions as he made figures. michael angelo did the same, and it was his saying, that he who had not the compasses in his eye, would never be able to supply the deficiency by artificial means. vincentio danti, who treasured the doctrine of michael angelo, asserts in his work, that the proportions do not fall under any measure of quantity. we have seen the infinite exceptions of leonardo, respecting the measurement of man, and his own few works confirm it. i speak no more of inferior persons among the moderns; but turning to the ancients, i find that the proportions of every good statue are different."--and this will be found conformable to the harmonic rule. "and speaking generally of works in relievo, what canons can determine the largeness or smallness of some parts, so as to obtain a greater effect according to the circumstances of light, distance, material, visual point, &c.? certainly none."--this was not to be expected from the rule sought for. "i shall deem that i have gained some recompense for the toil of wading through so many tedious works, if it shall induce any faith in the advice i now give, namely, that 'every student of painting should himself measure many bodies of acknowledged beauty, compare them with the finest imitations in painting and sculpture, and from these measures make a canon for himself, dividing it in the manner best suited to his genius and memory. if this plan were more generally adopted, art and its productions would both be gainers.'"--it might do so, among as ingenious a people as the greeks, in as many ages as the same method cost them to do it in! leonardo da vinci wanted to abridge the time, instead of beginning again! winckelmann as little understands this great man's object, when, after saying, "as the ancients made ideal beauty their principal study, they determined its relations and proportions," he adds "from which, however, they allowed themselves to deviate, when they had a good reason, and yielded themselves to the guidance of their genius." why, the whole purpose of the rule sought for was to regulate every possible deviation, as will now be seen. the harmonic method of the greeks--that measure which leonardo calls the "true proportion"--"the proportion of an individual in regard to himself"--"which should be different in all the individuals of a species," but in which "all the parts of any animal should correspond with the whole," which constitutes "the harmony of the parts of an individual," and which, as bossi adds, "varies in every figure, according to the age, circumstances, and particular character of each"--in short, _this method for the harmony of parts in each distinct individual--this method presenting rules, perfectly precise, and yet infinitely variable_, has, in all its elements, been clearly laid before the reader (though not enunciated as a rule)--in the relative proportions of the locomotive, nutritive, and thinking systems, or, generally speaking, of the limbs, trunk, and head, and in the three species of beauty which are founded on them. these, it is evident, present to the philosophic observer, the sole means of judging of beauty by harmonic rule, the great object of leonardo da vinci's desires and regrets. they present the great features of the greek method--if that method conformed to truth and nature, as it undoubtedly did. this will be rendered still clearer by a single example. thus, if any individual be characterized by the development of the nutritive system, this harmonic rule of nature demands not only that, as in the saxon-english, the dutch, and many germans, the trunk shall be large, but consequently, that the other two portions, the head and the limbs, shall be relatively small; that the calvarium shall be small and round, and the intellectual powers restricted; that the head shall, nevertheless, be broad, because the vital cavities of the head are large, and because large jaws and muscles of mastication are necessary for the supply of such a system; that the neck shall be short, because the locomotive system is little developed; that it shall be thick, because the vessels which connect the head to the trunk are large and full, the former being only an appendage of the latter; that the lower limbs shall be both short and slender; that the calves of the legs shall be small and high;[45] that the feet shall be little turned out, &c., &c. so also, if any individual be characterized by the development of the locomotive system, the harmonic rule demands, not only that the limbs shall be large, but, consequently, that the other two portions, the head and the trunk, shall be relatively small; that the calvarium shall be small and long, and the intellectual powers limited; that the head shall be long, because the jaws and their muscles are extended, &c., &c. so likewise, if any individual be characterized by the development of the thinking system, the harmonic rule demands, not only that the head shall be large, but, consequently, that the other two portions, the trunk and limbs, shall be relatively small; that the head shall not only be large, but that its upper part, the calvarium, shall be largest, giving a pyramidal appearance to the head; that the trunk and limbs, however elegantly formed, shall be relatively feeble, the former often liable to disease, the latter to accident, as we have seen in the most illustrious examples, &c., &c. it must be borne in mind, however, as already explained, that there may be innumerable combinations and modifications of these characteristics; certain greater ones, nevertheless, generally predominating. such, doubtless, was the harmonic method of the greeks; whether, by them, it was thus clearly founded on anthropology, or not. it is curious that several writers, and winckelmann among the rest, should have adopted a triple division of the body--without, however, duly founding it in anthropology. thus winckelmann says "the entire body is divided into three parts, and the principal members are also divided into three. the parts of the body are the trunk, the thighs, and the legs!"--a distribution and division founded neither in nature nor in truth. that the greeks were more or less aware of the principles here stated, though their writings have not descended to us, is proved by their idealizations founded upon them. "if different proportions," says winckelmann, "are sometimes met with in any figure, as for example, in the beautiful trunk of a naked female figure in the possession of signior cavaceppi at rome, in which the body from the navel to the sexual parts is of an uncommon length, it is most probable that such figures have been copied from nature, that is, from persons so formed."--nothing certainly would be better founded in natural tendency than such idealization. all the three greek methods of proportion being now before the reader, i must briefly notice other circumstances. in the head in particular, may be observed character, or a permanent and invariable form, which defines its capabilities, and expression, or temporary and variable forms, which indicate its actual functions. the teachers of anatomy for artists have not, that i know of, clearly described the causes of these. i may therefore observe, that as character is permanent and invariable, it depends _fundamentally_ on permanent and invariable parts--the bones; and as expression is temporary and variable, it depends on shifting and variable parts--the muscles. it is well observed by mengs that, in relation to character, "the peculiar distinction of the ancients is, that from one part of the face, we may know the character of the whole." and, of expression, winckelmann observes that "the portion which possesses beauty of expression or action, or beauty of both added to the figure of any person, is like the resemblance of one who views himself in a fountain; the reflection is not seen plainly unless the surface of the water be still, limpid, and clear; quiet and tranquillity are as suitable to beauty as to the sea. expression and action being, in art as in nature, the evidence of the active or passive state of the mind, perfect beauty can never exist in the countenance unless the mind be calm and free from all agitation, at least from everything likely to change and disturb the lineaments of which beauty is composed." now the details which, during the period of perfection in art, were so skilfully employed, were these very means of expression or circumstances attending and indicating them--minuter forms which are universal, and without which nature is imperfectly represented--minuter forms of the highest order, because the means of expressing intellect, emotion, and passion, if required. these higher details we find, for instance, in the turn of the inner end of the eyebrow, or constriction and elevation of the under eyelid, or a hundred other traits dependant on subjacent muscles. we find them in slight risings of mere cutaneous parts, when they lie over and are elevated by the attachment of muscles, as at the inner angles of the eyes, the corners of the mouth, and elsewhere. we find them in depressions or furrows, when they are drawn down by contiguous muscles. these are of higher character, because they belong to expression or its means; and there is a corresponding want of completeness, of truth, of nature, without them. between these intellectual means, these higher details, and those of a lower order, accidental details, the great artists of greece distinguished. accidental details have nothing to do with expression or the means of expression; they depend upon an inferior system, that merely of life, and constitute all the depositions, excrescences, and growths, which confuse the vision of the inexperienced, and embarrass that of the most discriminating, in the examination of higher beauty. these lower details we find, for instance, in the puffings of adipose substance which project from the spaces between the muscles of the face, and from other accidents of the vital system, as wrinkles or folds from the absence of adipose substance, fulness or emptiness of the vessels, projecting veins, peculiar conditions of the skin, turbidity of the eyes, hairs of the head, beard, or skin, &c. these have always characterized inferior artists and inferior periods of art. from these observations, it will be seen that such unqualified statements as the following by azara, lead only to misconception: "a human face, for example, is composed of the forehead, brows, eyes, nose, cheeks, mouth, chin, and beard. these are the great parts; but each of these contains many other minor parts, which also contain an infinity of others still less. if the painter will content himself to express well the great parts which i have taken notice of, he will have a grand style; if he depicts also the second, his style will be that of mediocrity; and if he pretends to introduce the last, his style will be insignificant and ridiculous." chapter xviii. the greek ideal beauty. on this important doctrine of art, of which winckelmann says: "the ideal is as much more noble than the mechanical as the mind is superior to the body," i shall follow, so far as i can advantageously, the great writers on this subject, in order that the reader may have all the confidence in its recognised portions that authority can bestow, and that he may the better distinguish them from the new views which are here added. "there are," says winckelmann, "two kinds of beauty, individual and ideal: the former is a combination of the beauties of an individual; the latter, a selection of beautiful parts from several. "the formation of beauty was begun from some beautiful individual, that is, from the imitation of some beautiful person, as in the representation of some divinity. even in the ages when the arts were flourishing, the goddesses were formed from the models of beautiful women, and even from those who publicly sold their charms: such was theodota, of whom xenophon speaks. nor was any one scandalized at it, for the opinion of the ancients on these matters was very different from ours." winckelmann adds: "there is rarely or never, a body without fault, all the parts of which are such that it is impossible to find or draw them more perfect in other persons. the wisest artists, being aware of this ... did not confine themselves to copying the forms of beauty from one individual ... but seeking what is beautiful from various objects, they endeavored to combine them together, as the celebrated parrhasius says in his discourse with socrates. thus, in the formation of their figures, they were not guided by any personal affections, by which we are frequently led, in the pursuit of beauty that pleases us, to abandon true beauty. "from the selection of the most beautiful parts and their harmonious union in one figure, arises ideal beauty: nor is this a metaphysical idea, because all the portions of the human figure taken separately are not ideal; but merely the entire figure." and he elsewhere says: "it is called ideal, not as regards its parts, but as a whole, in which nature can be surpassed by art." with deeper observation still, he adds that, "though nature tends to perfection in the formation of individuals, yet she is so constantly thwarted by the numerous accidents to which humanity is subject, that she cannot attain the end proposed; so that it is in a manner impossible to find an individual in whom all parts of the body are perfectly beautiful." it was to the same purport that proclus had in ancient times said: "he who takes for his model such forms as nature produces, and confines himself to an exact imitation of them, will never attain to what is perfectly beautiful. for the works of nature are full of disproportion, and fall very short of the true standard of beauty. so that phidias, when he formed his jupiter, did not copy any object ever presented to his sight, but contemplated only that image which he had conceived in his mind from homer's description."[46] in short, while the greek artists perpetually studied nature, they discovered her best and highest tendencies even in her most perfect forms; their works accordingly present nothing foreign to that which is strictly beautiful; they present not only no inferior forms, but no idle ornaments; and everything in them is accordingly at once simple and sublime. barry[47] affords me the means of continuing the view i now wish to present. "in all individuals," he says, "of every species, there is necessarily a visible tendency to a certain point or form. in this point or form, the standard of each species rests. the deviations from this, either by excess or deficiency, are of two kinds: first, deviations indicating a more peculiar adaptation of certain characters of advantage and utility, such as strength, agility, and so forth; even mental as well as corporeal, since they sometimes result from habit and education, as well as from original conformation. in these deviations, are to be found those ingredients which, in their composition and union, exhibit the abstract or ideal perfection in the several classes or species of character. the second kind of deviation is that which, having no reference to anything useful or advantageous, but rather visibly indicating the contrary, as being useless, cumbersome, or deficient, is considered as deformity; and this deformity will be always found different in the several individuals, by either not being in the same part, in the same manner, or in the same degree. the points of agreement which indicate the species, are therefore many; of difference which indicate the deformity, few." barry, however, wrongly says: "mere beauty, then, though always interesting, is, notwithstanding, vague and indeterminate; as it indicates no particular expression either of body or mind." but it indicates the highest character, the capability of all noble expression, and this is better than its sacrifice to actuality in one. i am now led to the greater rules which their ideal method suggested to the greeks. payne knight indeed says: "precise rules and definitions, in matters of this sort, are merely the playthings or tools of system-builders;" and, unchecked by any recollection of the practical and unrivalled excellence of the founders of these rules, he adds a great deal of narrow-minded and mistaken nonsense upon the subject, never distinguishing between rules in themselves rational, and the stretching of them to utter inapplicability. on this subject, even reynolds properly observes, that "some of the greatest names of antiquity, and those who have most distinguished themselves in works of genius and imagination, were equally eminent for their critical skill. plato, aristotle, cicero, and horace; and among the moderns, boileau, corneille, pope, and dryden, are at least instances of genius not being destroyed by attention or subjection to rules and science." but the grossest errors on this subject have been committed by alison, who says: "artists, in every age, have taken pains to ascertain the most exact measurement of the human form, and of all its parts.... if the beauty of form consisted in any original proportion, the productions of the fine arts would everywhere have testified it; and, in the works of the statuary and the painter, we should have found only this sole and sacred system of proportion. the fact however is, as every one knows, that, in such productions, no such rule is observed; that there is no one proportion of parts which belongs to the most beautiful productions of these arts; that the proportions of the apollo, for instance, are different from those of the hercules, the antinous, the gladiator, &c.; and that there are not, in the whole catalogue of ancient statues, two, perhaps, of which the proportions are actually the same." now, i believe, we may say that this original or most perfect proportion is presented in the apollo, which is not, as generally supposed, an example of _peculiar_, but of _universal_ beauty--the locomotive system presenting as much strength as is compatible with agility, and as much agility as is compatible with strength, and any other modification of either ensuring diminution of power; while the vital and mental systems are equally perfect. wherever this model is deviated from by the ancient artists it is _peculiar_ beauty, i believe, that is represented. he farther says: "they have imagined also various standards of this measurement; and many disputes have arisen, whether the length of the head, of the foot, or of the nose, was to be considered as this central and sacred standard. of such questions and such disputes, it is not possible to speak with seriousness, when they occur in the present times." so also burke says: "it must be likewise shown, that these parts stand in such a relation to each other, that the comparison between them may be easily made, and that the affection of the mind may naturally result from it." now, no man in his senses ever cared which of these measures was adopted, except as a matter of convenience, or ever imagined that peculiar virtue resided in any of them. the following are some of the principal rules which either by intuition or with due definition, resulted from and guided the practice of the ancient greeks. first, in regard to the thinking system, when the ancient artists, either from taste or from principle, gave greater opening to the facial angle than eighty degrees, they believed that an increase of intelligence corresponded to that conformation. by increasing the angle beyond eighty-five degrees, they impressed upon their figures the grandest character, as we see in the heads of the apollo, the venus, and others whose facial angle extends to or exceeds ninety degrees. in regard to _the forehead_, then, this afforded their rule for distinguishing beings of a superior kind. how well they observed the tendency of nature to increase that angle with the increase of some of the thinking faculties, we now know. this ideal rule was, therefore, admirably founded. whoever reflects on the nature of this angle will perceive that its increase tended nowise to raise the forehead, but to throw it forward, and therefore to lengthen the head. this conforms to the metaphor by which a _long head_ is used for a _wise head_, and which has not yet given place to a _broad head_, preferred by the german craniologists, in compliment to their own organization. with regard to the height of the forehead, it has already been observed that it was, among the ancient greeks, more considerable than its breadth, as may be seen by the busts of their most illustrious men. still, neither the natural nor the ideal forehead much exceeded the space from the forehead to the bottom of the nose, or that from the nose to the bottom of the chin. winckelmann accordingly says: "the forehead to be beautiful should be low [meaning, as his expressions elsewhere show, no higher than the other two spaces just mentioned]; and its lowness was so fixed among the ideas of beauty by the grecian artists, that it serves as a mark to distinguish modern heads from ancient. the reason of this appears founded in the very rules of proportion, which, as in the whole human body, was among the ancients tripartite: thus, the face also was divided into three parts; so that the forehead should be of the same length as the nose, and the remainder of the face to the chin of the same length likewise. this proportion was founded on observation, and we may at any time convince ourselves of it in any individual with a low forehead, by covering with a finger the hair at the top of the forehead, so as to render it so much higher, and we shall then see a want of harmony of proportion and how detrimental a high forehead is to beauty." these views of winckelmann, the ideal rule which they illustrate, and, above all, the actual dimension of the forehead among the philosophers, the poets, and the legislators of greece, whose genius has been unequalled in modern times, show the folly of the craniological hypothesis. the reason of the ideal rule has not, indeed, been assigned: it appears to me to be this, that the three parts of the face which, as i have shown both here and in my work on physiognomy, are respectively connected with ideas, emotions, and passions, should be equal one to another, or that these acts of the organs of sense and brain should be in due proportion and harmony. while, therefore, i do not, with the craniologists, seek the predominance of any one of them, neither do i, with giovani de laet, take no notice of the space between the top of the head and the commencement of the forehead, and say this part is not to be considered in the height of a man, _quia pars excrementosa est_! their next rule regarded the form of _the nose_, in nearly the same line with the forehead, and with little indentation between these parts. the foundation of this rule i have not seen pointed out; and it was indeed difficult of discovery, without previous knowledge of the physiological fact first mentioned in my physiognomical work, namely, that the nose is the inlet of vital emotion or pleasure, as the eye is of mental emotion; while the passions connected with nutrition and thought respectively, depend upon other organs, the mouth and the ear. anatomists know how closely associated are the nose and the eyes, and the mouth and the ears, respectively. now, as in these ideal representations, their object was to increase the means of emotion, but not those of passion, the organs of the former, the nose and the eyes, were all, at the same time, enlarged by raising the junction of the forehead and the nose; while those of passion, the mouth and the ears, were relatively decreased. not only was the passage of nose or of the olfactory nerves to the brain strikingly dilated by this elevation of the intermediate part, but the orbits of the eyes were enlarged. as then we naturally associate the increase of organs with the increase of their sensations and with corresponding effects upon the brain, and as the tendency to such configuration is as conspicuous in the countries they inhabited, as is the energy of the emotions with which they are connected, this rule was as admirably founded as the former in natural tendencies. i deem this a pendant to camper's discovery of the facial angle, and one too which was not quite so obvious or so easy to be made. it disposes of this middle or intermediate part of the face, and shows that the greeks in beings of the highest character, desired the gradual predominance of emotion over passion, and of ideas or intellect over emotion. a vague feeling of the curious fact i have here explained, alison, as a man of taste, had, when he said: "apply, however, this beautiful form, to the countenance of the warrior, the bandit, the martyr, &c., or to any countenance which is meant to express deep or powerful _passion_, and the most vulgar spectator would be sensible of dissatisfaction, if not disgust." in endeavoring to assign a reason for the configuration which i have just explained, winckelmann, in ascribing it to the mere production of effect, is driven into a ridiculous inconsistency. he thinks that for large statues seen at a distance, it was necessary, and so came to be used for small medals seen near, for which it was not necessary. "in the heads of statues, and particularly in ideal heads, the eyes are deeper set: the bulb remains more deep than is usual in nature, in which sunken eyes render the countenance austere and cunning instead of calm and joyful. in this respect, art has departed with reason from nature; for, in figures placed to be seen at a distance, if the bulb of the eye were level with the edge of the orbit, there would be no effect produced of light and shade; and the eye itself, placed under the eyebrows which do not project, would be dull and inexpressive. this maxim, adopted for large statues, became in time universal; so that it may be observed even on medals, not only in ideal heads but in portraits." and elsewhere he says: "art subsequently established it as a rule to give this form to the eyes even in small figures, as may be seen in the heads on coins." thus winckelmann's reason avowedly explains only the half of that to which it is applied, and in reality explains nothing, because it leaves a gross inconsistency, of which greek genius was incapable. of the general outline thus formed of the face, winckelmann more truly says: "in the formation of the face, the greek profile is the principal characteristic of sublime beauty. this profile is produced by the straight line, or the line but very slightly indented, which the forehead and nose form in youthful faces, especially female ones. nature seems less disposed to accord this form to the face in cold than in mild and temperate climes; but wherever this profile is found, it is always beautiful. the straight full line expresses a kind of greatness, and, gently curved, it presents the idea of agreeable delicacy. that in these profiles exists one cause of beauty is proved by the character of the opposite line; for the greater the inflection of the nose, the less beautiful is the face; and if, when seen sidewise, it presents a bad profile, it is useless to look for beauty in any other view." a _third rule_ of the greek artists, in heads of the highest character, is greatly illustrated by the new views just stated. if, in these, they desired to render ideas and intellect more dominant than emotions of pleasure or pain, and emotions more dominant than passion, it becomes evident why they equally sought to avoid the convulsions of impassioned expression. a very beautiful object of this, is mistaken by winckelmann. i quote his words:-"taken in either sense [of action or of passion], expression changes the features of the face, and the disposition of the body, and, consequently, the forms which constitute beauty; and the greater the change, the greater the loss of beauty. therefore, the state of tranquillity and repose was considered as a fundamental point in the art. tranquillity is the state proper to beauty. "the handsomest men are generally the most mild and the best disposed. "besides, tranquillity and repose, both in men and animals, is the state which allows us best to examine and represent their nature and qualities; as we can see the bottom of the sea or rivers only when the waves are tranquil and the stream runs smoothly. "therefore, the grecian artists, wishing to depict, in their representations of their deities, the perfection of human beauty, strove to produce, in their countenances and actions, a certain placidity without the slightest change or perturbation, which, according to their philosophy, was at variance with the nature and character of the gods. the figures produced in this state of repose, expressed a perfect equilibrium of feeling. "but, as complete tranquillity and repose cannot exist in figures in action, and even the gods are represented in human form, and subject to human affections, we must not always expect to find in them the most sublime idea of beauty. this is then compensated for by expression. the ancient artists, however, never lost sight of it: it was always their principal object, to which expression was in some sort made subservient. "beauty without expression would be insignificant, and expression without beauty would be unpleasing; but, from their influence over each other, from combining together their apparently discordant qualities, results an eloquent, persuasive, and interesting beauty." some of these remarks are true and beautiful; but _the great object of the greeks, in suppressing the convulsions of impassioned expression, was the bestowal of grace_, the highest quality in all representation. it is surprising that this should have been so universally overlooked, that, even among artists, nothing is more common than to hear regrets that the greeks gave so little expression to their figures! let the reader now peruse again dr. smith's and mr. alison's account of grace, and if he is acquainted with the productions of ancient art, he will see that the greeks suppressed impassioned expression only to bestow the highest degree of grace. those, therefore, who complain of this, show themselves ignorant of the best object of their art. if the explanation of this great purpose be clearly borne in mind, the remaining observations of winckelmann will receive a better application than that to which he limited them:-"repose and tranquillity may be regarded as the effect of that composed manner which the grecians studied to show in their actions and gestures. among them, a hurried gait was regarded as contrary to the idea of decent deportment, and partaking somewhat of expressive boldness.... while on the other hand, slow and regulated motions of the body were proofs among the ancients of a great mind. "the highest idea of tranquillity and composure is found expressed in the representations of the divinities; so that from the father of the gods to the inferior deities, their figures appear free from the influence of any affection. the greatest of the poets thus describes jupiter as making all olympus tremble by merely moving his eyebrow or shaking his locks.... all the figures of jupiter are not however made in the same style. "the vatican apollo represents this god quiet and tranquil after the death of the serpent python which he had slain with a dart, and should also express a certain contempt for a victory so easy to him. the skilful artist, who wished to imbody the most beautiful of the gods, has depicted anger in the nose, which according to the most ancient poets was the seat of it, and contempt in the lips: contempt is expressed by the drawing up of the under lip, and anger by the expansion of the nostrils. "the expression of the passions in the face should accord with the attitude and gestures of the body; and the latter should be suitable to the dignity of the gods in their statues and figures: from this results its propriety. "in representing the figures of heroes, the ancient artist exercised equal care and judgment; and expressed only those human affections which are suitable for a wise man, who represses the violence of his passions, and scarcely allows a spark of the internal flame to be seen, so as to leave to those who are desirous of it, the trouble of finding out what remains concealed. "we have examples of this in two of the most beautiful works of antiquity, one of which is the image of the fear of certain death, the other of suffering exceeding anguish. "niobe and her daughters, against whom diana shot her fatal arrows, are represented as seized with terror and horror, in that state of indescribable anguish, when the sight of instant and inevitable death deprives the mind of the power of thought. of this state of stupor and insensibility, the fable gives us an idea in the metamorphosis of niobe into a stone; and hence ã�schylus introduces her in his tragedy as stunned and speechless. in such a moment, when all thought and feeling ceases, in a state bordering upon insensibility, the appearance is not altered nor any feature of the face disturbed, and the mighty artist could here depict the most sublime beauty, and has indeed done so. niobe and her daughters are, and ever will be, the most perfect models of beauty. "laocoon is the image of the most acute grief, that puts the nerves, the muscles, and the veins, in action. his blood is in a state of extreme agitation from the venomous bite of the serpents; every part of his body evinces pain and suffering; and the artist has put in motion, so to speak, all the springs of nature, and thus made known the extent of his art and the depth of his knowledge. in the representation, however, of this excessive torment, we can still recognise the conduct of a brave man struggling against his misfortunes, stifling the emotions of his anguish, and striving to repress them." "the ancient artists have preserved this air of composure even in their dancing figures, except the bacchanals; and thus an opinion obtained that the action of their figures should be modelled on the manners adopted in their ancient dances, and therefore, in their later dances, the ancient figures served as a model to the performers to prevent their overstepping the bounds of a modest deportment: molli diducunt candida gestu brachia. _propert._ "no immoderate or violent passions are ever found expressed in the public works of the ancients. "the knowledge of the ancients cannot be better known than by comparing their performances with the majority of those of the moderns, in which a little is expressed by much, instead of much by a little. this is what the greeks call [greek: parenthyrsos]; a word that aptly expresses the defect produced by too much expression in modern artists. their figures resemble in action the comedians of the ancient theatre, who, to render themselves visible even to the most distant portion of the audience, were compelled to exceed the limits of nature and truth; and the faces of modern figures are like the ancient masks, which for the same reason, the increase of expression, became hideous. "this excess of expression is taught in a book which goes into the hands of all young artists, 'a treatise on the passions,' by carlo le brun, and in the annexed drawings, not only is the highest degree of passion expressed on the face, but in some even to madness." hence, we may say with azara, that "the greeks possessed that art in such perfection, that in their statues one scarcely discovers that they had thought of expression, and nevertheless each says that which it ought to say. they are in a repose which shows all the beauty without any alteration; and a soft and sweet motion, of the mouth, the eyes, or the mere action, expresses the effect, enchanting at once the mind and the senses." in the inferior beings, however, when passion is expressed, the features are varied by the greek artists as they are in nature. such are the great ideal rules with regard to the head and the functions of thought. with regard to the body and the nutritive system, the greeks similarly idealized. "seeking for images of worship, consequently of a nature superior to our own, so that they might awaken in the mind veneration and love, they thought that the representations most worthy of the divinity, and most likely to attract the attention of man, would be those expressing the continuance of the gods in eternal youth and in the prime of life. "to the idea derived from the poets, of the eternal youth of the deities, whether male or female, was added another by which they supposed the female divinities should have all the appearance of virgins. "the form of the breast in the figures of the divinities, is like that of a virgin, which, to be beautiful, must possess a moderate fulness. this was particularly shown in the breasts, which the artists represented without nipples, like those of young girls, whose cincture, in the poet's phrase, lucina has not yet undone. on their treatment of the limbs and locomotive system, hogarth throws light; and, as i am not aware that he was anticipated in this respect, i quote him:-"may be," he says, "i cannot throw a stronger light on what has been hitherto said of proportion, than by animadverting on a remarkable beauty in the apollo belvidere, which hath given it the preference even to the antinous: i mean a superaddition of greatness, to at least as much beauty and grace as is found in the latter. "these two masterpieces of art are seen together in the same apartment at rome, where the antinous fills the spectator with admiration only, while the apollo strikes him with surprise, and, as travellers express themselves, with an appearance of something more than human; which they of course are always at a loss to describe: and this effect, they say, is the more astonishing, as, upon examination, its disproportion is evident even to a common eye. one of the best sculptors we have in england, who lately went to see them, confirmed to me what has been now said, particularly as to the legs and thighs being too long, and too large for the upper parts. "although, in very great works, we often see an inferior part neglected, yet here it cannot be the case, because, in a fine statue, just proportion is one of its essential beauties: therefore, it stands to reason, that these limbs must have been lengthened on purpose, otherwise it might have been easily avoided. "so that if we examine the beauties of this figure thoroughly we may reasonably conclude, that what has been hitherto thought so unaccountably excellent in its general appearance, has been owing to what has seemed a blemish in a part of it: but let us endeavor to make this matter as clear as possible, as it may add more force to what has been said. "statues, by being bigger than life (as this one is, and larger than the antinous), always gain some nobleness in effect, according to the principle of quantity, but this alone is not sufficient to give what is properly to be called greatness in proportion.... greatness of proportion must be considered as depending on the application of quantity to those parts of the body where it can give more scope to its grace in movement, as to the neck for the larger and swanlike turns of the head, and to the legs and thighs, for the more ample sway of all the upper parts together. "by which we find that the antinous being equally magnified to the apollo's height, would not sufficiently produce that superiority of effect, as to greatness, so evidently seen in the latter. the additions necessary to the production of this greatness in proportion, as it there appears added to grace, must then be, by the proper application of them to the parts mentioned only. "i know not how farther to prove this matter than by appealing to the reader's eye, and common observation, as before.... the antinous being allowed to have the justest proportion possible, let us see what addition, upon the principle of quantity, can be made to it, without taking away any of its beauty. "if we imagine an addition of dimensions to the head, we shall immediately conceive it would only deform--if to the hands or feet, we are sensible of something gross and ungenteel--if to the whole lengths of the arms, we feel they would be dangling and awkward--if, by an addition of length or breadth to the body, we know it would appear heavy and clumsy--there remains then only the neck, with the legs and thighs to speak of; but to these we find, that not only certain additions may be admitted without causing any disagreeable effect, but that thereby greatness, the last perfection as to the proportion, is given to the human form, as is evidently expressed in the apollo." this is well done by hogarth. it required but a little anatomical knowledge to see the reason of this. the length of the neck, by which the head is farther detached from the trunk, shows the independence of the higher intellectual system upon the lower one of mere nutrition; and the length of limbs shows that the mind had ready obedience in locomotive power. i have now to obviate some objections to the existence of simple, pure, high, and perfect ideal beauty, objections, which writers on this subject have hitherto neglected. alison says: "the proportions of the form of the infant are very different from those of youth; these again from those of manhood; and these again perhaps still more from those of old age and decay.... yet every one knows, not only that each of these periods is susceptible of beautiful form, but, what is much more, that the actual beauty in every period consists in the preservation of the proportions peculiar to that period, and that these differ in every article almost from those that are beautiful in other periods of the life of the same individual." but the beauty of the infant is not perfect beauty: it is that, on the contrary, of mere promise, not that of fulfilment. so also the beauty of old age is not perfect beauty: it is that, on the contrary, which affects and interests us chiefly by the regret we feel that its perfection has passed, or is gradually vanishing. "the same observation," says alison, "is yet still more obvious with regard to the difference of sex. in every part of the form, the proportions which are beautiful in the two sexes are different; and the application of the proportions of the one to the form of the other, is everywhere felt as painful and disgusting." so also says burke: "let us rest a moment on this point; and consider how much difference there is between the measures that prevail in many similar parts of the body, in the two sexes of this single species only. if you assign any determinate proportions to the limbs of man, and if you limit human beauty to these proportions, when you find a woman who differs in the make and measure of almost every part, you must conclude her not to be beautiful in spite of the suggestions of your imagination; or in obedience to your imagination you must renounce your rules; you must lay by the scale and compass, and look out for some other cause of beauty. for, if beauty be attached to certain measures which operate from a principle in nature, why should similar parts with different measures of proportion be found to have beauty, and this, too, in the very same species?" to this i might say the beauty of woman is not the highest beauty: it is beauty of the nutritive more than of the higher thinking system. but there is another and a better answer: the difference of sex which affects all the higher animals is a greater difference than that which subsists between some of their varieties or even of their species; and the same laws of ideal beauty are as inapplicable to different sexes as to different species. "we see, every day, around us," says alison, "some forms of our species which affect us with sentiments of beauty. in our own sex, we see the forms of the legislator, the man of rank, the general, the man of science, the private soldier, the sailor, the laborer, the beggar, &c. in the other sex, we see the forms of the matron, the widow, the young woman, the nurse, the domestic servant, &c.... we expect different proportions of form from the painter, in his representation of a warrior and a shepherd, of a senator and of a peasant, of a wrestler and a boatman, of a savage and of a man of cultivated manners.... we expect, in the same manner, from the statuary, very different proportions in the forms of jove and of apollo [this should have been excepted], of hercules and of antinous, of a grace and of andromache, of a bacchanal and of minerva," &c. that, in all these cases, the beauty is partial, is evident from the circumstance that what is found in one is wanting in another; and partial beauty is not perfect beauty. but this last point has been well stated by reynolds and barry. "to the principle i have laid down," says reynolds, "that the idea of beauty in each species of being is an invariable one, it may be objected, that in every particular species there are various central forms which are separate and distinct from each other, and yet are undeniably beautiful; that in the human figure, for instance, the beauty of hercules is one, of the gladiator another, of the apollo another [again the same error]; which makes so many different ideas of beauty.... it is true, indeed, that these figures are each perfect in their kind, though of different character and proportions; but still none of them is the representation of an individual, but of a class. and as there is one general form, which, as i have said, belongs to the human kind at large, so in each of these classes there is one common idea and central form, which is the abstract of the various individual forms belonging to that class. thus, though the forms of childhood and age differ exceedingly, there is a common form in childhood, and a common form in age, which is the more perfect, as it is more remote from all peculiarities. but i must add farther, that though the most perfect forms of each of the general divisions of the human figure are ideal, and superior to any individual form of that class, yet the highest perfection of the human figure is not to be found in any one of them. it is not in the hercules, nor in the gladiator, nor in the apollo, but in that form which is taken from all, and which partakes equally of the activity of the gladiator, of the delicacy of the apollo, and of the muscular strength of the hercules. for perfect beauty in any species must combine all the characters which are beautiful in that species. it cannot consist in any one to the exclusion of the rest: no one, therefore, must be predominant, that no one may be deficient." "a high degree of particular character," says barry, "cannot be superinduced upon pure or simple beauty without altering its constituent parts; this is peculiar to grace only; for particular characters consist, as has been observed before, in those deviations from the general standard for the better purpose of effecting utility and power, and become so many species of a higher order; where nature is elevated into grandeur, majesty, and sublimity." there is an ideal in attitude as well as in the form of the head and body. this ideal is exactly opposed to the academical rule mentioned by dufresnoy, reynolds, and others, namely, that the right leg and left arm, or the left leg and right arm, should be advanced or withdrawn together. these are the mere attitudes of progression, not those of expression; and the academical rule is only an academical blunder. to anything but walking--to the free and unembarrassed expressions of the body, it is, indeed, quite inapplicable, and could produce only contortion. the rule of ideal attitude, which i long ago deduced, both from physiological principles, and from the practice of the greek artists, is that all the parts of one side of the body should be advanced or withdrawn together; that when one side is advanced, the other should be withdrawn; and that when the right arm is elevated, extended, or bent forward, the left leg should be elevated, extended, or bent backward--in all respects the reverse of the academical rule, so complacently mentioned by dufresnoy, reynolds, &c. the foundation of this rule in the necessary balance of the body, and that distribution of motion which equally animates every part, must be obvious to every one. it is illustrated by the finest statues of the greeks, wherever the expression intended was free and unembarrassed, and even in those, as the laocoon and his sons, where, though the action was constrained and convulsive, the sculptor was yet at liberty to employ the most beautiful attitude. it is abandoned in these great works, when either action embarrassed by purpose, or clownishness, as in the dancing faun, are expressed.[48] i have now only to add, with moreau, that individual beauty, the most perfect, differs always greatly from the ideal, and that which is least removed from it, is very difficult to be found. hence, in all languages, the epithet _rare_ is attached to beauty; and the italians even call it _pellegrina_, foreign, to indicate that they have not frequently an opportunity of seeing it: they speak of "_bellezze pellegrine_,"--"_leggiadria singolare e pellegrina_." chapter xix. the ideal of female beauty. "hominum divã»mque voluptas, alma venus." of this, the most perfect models have been created by grecian art. few, we are told, were the living beauties, from whom such ideal model could be framed. the difficulty of finding these among the women of greece, must have been considerable, when praxiteles and apelles were obliged to have recourse, in a greater or less degree, to the same person, for the beauties of the venus of cnidos, executed in white marble, and the venus of cos, painted in colors. it is asserted by athenã¦eus, that both these productions were, in some measure, taken from phryne of thespia, in boeotia, then a courtesan at athens. both productions are said to have represented phryne coming out of the sea, on the beach of sciron, in the saronic gulf, between athens and eleusis, where she was wont to bathe. it is said, that there, at the feast of neptune, phryne, in the presence of the people of eleusis, having cast aside her dress, and allowing her long hair to fall over her shoulders, plunged into the sea, and sported long amid its waves. an immense number of spectators covered the shore; and when she came out of it, all exclaimed, "it is venus who rises from the waters!" the people would actually have taken her for the goddess, if she had not been well known to them. apelles and praxiteles, we are told, were both upon the shore; and both resolved to represent the birth of venus according to the beautiful model which they had just beheld. such is said to have been the origin of two of the greatest works of antiquity. the work of apelles, known under the name of venus anadyomene, was placed by cesar in the temple of venus genitrix, after the conquest of greece. an idea of the sculpture of praxiteles is supposed to have been imperfectly preserved to modern times in the venus de medici. we are farther told, that, after having studied several attitudes, phryne fancied to have discovered one more favorable than the rest for displaying all her perfections; and that both painter and sculptor were obliged to adopt her favorite posture. from this cause, the venus of cnidos, and the venus of cos, were so perfectly alike, that it was impossible to remark any difference in their features, contour, or more particularly in their attitude. the painting of apelles, it is added, was far from exciting so much enthusiasm among the greeks, as the sculpture of praxiteles. they fancied that the marble moved; that it seemed to speak; and their illusion, says lucian, was so great, that they ended by applying their lips to those of the goddess.[49] "praxiteles," says flaxman, "excelled in the highest graces of youth and beauty. he is said to have excelled not only other sculptors, but himself, by his marble statues in the ceramicus of athens; but his venus was preferable to all others in the world, and many sailed to cnidos for the purpose of seeing it. this sculptor having made two statues of venus, one with drapery, the other without, the coans preferred the clothed figure, on account of its severe modesty, the same price being set upon each. the citizens of cnidos took the rejected statue, and afterward refused it to king nicomedes, who would have forgiven them an immense debt in return; but they were resolved to suffer anything so long as this statue by praxiteles ennobled cnidos.... this figure is known by the descriptions of lucian and cedrenus, and it is represented on a medal of caracalla and plautilla, in the imperial cabinet of france. this venus was still in cnidos during the reign of the emperor alcadius, about four hundred years after christ. this statue seems to offer the first idea of the venus de medici, which is likely to be the repetition of another venus, the work of this artist." he elsewhere says of the venus of praxiteles, it was "the most admired female statue of all antiquity, whose beauty is as perfect as it is elevated, and as innocent as perfect; from which the medicean venus seems but a deteriorated variety." flaxman states that he himself had seen, in the stables of the braschi palace, a statue which he supposed might be the original work of praxiteles. strange to tell, nothing is now known of its fate! a supposed cast from this, or from a copy of it, conforming to the figure on the model of caracalla, is to be seen at the royal academy. of the venus de medici, flaxman says, it "was so much a favorite of the greeks and romans, that a hundred ancient repetitions of this statue have been noticed by travellers. the individual figure is said to have been found in the forum of octavia. the style of sculpture seems to have been later than alexander the great. let us now briefly examine this model of female beauty. the venus de medici represents woman at that age when every beauty has just been perfected. "the venus de medici at florence," says winckelmann, "is like a rose which, after a beautiful daybreak, expands its leaves to the first ray of the sun, and represents that age when the limbs assume a more finished form and the breast begins to develop itself." the size of the head is sufficiently small to leave that predominance to the vital organs in the chest, which, as already said, makes the nutritive system peculiarly that of woman. this is the first and most striking proof of the profound knowledge of the artist, the principles of whose art taught him that the vast head, on the contrary, was the characteristic of a very different female personage.[50]--in mentioning the head, it is scarcely possible to avoid noticing the rich curls of the hair. the eyes next fix our attention by their soft, sweet, and glad expression. this is produced with exquisite art. to give softness, the ridges of the eyebrows are rounded. to give sweetness, the under eyelid, which i would call the expressive one, is slightly raised. "the eyes of venus," says winckelmann, "are smaller, and the slight elevation of the lower eyelid produces that languishing look called by the greeks [greek: hygron]." to give the expression of gladness or of pleasure, the opening of the eyelids is diminished, in order to diminish, or partially to exclude, the excess of those impressions, which make even pleasure painful. other exquisite details about those eyes, confer on them unparalleled beauty. still, as observed by the same writer, this look is far from those traits indicative of lasciviousness, with which some modern artists have thought to characterize their venuses. love was considered by the ancient masters, as by the wise philosophers of those times, to use the expression of euripides, as the counsellor of wisdom: [greek: tãª sophia paredrous erã´tas]. one thing must be observed: there is not here, as in some less happy representations of venus, any downcast look, but that aspect of which metastasio, in his inno a venere, says: "tu colle lucide pupille chiare, fai lieta e fertile la terra e'l mare." and again: "presto ã  tuoi placidi astri ridenti, le nubi fuggono, fuggono i venti."[51] art still profounder was perhaps shown in the configuration of the nose. the peculiar connexion of this sense with love was evidently well understood by the great artist; and it is only gross ignorance that has made some persons question the appropriateness of that development of the organ which is here represented. not only is smell peculiarly associated with love, in all the higher animals, but it is associated with reproduction in plants, the majority of which evolve delicious odors only when the flowers or organs of fructification are displayed.[52]--connected, indeed, with the capacity of the nose, and the cavities which open into it, is the projection of the whole middle part of the face. in the mouth, also, is transcendent art displayed. it is rendered sweet and delicate by the lips being undeveloped at their angles,[53] and by the upper lip continuing so, for a considerable portion of its length. it expresses love of pleasure by the central development of both lips, and active love by the especial development of the lower lip.[54] by the slight opening of the lips, it expresses desire.[55] these exquisite details, and the omission of nothing intellectually expressive that nature presents, have led some to imagine the venus de medici to be a portrait. in doing so, however, they see not the profound calculation required for nearly every feature thus imbodied. more strangely still, they forget the ideal character of the whole: the notion of this ideal head being too small, is especially opposed to such an opinion. if more is wanting, it will surely be enough that the other works which we are supposed to possess of praxiteles, the faun and the cupid, present similar fine details.[56] withal, the look is amorous and languishing, without being lascivious, and is as powerfully marked by gay coquetry, as by charming innocence. the young neck is exquisitely formed. its beautiful curves show a thousand capabilities of motion; and its admirably-calculated swell over the organ of voice, results from, and marks, the struggling expression of still mysterious love. in short, i know no antique figure that displays such profound knowledge, both physiological and physiognomical, even in the most minute details; and all who are capable of appreciating these things, may well smile at those who pretend to compare with this any other head of venus now known to us. "with regard to the rest of the figure, the admirable form of the mammã¦, which, without being too large, occupy the bosom, rise from it with various curves on every side, and all terminate in their apices, leaving the inferior part in each precisely as pendent as gravity demands; the flexile waist gently tapering little farther than the middle of the trunk; the lower portion of it beginning gradually to swell out higher even than the umbilicus; the gradual expansion of the haunches, those expressive characteristics of the female, indicating at once her fitness for the office of generation and that of parturition--expansions which increase till they reach their greatest extent at the superior part of the thighs; the fulness behind their upper part, and on each side of the lower part of the spine, commencing as high as the waist, and terminating in the still greater swell of the distinctly-separated hips; the flat expanse between these, and immediately over the fissure of the hips, relieved by a considerable dimple on each side, and caused by the elevation of all the surrounding parts; the fine swell of the broad abdomen which, soon reaching its greatest height, immediately under the umbilicus, slopes gently to the mons veneris, but, narrow at its upper part, expands more widely as it descends, while, throughout, it is laterally distinguished by a gentle depression from the more muscular parts on the sides of the pelvis; the beautiful elevation of the mons veneris; the contiguous elevation of the thighs which, almost at their commencement, rise as high as it does; the admirable expansion of these bodies inward, or toward each other, by which they almost seem to intrude upon each other, and to exclude each from its respective place; the general narrowness of the upper, and the unembraceable expansion of the lower part thus exquisitely formed;--all these admirable characteristics of female form, the mere existence of which in woman must, one is tempted to imagine, be, even to herself, a source of ineffable pleasure--these constitute a being worthy, as the personification of beauty, of occupying the temples of greece; present an object finer, alas! than nature seems even capable of producing; and offer to all nations and ages a theme of admiration and delight. well might thomson say:- "so stands the statue that enchants the world, so bending tries to veil the matchless boast, the mingled beauties of exulting greece." and byron, in yet higher strain:- "there, too, the goddess loves in stone, and fills the air around with beauty; within the pale we stand, and in that form and face behold what mind can make, when nature's self would fail; and to the fond idolaters of old envy the innate flash which such a soul could mould: we gaze and turn away, and know not where, dazzled and drunk with beauty, till the heart reels with its fulness; there--for ever there- chained to the chariot of triumphal art, we stand as captives, and would not depart." proportions of the venus de medici. has seven heads, seven parts, and three minutes in height. from the top of the head to the root of the hair, three parts. from the root of the hair to the eyebrows, three parts. from the eyebrows to the bottom of the nose, three parts. from the bottom of the nose, to that of the chin, three parts. from the bottom of the chin to the depression between the clavicles, four parts, three minutes and a half. from the depression between the clavicles to the lowest part of the breast, ten parts, five minutes. from the lowest part of the breast to the middle of the navel, eight parts, three minutes. from the middle of the navel to the base of the belly and beginning of the thighs, eleven parts, four minutes and a half. from the bottom of the belly to the middle of the kneepan, eighteen parts, two minutes. from the middle of the kneepan to the beginning of the flank, twenty-seven parts, three minutes. from the middle of the kneepan to the ground, twenty-five parts, three minutes. the greatest height of the foot, three parts, five minutes and a half. from the neck of the leg to the end of the toes, nine parts and half a minute. from the commencement of the humerus to the elbow, twenty parts, two minutes. from the elbow to the beginning of the hand, fourteen parts. the greatest breadth of the forearm, five parts. the greatest breadth of the arm, four parts, five minutes. from the depression between the clavicles to the beginning of the deltoid, six parts, four minutes. from the depression between the clavicles to the point of the nipple, ten parts and half a minute. between the points of the nipples, eleven parts, two minutes. the breadth of the torso, at the level of the lowest part of the breast, fifteen parts, four minutes and a half. the least breadth of the torso, at the commencement of the flanks, fourteen parts, one minute. the greatest breadth of the torso, at the bottom of the flanks, seventeen parts, five minutes. the breadth from the trochanter of one thigh to that of the other, nineteen parts, three minutes. the greatest breadth of the thigh, nine parts, five minutes. the greatest breadth of the knee, six parts. the greatest breadth of the calf of the leg, six parts, three minutes and a half. the breadth from one ankle to another, four parts. the least breadth of the foot, three parts, three minutes and a half. the greatest breadth of the foot, five parts and one minute. the arms of the venus de medici, it should be observed, are of modern construction, and unworthy of the figure. the venus of naples is of altogether a different species of beauty. that figure represents an ample and rather voluptuous matron, in an attitude of scarcely surpassable grace. the character of the face is beautiful, in profile especially, and its expression is grave. the mouth has much of nature about it, resembling greatly in character that feature as seen in southern europe; but its expression, though tender, is somewhat serious or fretful. it presents, however, many faults. the head is monstrous. the neck is equally so, as well as coarse. the forehead, eyes, nose, and cheeks, present none of the finely-calculated details, which surprise and delight us in the venus de medici. the mammã¦ are not true. after these, the androgynous being, called the venus of arles, is scarcely worthy of being mentioned. she derives some grandeur from antique character and symmetry, and some from her masculine features. the head is monstrous; the neck horrid; the nose heavy; the mouth contemptuous. upon the whole, neither the graceful matron of naples, nor the manlike woman of the louvre, can be brought into competition with the venus de medici. chapter xx. defects of beauty. _defects of the locomotive system._ 1. if the whole figure be either too broad or too tall; because, the first is inelegant, and the last unfeminine. persons who are too tall are generally ill at ease and destitute of grace, a greater misfortune to a woman than to a man.--too low a stature is a defect less disagreeable, especially for women. if, however, on the one side, it gives prettiness, on the other, it deprives of all imposing appearance. 2. if the bones, except those of the pelvis, be not proportionally small; because, in woman, this portion of the locomotive system ought to be completely subordinate to the vital. 3. if the ligaments, and the articulations they form, be not proportionally small; because, in woman, this portion of the locomotive system ought also to be completely subordinate to the vital. either of the last two defects will produce what is termed clumsiness. 4. if the muscles, generally more slender, feeble, soft and yielding than in man, be not large around the pelvis, and delicate elsewhere; because, this is necessary, for reasons which will be afterward assigned, as well as to permit the ease and suppleness of the movements. 5. if, in a mature female, the length of the neck, compared with the trunk, be not proportionally somewhat less than in the male; because, in her, the subordination of the locomotive system, the predominance of the vital, and the dependance of the mental, are naturally connected with the shorter vertebrae and shorter course of the vessels of the neck. * * * * * (the following defects, from 6 to 15 inclusive, have necessarily a reference also to the vital system; because, the form and capacity of the cavities here spoken of, as formed by the osseous frame of the locomotive system, have an obvious relation to the vital organs, which these cavities are destined to contain.) 6. if the upper part of the body (exclusive of the bosom) be proportionally more, and the lower part of the body less prominent, than in man, so that, when she stands perfectly upright or lies on the back, the space between the breasts is more prominent than the mons veneris; because, such conformation is injurious to impregnation, gestation, and parturition. 7. if the shoulders seem wider than the haunches; because, this appearance generally arises from the narrowness of the pelvis, and its consequent unfitness for gestation and parturition. 8. if, on the contrary, the shoulders be much narrower than the pelvis; because, this indicates extreme weakness of the locomotive system. 9. if the shoulders do not slope from the lower part of the neck; because, this shows that the upper part of the chest is not sufficiently wide of itself, but is rendered angular by the muscularity, &c., of the shoulders. 10. if the upper part of the chest be not relatively short and wide, and if it owe not its width rather to itself than to the size of the shoulders; because, this shows that the vital organs contained in the chest are not sufficiently expanded. 11. if, in youth, the upper part of the trunk, including the muscles moving the shoulders, do not form an inverted cone, whose apex is the waist; because, in that case, the lightness and beauty of the locomotive system are destroyed by the unrestrained expansion of the vital. 12. if the loins be not extended at the expense of the chest above and of the limbs below; because, on this depends their capacity to receive organs enlarged or displaced during gestation. 13. if the back be not hollow; because, this shows that the pelvis is not sufficiently deep to project posteriorly, nor consequently of sufficient capacity for gestation and parturition. 14. if the haunches be not widely expanded (as already implied in speaking of the shoulders); because, the interior cavity of the pelvis is then insufficient for gestation and parturition. 15. if, in consequence of the form of the pelvis, and the arch of the pubis being larger, the mons veneris be not more prominent than the chest; because, the pelvic cavity is then also insufficient for gestation and parturition. * * * * * 16. if the thighs of woman be not wider than those of man; because, the width of the female pelvis, and the purposes which it serves, require this. 17. if the size of the thighs be not large, the haunches as it were increasing till they reach their greatest extent at the upper part of the thigh, which anteriorly rises as high as the mons veneris, and if the knees do not approximate. 18. if the arms and the limbs be not relatively short, if they do not taper greatly as they recede from the trunk, and if the hands and feet be not small; because, it is the vital system and the trunk, which is by far the most important part in the female. 19. if the larynx or flute part of the throat be not small; because their magnitude indicates a masculine character. _defects of the vital system._ (defects of the contained vital parts, which have been already implied in enumerating those of the containing locomotive parts, are not again mentioned here, as the intelligent reader can easily supply these and similar omissions.) 1. if, in consequence of marriage taking place before their full growth, women remain always of diminished stature, weak, and pale. 2. if the digestive organs being large rather than active, is inconsistent with the greater activity and less permanence of all the other functions, secretion, gestation, &c., excepted. 3. if the absorbing vessels, being inactive, are insufficient for large secretions. 4. if the circulating vessels, being inactive and imperfectly ramified, leave the skin cold, opaque, and destitute of complexion. 5. if the secreting vessels, being inactive, furnish neither the plumpness necessary to beauty, nor those ovarian, uterine, and mammary excretions on which progeny is dependant. 6. if the neck form not an insensible transition between the body and head, being sufficiently full to conceal the muscles of the neck and the flute part of the throat. 7. if, in a young woman, the mammã¦, without being too large, do not occupy the bosom, and rise from it with nearly equal curves on every side, which similarly terminate in their apices; or if, in the mature woman, they do not, when supported, seem laterally to protrude somewhat on the space occupied by the arms; because, these show that this important part of the vital system is insufficiently developed. 8. if the waist, tapering little farther than the middle of the trunk, and being sufficiently marked, especially in the back and loins, by the approximation of the expanded pelvis, be not also slightly encroached on by the plumpness of all the contiguous parts, without however destroying its elegance, softness and flexibility; because, this similarly shows feebleness in a portion of that system, which is by far the most important to woman. 9. if the waist be broader than the upper part of the trunk, including the muscles moving the shoulders; because, this indicates that expansion of the stomach, liver, and other glands, which is generally the result of their excessive use or excitement. it is attended with a common look and an inelegant appearance. 10. if the abdomen be not moderately expanded, its upper portion beginning to swell out, higher even than the umbilicus, and its greatest projection being almost immediately under that point; because, this shows a weakness of the vital system, and a disproportion to the parts immediately above. 11. if the abdomen, which should be highest immediately under the umbilicus, slope not gently toward the mons veneris, and be more prominent elsewhere; because this is the result of that excessive expansion which takes place during parturition. 12. if the abdomen, which, as well as being elevated, should be narrow at its upper part, become as broad there as below, and lose that gentle lateral depression by which it is distinguished from the more muscular parts on the sides of the pelvis; because, this indicates the operation of the causes mentioned in the preceding paragraph. 13. if a remarkable fulness exist not behind the upper part of the haunches, and on each side of the lower part of the spine, commencing as high as the waist, and terminating in the still greater swell of the distinctly separated hips; the flat expanse between these and immediately over the fissure of the hips, being relieved by a considerable dimple on each side, caused by the elevation of all the surrounding parts; because, it indicates feebleness in that system which is most essential to woman. 14. if the cellular tissue and the plumpness which is connected with it, do not predominate, so as to obliterate all distinct projection of the muscles; because, this likewise shows that an important portion of the vital system is feeble, and it deprives woman of the forms which are necessary to love. nothing can completely compensate, in woman, for the absolute want of plumpness. the features of meager persons are hard; they have a dry and arid physiognomy; the mouth is without charm; the color is without freshness; their limbs seem ill united with their body; and all their movements are abrupt and coarse. 15. if plumpness be too predominant; because, it then destroys the distinctness of parts, and constitutes an excess productive of inconvenience. 16. if that excessive plumpness be broken, as it were, into masses; because, it constitutes coarseness of the vital system. 17. if former plumpness have left the previously-filled cellular tissue and expanded integuments enfeebled; because, that constitutes flaccidity. 18. if the almost entire absorption of adipose substance have finally left the bones angular, the muscles and other parts permanently rigid, and the skin dry; because, that indicates decay of the vital system, and characterizes age. 19. if the skin be not fine, soft, and white, delicate, thin, and transparent, fresh and animated, if the complexion be not pure and vivid, if the hair be not fine, soft, and luxuriant, and if the nails be not smooth, transparent, and rose-colored; because, these likewise show the feebleness of that system which is most important to woman. _defects of the mental system._ 1. if the head, compared with the trunk, be not less than that of the male; because, the mental system, in the female, ought to be subordinate to the vital, and the reverse is inconsistent with the healthful and happy exercise of her faculties as woman. 2. if the organs of sense be not proportionally larger, when compared with the brain, and more delicately outlined than in the male; because, sensibility should exceed reasoning power, in the female. 3. if the brain (in other words) be not proportionally smaller, when compared with the organs of sense, than in the male; because, reasoning power should be subordinate to sensibility in the female. 4. if the cerebel be not proportionally smaller, when compared with the organs of sense, than in the male; because, voluntary power should also be subordinate to sensibility, in the female. 5. if the cerebel be not narrow and pointed posteriorly, that is, long rather than broad (its general form in woman); because, the volitions of woman should be intense, not permanent. 6. if the forehead be not large in proportion to the backhead, but on the contrary low, or very narrow; because, the former being the seat of observation, if the organ be small, the function must be correspondingly so, and in that case passion will probably predominate. 7. if the delicacy of the skin permit not to the touch of woman corresponding delicacy. 8. if the mouth be not small, or extend much beyond the nostrils, and if the lips be not delicately outlined and of vermillion hue. 9. if the nose be not nearly in the same direction with the forehead, or if more than a slight inflexion is to be seen. 10. if the eyes be not relatively large and perfectly clear in every part. 11. if the eyelids, instead of an oblong, form nearly a circular aperture, resembling somewhat the eye of monkeys, cats, or birds; because, this round eye, when large, and especially when dark, is always indicative of a bold, and, when small, of a pert insensibility of character. 12. if the eyelashes be not long and silky, and if the eyebrows be not furnished with fine hairs, and be not arched and distinctly separated. 13. if the ears be prominent, so as to alter the regularity of the oval of the head, or surcharge its outline with prominences. chapter xxi. external indications; or art of determining the precise figure, the degree of beauty, the mind, the habits, and the age of woman, notwithstanding the aids and disguises of dress. _external indications of figure._ external indications as to figure are required chiefly as to the limbs which are concealed by drapery. such indications are afforded by the walk, to every careful observer. in considering _the proportion of the limbs to the body_--if, even in a young woman, the walk, though otherwise good, be heavy, or the fall on each foot alternately be sudden, and rather upon the heel, the limbs, though well formed, will be found to be slender, compared with the body. this conformation accompanies any great proportional development of the vital system; and it is frequently observable in the women of the saxon population of england, as in the counties of norfolk, suffolk, &c. in women of this conformation, moreover, the slightest indisposition or debility is indicated by a slight vibration of the shoulders, and upper part of the chest, at every step, in walking. in considering _the line or direction of the limbs_--if, viewed behind, the feet, at every step, are thrown out backward, and somewhat laterally, the knees are certainly much inclined inward. if, viewed in front, the dress, at every step, is as it were, gathered toward the front, and then tossed more or less to the opposite side, the knees are certainly too much inclined. in considering _the relative size of each portion of the limbs_--if, in the walk, there be a greater or less approach to the marching pace, the hip is large; for we naturally employ the joint which is surrounded with the most powerful muscles, and, in any approach to the march, it is the hip-joint which is used, and the knee and ankle-joints which remain proportionally unemployed. if, in the walk, the tripping pace be used, as in an approach to walking on tiptoes, the calf is large; for it is only by the power of its muscles that, under the weight of the whole body, the foot can be extended for this purpose. if, in the walk, the foot be raised in a slovenly manner, and the heel be seen, at each step, to lift the bottom of the dress upward and backward, neither the hip nor the calf is well developed. even with regard to the parts of the figure which are more exposed to observation by the closer adaptation of dress, much deception occurs. it is, therefore, necessary to understand the arts employed for this purpose, at least by skilful women. a person having a narrow face, wears a bonnet with wide front, exposing the lower part of the cheeks.--one having a broad face, wears a closer front; and, if the jaw be wide, it is in appearance diminished, by bringing the corners of the bonnet sloping to the point of the chin. a person having a long neck has the neck of the bonnet descending, the neck of the dress rising, and filling more or less of the intermediate space. one having a short neck has the whole bonnet short and close in the perpendicular direction, and the neck of the dress neither high nor wide. persons with narrow shoulders have the shoulders or epaulets of the dress formed on the outer edge of the natural shoulder, very full, and both the bosom and back of the dress running in oblique folds, from the point of the shoulder to the middle of the bust. persons with waists too large, render them less before by a stomacher, or something equivalent, and behind by a corresponding form of the dress, making the top of the dress smooth across the shoulders, and drawing it in plaits to a narrow point at the bottom of the waist. those who have the bosom too small, enlarge it by the oblique folds of the dress being gathered above, and by other means. those who have the lower posterior part of the body too flat, elevate it by the top of the skirt being gathered behind, and by other less skilful adjustments, which though hid, are easily detected. those who have the lower part of the body too prominent anteriorly, render it less apparent by shortening the waist, by a corresponding projection behind, and by increasing the bosom above. those who have the haunches too narrow, take care not to have the bottom of the dress too wide. tall women have a wide skirt, or several flounces, or both of these: shorter women, a moderate one, but as long as can be conveniently worn, with the flounces, &c., as low as possible.[57] _external indications of beauty._ additional indications as to beauty are required chiefly where the woman observed precedes the observer, and may, by her figure, naturally and reasonably excite his interest, while at the same time it would be rude to turn and look in her face on passing. there can, therefore, be no impropriety in observing, that the conduct of those who may happen to meet the woman thus preceding, will differ according to the sex of the person who meets her.--if the person meeting her be a man, and the lady observed be beautiful, he will not only look with an expression of pleasure at her countenance, but will afterward turn more or less completely to survey her from behind.--if the person meeting her be a woman, the case becomes more complex. if both be either ugly or beautiful, or if the person meeting her be beautiful and the lady observed be ugly, then it is probable, that the approaching person may pass by inattentively, casting merely an indifferent glance: if, on the contrary, the woman meeting her be ugly, and the lady observed be beautiful, then the former will examine the latter with the severest scrutiny, and if she sees features and shape without defect, she will instantly fix her eyes on the head-dress or gown, in order to find some object for censure of the beautiful woman, and for consolation in her own ugliness. thus he who happens to follow a female may be aided in determining whether it is worth his while to glance at her face in passing, or to devise other means of seeing it. even when the face is seen, as in meeting in the streets or elsewhere, infinite deception occurs as to the degree of beauty. this operates so powerfully, that a correct estimate of beauty is perhaps never formed at first. this depends on the forms and still more on the colors of dress in relation to the face. for this reason, it is necessary to understand the principles according to which colors are employed at least by skilful women.[58] when it is the fault of a face to contain too much yellow, then yellow around the face is used to remove it by contrast, and to cause the red and blue to predominate. when it is the fault of a face to contain too much red, then red around the face is used to remove it by contrast, and to cause the yellow and blue to predominate. when it is the fault of a face to contain too much blue, then blue around the face is used to remove it by contrast, and to cause the yellow and red to predominate. when it is the fault of a face to contain too much yellow and red, then orange is used. when it is the fault of a face to contain too much red and blue, then purple is used. when it is the fault of a face to contain too much blue and yellow, then green is used. it is necessary to observe that the linings of bonnets reflect their color on the face, and transparent bonnets transmit that color, and equally tinge it. in both these cases, the color employed is no longer that which is placed around the face, and which acts on it by contrast, but the opposite. as green around the face heightens a faint red in the cheeks by contrast, so the pink lining of the bonnet aids it by reflection. hence linings which reflect, are generally of the teint which is wanted in the face; and care is then taken that these linings do not come into the direct view of the observer, and operate prejudicially on the face by contrast, overpowering the little color which by reflection they should heighten. the fronts of bonnets so lined, therefore, do not widen greatly forward, and bring their color into contrast. when bonnets do widen, the proper contrast is used as a lining; but then it has not a surface much adapted for reflection, otherwise it may perform that office, and injure the complexion. understanding, then, the application of these colors in a general way, it may be noticed, that fair faces are by contrast best acted on by light colors, and dark faces by darker colors. dark faces are best affected by darker colors, evidently because they tend to render the complexion fairer; and fair faces do not require dark colors, because the opposition would be too strong. objects which constitute a background to the face, or which, on the contrary, reflect their hues upon it, always either improve or injure the complexion. for this and some other reasons, many persons look better at home in their apartments than in the streets. apartments may, indeed, be peculiarly calculated to improve individual complexions. _external indications of mind._ external indications as to mind may be derived from figure, from gait, and from dress. as to figure, a certain symmetry or disproportion of parts (either of which depends immediately upon the locomotive system)--or a certain softness or hardness of form (which belongs exclusively to the vital system)--or a certain delicacy or coarseness of outline (which belongs exclusively to the mental system)--these reciprocally denote a locomotive symmetry or disproportion--or a vital softness or hardness--or a mental delicacy or coarseness, which will be found also indicated by the features of the face. these qualities are marked in pairs, as each belonging to its respective system; for, without this, there can be no accurate or useful observation. as to gait, that progression which advances, unmodified by any lateral movement of the body, or any perpendicular rising of the head, and which belongs exclusively to the locomotive system--or that soft lateral rolling of the body, which belongs exclusively to the vital system--or that perpendicular rising or falling of the head at every impulse to step, which belongs exclusively to the mental system--these reciprocally indicate a corresponding locomotive, or vital, or mental character, which will be found also indicated by the features of the face. to put to the test the utility of these elements of observation and indication, let us take a few instances.--if, in any individual, locomotive symmetry of figure is combined with direct and linear gait, a character of mind and countenance not absolutely repulsive, but cold and insipid, is indicated.--if vital softness of figure is combined, with a gentle lateral rolling of the body in its gait, voluptuous character and expression of countenance are indicated.--if delicacy of outline in the figure, be combined with perpendicular rising of the head, levity, perhaps vanity, is indicated.--but there are innumerable combinations and modifications of the elements which we have just described. expressions of pride, determination, obstinacy, &c., are all observable. the gait, however, is often formed, in a great measure, by local or other circumstances, by which it is necessary that the observer should avoid being misled. dress, as affording indications, though less to be relied on than the preceding, is not without its value. the woman who possesses a cultivated taste, and a corresponding expression of countenance, will generally be tastefully dressed; and the vulgar woman, with features correspondingly rude, will easily be seen through the inappropriate mask in which her milliner or dressmaker may have invested her. _external indications of habits._ external indications as to the personal habits of women are both numerous and interesting. the habit of child-bearing is indicated by a flatter breast, a broader back, and thicker cartilages of the bones of the pubis, necessary widening the pelvis. the same habit is also indicated by a high rise of the nape of the neck, so that the neck from that point bends considerably forward, and by an elevation which is diffused between the neck and shoulders. these all arise from temporary distensions of the trunk in women whose secretions are powerful, from the habit of throwing the shoulders backward during pregnancy, and the head again forward, to balance the abdominal weight; and they bestow a character of vitality peculiarly expressive. the same habit is likewise indicated by an excess of that lateral rolling of the body in walking, which was already described as connected with voluptuous character. this is a very certain indication, as it arises from temporary distensions of the pelvis, which nothing else can occasion. as in consequence of this lateral rolling of the body, and of the weight of the body being much thrown forward in gestation, the toes are turned somewhat inward, they aid in the indication. the habit of nursing children is indicated, both in mothers and nursery-maids, by the right shoulder being larger and more elevated than the left. the habits of the seamstress are indicated by the neck suddenly bending forward, and the arms being, even in walking, considerably bent forward or folded more or less upward from the elbows. habits of labor are indicated by a considerable thickness of the shoulders below, where they form an angle with the inner part of the arm; and, where these habits are of the lowest menial kind, the elbows are turned outward and the palms of the hands backward. the habits of many of the inferior female professions might easily be indicated; but they would be unsuitable to a work like this. _external indications of age._ external indications of age are required chiefly where the face is veiled, or where the woman observed precedes the observer and may reasonably excite his interest. in either of these cases, if the foot and ankle have lost a certain moderate plumpness, and assumed a certain sinewy or bony appearance, the woman has generally passed the period of youth. if in walking, instead of the ball or outer edge of the foot first striking the ground, it is the heel which does so, then has the woman in general passed the meridian of life.--unlike the last indication, this is apparent, however the foot and ankle may be clothed.--the reason of this indication is the decrease of power which unfits the muscles to receive the weight of the body by maintaining the extension of the ankle-joint. exceptions to this last indication are to be found chiefly in women in whom the developments of the body are proportionally much greater, either from a temporary or a permanent cause, than those of the limbs, the muscles of which are consequently incapable of receiving the weight of the body by maintaining the extension of the ankle-joint. appendix appendix. a. mr. walker's extravagant admiration of the grecian mythology has led him to over-estimate its influence upon poetry and the arts. that these were influenced, in a very important degree, by the religion of greece, no one acquainted with the history of that nation, can doubt; but, that the arts cannot exist where the grecian mythology is not the popular religion, is an opinion unsupported by the history of the past, and altogether opposed to their present flourishing state in civilized countries. in no age or nation has the art of painting, for example, attained higher perfection, than in italy during the 13th and 14th centuries; a period which has been called "the golden age of italian art," and its high excellence has been justly attributed to the introduction of christianity. "the walls and cupolas," says a late writer, "of new and splendid churches were immediately covered, as if by enchantment, with the miracles of paintings and sculpture--the eager multitude were not compelled to wait till genius had labored for years on what it had been years in conceiving. those eager spirits seemed to breathe out their creations in full and mature beauty--performing at once, by the buoyant energies of well-disciplined genius, more than all the cold precision of mechanical knowledge can ever accomplish." allan cunningham, in his life of flaxman, the artist, speaking of these paintings, remarks: "into these flaxman looked with the eye of a sculptor and of a christian. he saw, he said, that the mistress to whom the great artists of italy had dedicated their genius was the church; that they were unto her as chief priests, to interpret her tenets and her legends to the world in a more brilliant language than that of relics and images. to her illiterate people, the church addressed herself through the eye, and led their senses captive by the external magnificence with which she overwhelmed them." but it is unnecessary to multiply quotations to prove this point. flaxman never uttered a truer saying, than when he remarked, that "the christian religion presents personages and subjects no less favorable to painting and sculpture than the ancient classics." accordingly, we find among his own immortal productions, that the monument erected in memory of miss lushington, in kent, representing a mother mourning for her daughter, comforted by a ministering angel, was inspired by that text of holy writ, "blessed are they that mourn;" and the monument in memory of the family of sir francis baring imbodies these words, "thy will be done--thy kingdom come--deliver us from evil." to the first motto belongs a devotional figure as large as life- "her looks communing with the skies;" a perfect image of piety and resignation. on one side, imbodying "thy kingdom come," a mother and daughter ascend to the skies welcomed rather than supported by angels; and on the other, expressing the sentiment "deliver us from evil," a male figure, in subdued agony, appears in the air, while spirits of good and evil contend for the mastery. this has been considered one of the finest pieces of motionless poetry in england. we hold, then, that mr. walker's remark that "neither poetry nor the arts can have being, without the religion of greece," is far from being sustained, either by history or observation. b. the remarks of mr. walker, in relation to the duty of parents and teachers, seem to us well-founded and judicious. if moral, as well as intellectual and physical education, be part of the parental duty, then it would seem to follow, that it should embrace those subjects which are of the most importance, both to the physical and moral well-being of the child; and surely, the relation of the sexes, and the due subjection of the animal propensities, are not the least important of these. there is a delicacy generally felt and observed on this point, which springs from a principle that we honor and respect, while, at the same time, we doubt whether it leads to favorable and auspicious results. no one, who looks back upon the years of his own childhood, can for a moment doubt that judicious advice and seasonable information on certain subjects, which were probably considered of a too delicate nature to be even hinted at, would have been highly useful. the young will inevitably become initiated into certain vices and evil practices, unless put on their guard, by the warning voice of those they love and respect. there are a variety of passions, affections, and appetites, which belong to our nature, and were intended when properly directed and indulged, to promote our interest and happiness. those under consideration, early begin to manifest themselves, and, when left without the restraints of enlightened intellect and the moral sense, invariably lead to disastrous consequences. the question then is, shall the young and inexperienced be left to the mere accidents of its condition, without an effort to give it sound principles to govern it, or without bringing some conservative influence to bear upon it? we think, with mr. walker, that it should not. both philosophy and reason prove the danger of such a course. the circumstances which are connected with sexual vices cannot be wholly kept out of view. they meet the eye, or are suggested to the imagination, at almost every turn. a thousand scenes and incidents occur to excite the passions, if the mind is not fortified against their influence. those who are fastidious, and believe that delicacy forbids all allusion to such subjects, will say, "keep the youth in ignorance--conceal, if possible, everything from his view, that may excite the passions." still, there remain the constitutional susceptibilities; passion and appetite cannot be eradicated, and they will often be excited by incidents, which the most wakeful vigilance will not detect or suspect. the fact is, that long before parents are aware of it, the child has obtained knowledge on these subjects through many corrupt channels; and the associations first formed, are destined to exert, ever afterward, a powerful influence for evil. the early associations might, by judicious instruction on the part of parents, be of such character, as to throw around the youth a barrier almost impregnable. as to the _time_ and _manner_ of imparting this instruction, it must be left to the wisdom and prudence of teachers and parents and, perhaps, as a general rule, it should be left wholly to the latter. c. much has been written on the nature of beauty, from the divine plato, who dedicated one of his dialogues to this subject, to lord jeffries, the editor of the edinburgh review; who, in his celebrated article in the supplement to the encyclopedia britannica, has excelled all previous efforts in its elucidation, and produced an essay, which will stand an imperishable monument of his taste, learning, and genius. it is not our design to enter upon a consideration of beauty in the abstract, or to attempt its analysis, as this has been done by our author in a very able, if not satisfactory manner. we take it, however, to denote that quality, or assemblage and union of qualities in the objects of our perception, whether material, intellectual, or moral, which we contemplate with emotions of pleasure; and we refer it to that internal sense, which is usually called _taste_. when it is asked, why a thing is beautiful, it is not always easy to find a satisfactory answer. we find beauty in color, in sound, in form, in motion, in everything. we have beauties of speech, beauties of thought, beauties in art, in nature, in the sciences, in actions, in affections, and in characters. dr. reid well asks, "in things so different, and so unlike, is there any quality, the same in all, which we may call by the name of beauty?" we shall not attempt to fathom this difficulty; indeed, it could not be done, without entering upon a metaphysical discussion, dry in detail, and uninteresting in result. when we come to inquire in what _female beauty_ consists, we shall find that there is something which enters into it, beside physical goodness. it is not a mere matter of flesh and blood; but color, form, expression, and grace, are all essential to its perfection. the two first have been called the _body_, the two latter, the _soul_ of beauty--and without the soul, the body is but a mass of deformed and inanimate matter:- "mind, mind, alone! bear witness earth and heaven, the living fountains in itself contains of beauteous and sublime. here, hand-in-hand, sit paramount the graces. here, enthroned, celestial venus, with divinest airs, invites the soul to never-failing joy." akenside color and form are only beautiful, because they are expressive of health, delicacy, and softness, in the female sex. it has been remarked, that expression has greater power than either beauty or form, as it is only the expression of the tender and kind passions that gives beauty; that all the cruel and unkind ones add to deformity, and that, on their account, good-nature may very properly be said to be the best feature, even in the finest face. modesty, sensibility, and sweetness, blended together, so as either to enliven or correct each other, give almost as much attraction as the passions are capable of adding to a very pretty face. it is owing to this force of pleasingness, which attends all the kinder passions, that lovers not only seem, but really are, more beautiful to each other than to the rest of the world; and in their mutual presence and intercourse, says a french writer, there is a soul upon their countenances, which does not appear when they are absent from each other or even in company that lays a restraint upon their features. indeed, it will appear that all the ingredients of beauty terminate in expression, and this may be, either perfection of the body, or the qualities of the mind. dr. reid indeed goes so far as to say, that beauty originally dwells in the moral and intellectual perfections of mind, and in its active powers. thus beauty may be ascribed to all those qualities which are the natural objects of love and kind affections, as the moral virtues, innocence, gentleness, condescension, humanity, natural affections, and the whole train of soft and gentle virtues--qualities amiable in their nature, and on account of their moral worth. so also do intellectual talents excite our love and esteem of those who possess them; these are knowledge, good sense, wit, humor, cheerfulness, good taste, excellence in any of the fine arts--as music, painting, sculpture, embroidery, &c. thus, for example, the beauty of good breeding is not originally in the external behavior in which it consists, but is derived from the qualities of mind which it expresses; for it has been well observed, that though there may be good breeding without the amiable qualities of mind, its beauty is still derived from what it naturally expresses. flaxman has truly said, that neither mind nor any one of its qualities or powers, is an immediate object of perception to men. these are perceived through the medium of material objects, on which their signatures are impressed. the signs of these qualities are immediately perceived by the senses, and by them reflected to the understanding; and we are apt to attribute to the sign, the beauty which is properly and originally in the thing signified. thus, the invisible creator hath stamped on his works signatures of his divine wisdom, power, and benignity, which are visible to all men. the works of men in science, in the arts of taste, and in the mechanical arts, bear the signatures of those qualities of mind which were employed in their production. their external behavior or conduct in life, expresses the good or bad qualities of their minds. in every species of animals we perceive, by visible signs, their instincts, appetites, affections, or sagacity; and even in the inanimate world, there are many things analogous to the qualities of mind; so that there is hardly anything belonging to mind which may not be represented by images taken from objects of sense; and, on the other hand, every object of sense is beautiful, by borrowing attire from attributes of the mind. thus, the beauties of mind, though invisible in themselves, are perceived in the objects of sense, in which their beauty is impressed. thus, also, in those qualities of sensible objects to which we ascribe beauty, we discover in them some relation to mind, and the greatest in those that are most beautiful. every beauty in the vegetable creation, of which we can form any rational judgment, expresses some perfection in the object, or some wise contrivance in the author. in the animal kingdom we perceive superior beauties, resulting from life, sense, activity, various instincts and affections, and, in many cases, great sagacity; which are attributes of mind, and possess an original beauty. in their manner of life, we observe that they possess powers, outward form, and inward structure, exactly adapted to it; and the more perfectly any individual is fitted for its end and manner of life, the greater is its beauty. this, also, was manifestly milton's theory of beauty; for, in his unrivalled description of our first parents in paradise, he derives their beauty from those expressions of moral and intellectual qualities which shone forth in their outward form and demeanor:- "two of far nobler shape, erect and tall, god-like erect! with native honor clad, in naked majesty, seemed lords of all, and worthy seemed, for, in their looks divine, the image of their glorious maker, shone truth, wisdom, sanctitude, severe and pure; severe, but in true filial freedom placed, whence true authority in man; though both not equal, as their sex not equal seemed, for contemplation he, and valor formed, _for softness she, and sweet attractive grace_." from these remarks, it will appear that we do not regard novelty alone as being "the exciting cause of pleasurable emotions, and of the consequent perception of beauty in the relation of things." the beautiful, both in statuary and painting, we believe to depend chiefly on the perfection with which the artist succeeds in expressing the qualities of the mind, whether good or evil; and it is worthy of notice, that plato, in his dialogues, declares that the good and the beautiful are one and the same. hence, the greeks called the beautiful [greek: kalos]. the influence of novelty has been so well illustrated in an essay by the author of a treatise on happiness, that we trust no apology will be required for transferring a portion of it to our pages:-"the term novelty applies to everything new--either newly invented, or newly exhibited to us; in the former case the thing is novel to the world, in the latter it is novel to ourselves. novelty powerfully influences the senses, the passions, and the manners of human beings; it furnishes amusement, employment, and maintenance for man; it accompanies him in his progress through this variable being, from the commencement of life to the period of dissolution. "novelty may be either pleasing or unpleasing. when it affects the senses by grateful influences, it occasions admiration and delight. how powerfully must the vision of adam have been affected, when he was introduced to being! everything which he beheld was new. there was drawn out before him, the plain, the fruitful valley, the verdant hill. shrubs and trees were distributed around him. the earth was strewed with flowers: rivulets and rivers diversified the scene- 'rolling on orient pearl, and sands of gold.' the ocean, perhaps, was stretched out as a plain of silver in the distant view; the heavens were robed in splendor; the sun shone brilliantly. his own person--himself, was an inextricable mystery. he could move; he could think; he could behold the display of creation; he could close his eyes, and exclude every impression. all was new; and everything, he might naturally have fancied, would remain the same; but, he was destined to behold a series of novelties. in a short time, he saw the sun sinking below the horizon. the heavens were adorned in their most splendid robes, like the gorgeous display of an eastern monarch. a shade was cast over the valleys, and darkness began to gather among the trees, while their tops and branches were still illumined in the sunbeams. the shadows of evening are now gathered around him; the twinkling stars adorn the heavens; but the beauties of hill, vale, waters, trees, and flowers, are departed! how sensibly must he have been affected! he would now conclude that his future time must be spent in darkness; but he looks toward the east, and across the wide expanse of waters he beholds a gleam of light, which leads the eye to some great luminary, rising above the horizon, to cheer the nightly solitude; and, as it mounts to the zenith, new beauties delight the vision of this lonely and astonished inhabitant of the earth. after a short period the moon sinks, the sun rises in the heavens, and the same delightful scenery is exhibited which was beheld the previous day. "we can imagine the effect of novelty in producing admiration; when travellers, who having been toiling for many days or weeks on the burning sands of interminable deserts, come suddenly upon some lovely valley, watered by cooling streams, shaded by groves of trees, and beautified with clusters of flowers. or, we can fancy the pleasure which would be produced on wayworn voyagers, who had been long toiling on the great deep and they come to some blest isle, ----'where the voluptuous breeze the peaceful native breathes, at eventide, from nutmeg-groves, and bowers of cinnamon.' to the infant everything is novel, and almost everything is a source of admiration. the people who move to and fro; the walls and furniture of the room; the fire and the candles; the bustle and movement of men and carriages; the heavens, sunshine, and rain. these occasion interest and surprise. dr. brown has inquired, 'what metaphysician is there, however subtile and profound in his analytical inquiries, and however successful in the analyses which he has made, who would not give all his past discovery, and all his hopes of future discovery, for the certainty of knowing, with exactness, what every infant feels?" but he would, probably, meet with few who would sacrifice so much for the purpose; and yet the feelings of an infant must be exceedingly interesting. "we can easily suppose the effect which would be produced on a company of savages, if, in the midst of their woods, one of our best military bands were to strike up a powerful strain of martial music. at first they would sit motionless, or stand as statues; then look toward the place whence the sounds proceeded, where they would behold a company of persons, in many-colored dresses, and splendid ornaments, with curious musical instruments, dropped, as they would fancy, from the clouds. "but the effect of novelty may be painful; and this feeling will be powerful in the same proportion as the circumstances are important and new. suppose, for instance, a person who had been trained in the ways of propriety and virtue were introduced, for the first time, to a village-wake, or some such brutal holyday, where he would behold bull-baiting and cock-fighting, boxing and drunkenness; where he would listen to quarrelling and profane swearing; how would his feelings be shocked! he would scarcely have fancied that a spot so small, on the surface of the globe, could have exhibited so great a variety of wickedness. "or, we may imagine some one endowed with a delicate ear for music, who had been accustomed to the practice of delightful harmony, obliged, for the first time, to listen to the harsh scraping of some barbarous laborer on the violin, or the useless attempts of some tasteless practitioners to perform a piece of music! how irksome and insufferable must such an ordeal be to a man of refinement; and how would its painfulness be increased by its novelty! "by the same rule, a person who may have been accustomed to luxury and dainty food, but is obliged, for the first time, to feed on loathsome bread and nauseous water, feels doubly the misery of his condition. and thus the man who has been used to salubrious air and grateful scents, will be the more effected by disgusting smells. "novelty operates also in powerfully exciting the passions. suppose a general to be usually unfortunate in his combats with the enemy, and his army to be consequently dispirited; but, upon some particular occasion, the favors of fortune and of providence are bestowed upon them, their efforts are successful, and the main body of the enemy begin to waver, how would this inspirit them, and brighten their courage! they would rush forward, unconscious and careless of danger, and the foe must fly before such unconquerable ardor! "if a man who had lived in poverty, in dependance on others for a subsistence, had constantly wished for independence and comparative influence, and had endeavored to swim against the stream of adversity but had never succeeded, and, all at once, a handsome fortune were left to him, how would his eyes sparkle with exultation! if a person had been separated from his friends and doomed to spend his days in the solitude of a foreign land and he met, unexpectedly, with some of his nearest and kindest friends, how would his countenance beam with delight! the novelty of the circumstance would increase the amount of his joy! "a traveller in a foreign country would be exceedingly pleased to discover some trinket which had been made in his native city; and especially if he saw on it the name of an intimate friend as the manufacturer. a toy, a dog, or a cat, under some circumstances, has occasioned tears. a beautiful female has appeared more lovely, when interesting events have introduced her to our notice; and one who is not usually attractive, has appeared so, when novelty has thrown its fascinations around her. "the feeling of hope may be excited most powerfully by novel and unexpected circumstances. when the mariner has been long toiling in storms and dangers; when the heavens have been covered with darkness, and no information or guidance could be gained from the stars or the sun, the tempest suddenly ceases, the cheering sunbeams break upon him, and he finds himself, unexpectedly, near the haven where he would be--how does his heart exult with hope, and the consciousness of security! "the passions may be excited, also, in an unpleasing manner; the feeling of fear may be powerfully produced by novelty. suppose, for instance, a youth, who was trained in the ways of tranquillity and enjoyment, with a feeling heart for the sufferings of others, to be brought, all at once, on the field of war and bloodshed. suppose him passing along some narrow defile, where the distant scenes could scarcely affect him, and where he would perceive only a din of discordant sounds. but, on a sudden, he reaches the termination of the passage, and all the pomp, and circumstance, and horror of war, are exhibited before him. here he beholds rank opposed to rank, in deadly conflict; troops of horsemen butchering each other; forests of deadly weapons gleaming in the sunbeams. now he listens to the shouts of victors, the cries of the vanquished, the groans of the wounded and dying; to the swelling notes of some musical band; the discordant sounds of the drum; the clashing of arms, and the shrill clamor of trumpets; to the rattling of musketry and the roaring of artillery! how would his heart sink within him at these novel scenes! "novelty will also occasion sorrow; as, when a man has been accustomed to independence, and the comforts which wealth, judiciously managed, may produce, and his riches are suddenly swept away, he is reduced from affluence to dependance, from comforts to privations. and when a person has been used to the society of pleasant friends, and these are removed by the hand of death, and the clay-cold body alone remains as the representative of a cheerful and amiable companion, the novelty of this event will occasion heartfelt sorrow. "when those who have been accustomed to associate as faithful friends; or, when a monarch has been surrounded by persons who have pretended feelings of attachment, and evinced much hypocritical fidelity, and, all at once, the veil of deception has been drawn aside, and an aspect has presented itself of a new and treacherous kind, how powerful have been the feelings of abhorrence and anger! "and when a person, who has been nurtured in the lap of ease and comfort, and blessed with that best of all blessings (if it be rightly managed), the gift of liberty, is torn from his home, and his family, and his engagements, and carried into a land of slavery, where he is laden with oppressive chains, and insulted by a cruel task-master, with no chance of freedom, nor any ray of happiness, how will his spirits sink, and how will the haggard lineaments of despair be drawn on that countenance which was formed for cheerfulness! or, suppose a person who was accustomed to a dwelling in some verdant valley, undisturbed by storms or the hazards of the sea; and he was introduced, for the first time, to some of the most aggravated dangers of that boisterous element. suppose the winds were driving furiously over the ocean, and the huge billows were breaking on the helpless bark, while the darkness of the night was varied only by the gleam of the lightning, which exhibited breakers, and rocks, and over-hanging precipices, how would this new and dangerous condition agitate his mind, and drive him to despair! "novelty influences the customs or habits of mankind. on some occasions novel engagements are pleasing; and thus we practise them again, and acquire a habit of performing them. for instance, the citizen who has walked into the country as a novelty, has been pleased with his ramble, and induced to practise it daily. it sometimes occasions a progress in the arts; and thus the first attempts at music, at painting, and at sculpture, have produced a pleasure which has stimulated the person to future and continued labors. "sometimes, when the first impression has been rather unpleasing, a custom has been acquired, because, afterward, it had been found pleasing or advantageous. thus there are many kinds of food, which were originally ungrateful, but are now esteemed delicious. port wine is nauseous for a child, but it is pleasing to the taste of a person who has been accustomed to it. smoking, the taking of snuff, and masticating of tobacco, with many other useless and dirty customs, are not produced by the pleasing influence of novelty; but they are rather opposed to it. they arise principally from the inclination of following injurious examples. in some cases ladies have set their faces against such customs, and have prohibited the practice among those who would gain their esteem: in other cases they have been more lenient, because they have found that a flame of love may burn amid volumes of smoke from cigars or tobacco-pipes. novelty has occasioned a sensation of unpleasantness, with regard to particular modes of dress; but afterward these fashions have become necessary to our comfort. "in some instances, the very things which we commonly hate most, become essential to our happiness. when louis xvi. ascended the throne of france, the doors of some of the dark cells in the bastile were opened, and the hapless residents were allowed once more to breathe the pure air of heaven. among the rest, there was one man who had been immured for nearly fifty years in a wretched cell, the area of which was so small as scarcely to allow him room to move about; but, having a vigorous body and a firm mind, he supported himself, until he had almost forgotten the world in which he lived, having had no intercourse with any one but the jailer, who brought him his daily food. when he received the summons to depart, which seemed like a message in a dream, he was astonished; but when he walked through the spacious passages and the open courts, and saw the heavens extended above him, and the sun shining in his splendor, he was overcome by his feelings. he could badly walk, and badly speak, and he seemed as if he had entered a new world. he went into the city, and found the street in which he had formerly lived, but his friends were dead; there was no living being in the world that knew him, and the poor man wept with sorrow. he was a stranger in a strange country. he went to the minister who had given him his freedom, and said: 'sir, i can bear to die, but to live in a world unknown and forlorn, the last human being of my race, is insupportable; do, therefore, send me to my cell, that i may finish my days there!' no blessing of providence will be felt as a benefit, unless it be possessed by a person for whom it is adapted. "impressions of a novel and pleasing kind soon lose their attraction; and thus the honors which are acquired by civil and literary eminence, quickly fade away. they are like a beautiful cloud in the heavens, or a dew-drop on a leaf, which glitters and exhibits its beauties for a while, but the fervent sun absorbs both; or, they are like a gaudy flower, which a man fixes in his bosom--very lovely at first, but its attractions soon vanish. on the other hand, painful occurrences leave but a faint impression. although, at first, a man may be bowed down with trouble, yet he will soon regain an erect position and a smiling countenance. a few weeks or months hide most of our sorrows from us; and this is an eminent proof of the wisdom and beneficence of the deity: for the general amount of human happiness is by this means more equally divided. a state of elation is temporary, and so is a state of depression; and thus, whether a man rises or sinks in worldly possessions and honors, although there will be some difference in the amount of enjoyment, yet there will be much less than we are generally disposed to imagine. "a taste for novelty affects the engagements of society: it is the source of fashion; it gives labor to the mechanic, to the artist, and to almost every man who obtains his maintenance by industry. and thus there are new buildings, new vehicles, new machines, and new methods of doing most things. there are dresses of various kinds the result of ingenuity and taste. one thing is new and attractive, but it soon becomes stale, and then we look for something novel. some kinds of food are scarce and costly: these are approved by the great, but they become plentiful and cheap, and then the rich man looks for something rare, some new discovery in the art of cookery. the round of pleasures and amusements is continually varying. formerly the men, and even the ladies, were delighted by exhibitions of combats among savage beasts--lions, elephants, and tigers; they feasted their eyes on the bloody combats of human beings with each other, or with bulls and other furious animals. they attended dog-fights, cock-fights, and other barbarous diversions. but the taste has become improved; novelty has taken a praiseworthy direction: boxing, wrestling, and other disgraceful exhibitions, are now transferred to the vulgar and disreputable; many innocent amusements have been introduced, and these also have been regulated by the universal love of novelty. the same variety has existed in language. a certain style of speech, and certain phrases, are fashionable in the best society; these are gradually introduced among the lower ranks, and then the better classes look for something novel. many words and phrases originally introduced for the purpose of expressing things delicately, become vulgar: terms which were primarily intended as a reproach become a designation of honor, and those once deemed honorable become reproachful. "the love of novelty occasions the great variety of tunes which we possess, and the diversity of musical skill. a newly-constructed instrument, a new or superior mode of performing on it and the last new tune, are objects of universal attraction. the same disposition arises with respect to books. novelty has occasioned all the variety which the history of literature exhibits, from the bulky folio to the penny pamphlet, and the annual publication to the daily newspaper: it has occasioned, also, in a great degree, the multitude of opinions which have deluged the world. something new, as the loungers of athens demanded, has been the requirement of the public in all ages. if it be new, it will be attractive, and if pleasing or convenient, it will be embraced, and then its strength and consistency will soon be deemed demonstrated: but when the writers on the subject, and the readers of those writings, become cool; when reason takes the place of imagination, then the system will be often discovered to be defective, the vapory fabric will fade away, and some other will obtain its place. we are too frequently going round in our progress, rather than forward. in many respects we are not much farther advanced than the ancients, and yet we ought to be, and should be if we had pursued a direct course. "but one of the most pleasing sources of novelty is that which the almighty has given us in the seasons of the year; and this distinctly shows us that the love of novelty is not only natural, but it is allowable and praiseworthy, if it be regulated by reason; for the great creator himself indulges us in this respect. and thus we have all the variety of summer and winter, of sultry and frosty days, of clear and cloudy skies; of the budding and blooming of spring, and the richness and luxuriance of autumn; the breaking forth of the sun in the morning, and the setting of that glorious luminary; the light of the stars; the silvery splendor of the moon; the glare of lightnings and meteors, the rolling of thunder, with vapors, rain, hail, and snow. "the love of novelty is injurious only when it is carried beyond what the almighty intended; when it does not animate a person to perform his necessary engagements, but carries him away from them; when it makes him restless and wavering. novelty accompanies man in infancy and in youth; it cheers and exalts him in the changing scenes of manhood; and when we leave this earthly sphere, and the soul bursts forth from its corporeal dwelling, it will fly upward to regions of still greater novelty, and never-failing interest!" d. mr. walker, in various places of his work, calls the _cerebel_ or cerebellum, "the organ of volition," and, at page 145, he attributes ideas, emotions, and passions, to the cerebrum, though he states that acts of the will result from these. now, if there is any truth established, it is that the _will_ is the result of the simultaneous action of the higher intellectual powers, and supposes attention, reflection, comparison, and judgment, mental operations, which mr. walker himself attributes to the cerebrum. gall has made it very evident, that the _will_ is not the impulse that results from the activity of a single organ, but the concurrent action of many of the higher intellectual faculties--motives must be weighed, compared, and judged, before there can be any will, or determination of mind. the decision resulting from this determination, is called will. we consider it then proved, that there is no particular organ of the will. "every fundamental faculty," says dr. gall, "accompanied by a clear notion of its existence, and by reflection, is intellect or intelligence. each individual intelligence, therefore, has its proper organ; but reason supposes the concerted action of the higher faculties. it is the judgment pronounced by the higher intellectual faculties. a single one of these, however, could not constitute reason, which is the compliment, the result of the simultaneous action of all the intellectual faculties. it is _reason_ that distinguishes man from the brute; _intellect_ they have in common to a certain degree. there are many intelligent men, but few reasoning ones. nature produces an intelligent man; a happy organization, cultivated by experience and reflection, forms the reasoning man." nearly all physiologists deserving of the name, are now united in the opinion that the cerebellum is the organ of amativeness, as well as concerned in the regulation of voluntary motion. "it is impossible," says dr. spurzheim, "to unite a greater number of proofs in demonstration of any natural truth than may be presented to determine the function of the cerebellum."--"mr. scott," says george combe, "in an excellent essay on the influence of amativeness on the higher sentiments and intellect, observes that it has been regarded by some individuals, as almost synonymous with pollution; and the notion has been entertained, that it cannot be even approached without defilement. this mistake has originated from attention being directed too exclusively to the abuses of the propensity. like everything that forms part of the system of nature, it bears the stamp of wisdom and excellence in itself, although liable to abuse. it exerts a quiet but effectual influence in the general intercourse between the sexes, giving rise in each to a sort of kindly interest in all concerns the other. this disposition to mutual kindness between the sexes, does not arise from benevolence or adhesiveness, or any other sentiment or propensity alone; because, if such were its sources, it would have an equal effect in the intercourse of the individuals of each sex among themselves, which it has not. 'in this quiet and unobtrusive state of the feeling,' says mr. scott, 'there is nothing in the least gross or offensive to the most sensitive delicacy. so far the contrary, that the want of some feeling of this sort is required, wherever it appears, as a very palpable defect, and a most unamiable trait in the character. it softens all the proud, irascible, and antisocial principles of our nature, in everything which regards that sex which is the object of it; and it increases the activity and force of all the kindly and benevolent affections. this explains many facts which appear in the mutual regards of the sexes toward each other. men are, generally speaking, more generous and kind, more benevolent and charitable, toward women, than they are to men, or than women are to one another.' the abuses of this propensity are the sources of innumerable evils in life; and as the organ and feeling exist, and produce an influence on the mind, independently of external communication, dr. spurzheim suggests the propriety of instructing young persons in the consequences of its improper indulgence as preferable to keeping them in a state of ignorance that may provoke a fatal curiosity, compromising in the end their own and their descendants' bodily and mental constitution." it may be proper in this place, to point out some of the anatomical differences of the sexes more definitely than has been done by mr. walker, as they are intimately connected with the form and contour of the body, and must be understood to appreciate fully the bearing of much that is laid down by our author:-anatomical sexual differences. digestive system. the stomach is the only portion of the alimentary canal which presents sexual differences. it is larger, shorter, and broader, in the male; smaller, narrower, and longer, in the female. its muscular coat, like that in the whole alimentary canal, is generally also thinner in the female. osseous system. _ribs._--the ribs of the female are generally straighter than those of the male. the posterior segment unites sooner with the anterior; its curve differs less from that of the last, and disappears sooner in the female; hence, the chest is narrower. the ribs are usually thinner; hence, the edges are sharper. sometimes, however, this is far from being true. their length is nearly the same; but according to mechel, the length of the two upper ribs is proportionally, and when the subject is short, absolutely greater in the female than in the male. _clavicle._--the clavicle is generally straighter, and proportionably smaller in the female than in the male. the greater straightness depends particularly on the lesser curve of its external portion, while in man it extends far backward, and then comes forward. the internal anterior half presents nearly the same curve in both sexes. the clavicle of the female is rounder than that of the male; we however find clavicles of females perfectly like those of males, and _vice versa_. sometimes, of the two clavicles in the same body, one is constructed in the type of the male, and the other in that of the female. _pelvis._--the chief points of difference between the male and female skeleton, beside the disparity in the size and the greater smoothness of the bones, lie in the _pelvis_. in the female this is less strong and thick, and contains less osseous matter than that of the male. in the female, the arch of the _pubis_ is much the greatest, and the long diameter of the brim of the pelvis is from side to side; in the male it is from before backward; in the female, the brim is more of the oval shape, in the male more triangular; in the female, the _ilia_ are more distant; the tuberosities of the _ischia_ are also more remote from each other, and from the _os coccygis_, and as these three points are farther apart, the notches between them are consequently wider, and there is of necessity a considerably greater space between the _os coccygis_ and _pubis_ than in the male. the female _sacrum_ is broader and less curved than in the other sex. the ligamentous cartilage at the symphysis pubis is broader and shorter. in consequence of the cavity of the pelvis being wider in woman, the superior articulations of their thigh bones are farther removed from each other, which circumstance occasions their peculiarity in walking; they seem to require a greater effort than men to preserve the centre of gravity, when the leg is raised; owing to the greater length of the crural arch, there is less resistance to the pressure of the abdominal viscera; consequently females are more subject to femoral hernia than males. the angle of union of the ossa pubis in the male is from sixty to eighty degrees, whereas, in the female it is ninety degrees. the mean height of the male, at the period of maturity, is about five feet eight and a half inches, and that of the female about five feet five inches; a well-formed pelvis has a circumference equal to one-fourth of the height of the female. organ of voice. the _larynx_ is one of the organs which presents most manifestly the differences of sex. that of the female is usually one third, and sometimes one half smaller than that of the male: all its constituent cartilages are much thinner; the thyroid cartilage also is even flatter, because its two lateral halves unite at a less acute angle. hence the reason why the larynx in the male forms at the upper part of the neck a prominence which is not visible in the female. the glottis in the female is much smaller than in the male, and the vocal cords are shorter. these sexual differences do not appear till puberty; until then the larynx has precisely the same form in the two sexes, and consequently the voice is nearly the same in both. in eunuchs it is small as in females. physiological explanation of the beauty of form. a very ingenious physiological explanation of the beauty of form, has been suggested by professor b. t. joslin, of the university of the city of new york, which is published in the transactions of the new york state medical society for 1836. as this theory is characterized by great originality and genius, and but little known, we shall present our readers with some extracts from the essay, calculated to elucidate the views of the talented author. speaking of material objects, not including the human form, dr. j. remarks:-"there is in objects a kind of beauty which is intrinsic and physical, which belongs to them in every association, and whether at rest or in motion; such is the beauty of color, and that of configuration. the contemplation of the beauty of coloring and of form gives physical pleasure, i. e., physical as opposed to mental, but physiological as opposed to physical. employing physical in its comprehensive sense, i say that this physical pleasure attending vision is of two distinct kinds; 1st, that which depends on the character of the impression on the retina, and consequently on the intensity and nature of the light; and 2dly, that which depends upon the form of the object, and, consequently, on the muscular actions employed in tracing its outlines. as the latter constitutes the proper subject of this essay, i shall dismiss the former with a single remark. "some colors are more agreeable than others, but these differ with different eyes, and with the nature of the color to which the eyes have been previously exposed. a bluish green relieves the eye when over-excited with red, and a mild red is agreeable after the protracted action of intense green; and in general, the complementary colors are most agreeable in succession. again, it is well known, that no kind of light is painful, unless excessively vivid; we are pleased with a mild radiance in objects of every hue, from the whiteness of the moon to the crimson of the setting sun. but is there no other physical property by which these luminaries directly contribute to the gratification of taste? it is true that light, abstractedly from all objects is agreeable, and agreeable on the same principle that sweetness is to the taste, i. e., from the mere character of the nervous impression. but this is a pleasure merely passive, and in an active being it is, perhaps, on that account, one grade lower than the gratification afforded by the beauty of form, and is more allied to the gross pleasure of literal taste. hence, we scarcely employ a figurative expression, in declaring that light is sweet. but the highest degree of physical gratification is not enjoyed by the eye, unless this agreeable excitant proceeds from an object of beautiful form. "light is sweet," but "it is a pleasant thing for the eyes to behold the sun." what is the source of this additional pleasure which we receive, when light proceeds either by radiation or reflection from regular curvilinear objects? "i shall offer what i believe to be an original and satisfactory explanation of the beauty of form, on principles purely physiological. it is based on the proposition, that the action of every muscle is attended with a sensation which, is at first agreeable, but which, if the action is continued for a short time with intensity, and without intermission, becomes painful. that there is pleasure attending those varied motions which depend upon the actions of different muscles in succession after intervals of rest in each, we know from our own consciousness as well as from that instinctive propensity to play which we observe in children and young animals. that the prolonged action of a muscle is painful, we may readily convince ourselves by endeavoring to hold the arm for some time at right angles with the erect trunk. with the arm in this position, a pound weight on the hand or even the weight of the arm itself becomes in a few minutes almost insupportable. we presently begin to feel pain in the shoulder and anterior part of the arm, the former from fatigue of those muscles which originate from the scapula and keep the os humeri elevated, and the latter from fatigue of the muscles which originate from the scapula and os humeri, whose muscular fibres are in front of the os humeri and by their contraction elevate the fore-arm in consequence of their tendinous attachment to its bones. yet a man may labor all day with his arms without this painful sensation; because a muscle requires but a momentary rest, in order to regain that degree of energy which is momentarily lost by action. "none but an anatomist can duly appreciate the variety of separate actions, on which depend the motions of a single limb, and the consequently numerous opportunities of rest which the muscles enjoy. to the superficial and unscientific observer, an arm is an arm; it is a single member which may be fatigued by a day's work and recruited by a night's rest. but to the anatomist the arm is a complex object, and its muscular energy is that of its component muscles, each of which may be fatigued by a minute's action and recruited by a minute's repose. it would be easy to extend this farther, and state reasons for believing that the component fasciculi and fibres of an individual muscle act still more transiently, and that their momentary and successive actions constitute the action of a single muscle. "but waiving this refinement, it will be sufficient for our purpose to consider a single muscle as having a simple action, an action which cannot be sustained with uniformity a minute of time without actual pain, nor a second of time with positive pleasure. this, however, is not to be understood as an attempt to fix these limits with precision. to express the law in more general terms, as we diminish the duration of a muscle's action we diminish the pain until we arrive at an action whose attendant sensation is neutral, i. e., neither painful nor pleasurable; as soon as we have passed that point and have begun to execute motions a little more transient, the attendant sensation becomes positively pleasurable, and the pleasure increases as the separate actions become more transient. it is not necessary to infer that there is attending each action of shorter duration a pleasure exceeding that which attends each action of greater duration; for the more transient actions are, in a given time, more numerous; so that with the same amount of pleasure for each muscular contraction, the amount of pleasurable sensation in a given time--say a second--would exceed the amount attending the less frequent and more prolonged actions in the same period: a greater number of separate impressions become--so to speak--crowded together and condensed, and thus produce a more vivid pleasure. several contiguous impressions thus conspire to heighten the contemporaneous effect, inasmuch as we are unable to distinguish those impressions which are made at very short intervals on the muscular sense, any more than we are those made at very short intervals on the retina. we have an example of the latter in the familiar experiment of swinging a coal of fire in a circle, and in various optical instruments for combining colors and images. "the proposition which i have endeavored to establish is, that there is a neutral point to which, if constant action is prolonged, its pleasurable character begins to be reversed; that the vividness of the sensation increases with the distance from this point, being on the one side pleasurable, on the other painful; the more transient the actions are, the more pleasurable; the more prolonged they are, the more painful. "i am of opinion that this physiological principle is susceptible of interesting applications to a class of pleasures, which metaphysicians have regarded as exclusively mental, and dependant upon certain supposed ultimate principles of the constitution of mind, principles not resolvable into others more elementary. as physiology shall advance, it may be expected that many of these imaginary elements will yield to its searching analysis. whether the writer has been so fortunate as to resolve any of the generally admitted elements of mental taste, the reader will be able to judge from the sequel. as preparatory to the consideration of the beauty of form, it will be necessary to give an explanation of the _gracefulness of motion_. although this has been vaguely and in part referred to ease of execution, yet, the physiological principle on which ease of execution depends, not having been clearly understood and distinctly stated, the gracefulness of _all_ motions could not be referred to their true source. thus, writers on taste have been under the necessity of admitting, as a distinct and independent source of gracefulness, the _curvilinear direction_ of motions, and have been able to generalize this fact no farther than by referring it to the beauty of curved forms, which beauty was considered an _ultimate_ fact. in applying the principles above developed, to the explanation of the pleasure or pain attending the contemplation of particular motions, we shall defer for the present the investigation of the intrinsic beauty of curved motions, which is the same as that of curved lines, and assume that in general those motions which are physically pleasurable to the agent are agreeable to the observer. the pleasure or pain of the agent will engage the sympathy of the observer; for he associates the observed action with his own experience. to make a single application, suppose a public speaker extend his arm horizontally and move it slowly in a horizontal position, through one third of a circle. this motion would not appear graceful. that it would not be performed with perfect ease, any one might prove by experiment. the principal difficulty is in preserving for a long time the horizontal position." "in the ordinary state of the muscular system, and within certain limits, the motion of the eye in any direction is pleasurable. whenever the power of directing the eye is acquired, the tracing of a line will, to a certain extent and for a certain time, afford some degree of positive pleasure; in other words, any short line will possess some degree of positive beauty, and the infant becomes conscious of an emotion of which he was previously ignorant--the emotion of beauty of form. a point awakens no such emotion; it never will; it can possess no beauty. it must be recollected, that this has been restricted to minute points of inappreciable form. circular dots will be considered under the head of figures. the colorific property of a dot as compared with that of the ground on which it is placed, may afford that kind of ocular pleasure which is foreign to the present inquiry. "from points as compared with lines, we naturally proceed to _lines as compared with each other_. "when the head is erect, in examining a _straight horizontal_ line we employ one of the lateral recti; if the line be vertical we employ the rectus inferior or superior. in either case, but one muscle acts, and that continuously. the muscle is not relieved, and its action is not attended with the maximum amount of pleasurable sensation. when the vision has been extended along the whole line, if we then immediately proceed to examine it in the opposite direction, the opposite rectus must at one exert a force sufficient to overcome the _momentum_ of the eyeball, and then exert a _continuous_ action. both these circumstances are unfavorable to pleasure. if the line is _oblique_, one lateral together with one inferior or one superior muscle is exerted, and the same principles which have been applied to the single muscles, apply to the muscles acting in pairs. "_the beauty of curved lines._--as from the foregoing analysis of the vision of straight lines in general, it results that they are deficient in the elements of ocular agreeableness, in other words, of beauty; little more need be said of regular and gentle curves, than that the survey of them is not attended with the abovementioned disadvantages. in viewing a regular curve, no muscle of the eyeball acts continuously and uniformly, but enjoys partial relief by remissions, or total relief by intermissions of its action; and the regularity of these remissions and intermissions, as well as the equal distribution of exercise, is promoted by the regularity of the curve. acting in succession, the muscles afford mutual relief after actions of such short duration and variable intensity, as to afford positive pleasure; and in this _muscular pleasure_ of the eye consists the _beauty of configuration_. "the successive and accurate survey of distant points is not, however, invariably requisite to a degree of similar pleasure, in viewing a figure of such small angular extent as to be instantly recognised by one location of its image, as analogous to a larger one whose survey has directly afforded muscular pleasure. although i thus recognise the influence of association, the facts of this very case afford an interesting confirmation of the physiological theory; for a large circle or ellipse is more beautiful than one of diminutive size. the beauty of the one is original, its influence is direct; the beauty of the other is in part borrowed, and this part is weakened by reflection. or, to express it more literally, the one excites a pleasurable sensation, the other suggests a similar idea; the one affords a _perception_, the other a _conception_, of beauty. such, even with similar color and brilliancy, would be the difference between the full moon and a circular dot (â·) or period; such the difference between a rainbow and a diminutive arc ([illustration]), a short accent inverted. here the critic might be inclined to charge us with confounding the beautiful with the sublime. but the fact is, that criticism has constructed the sublime--as it has the beautiful--from heterogeneous materials, one of which is identical with one of the elements of beauty, and should, in a physiological arrangement, be referred to the same class. in many instances a magnifying instrument will disclose minute irregularities and blemishes; but in every other case, physiology would show, that, within certain limits, to magnify a beautiful _object_ is to _magnify beauty_. "the foregoing statements of general principles preclude the necessity of minute details in relation to particular curves. i shall at present consider those which do not return into themselves, so as to constitute the outlines of figures in the geometrical sense. let us first select a semi-circumference, for example, that of a rainbow of maximum dimensions. in tracing it once, we employ three out of the four muscles. they are brought into action successively and rapidly, but not abruptly. all these circumstances are favorable to pleasure. yet they are not conducive to it in the highest possible degree; for each muscle acts only once unless the examination be repeated; and in case of its repetition, the momentum of the eyeball is destroyed in stopping and reversing its motion. the waving line, as hogarth's line of beauty, obviates the first difficulty. this ensures not only the successive action of different muscles, but a repetition of action in the same. if the line forms a number of equal waves, these repetitions will be proportional to the number of waves, and will alternately and totally relieve, at least two muscles, and allow, in the action of a third, regular remissions of intensity at equal intervals. we have proved then, that on this physiological theory, a semi-circumference possesses more of the elements of beauty than any straight line, and a regular-waved line more than either. these results are conformable to experience. if there is any difficulty in admitting this, it will vanish on comparing the ocular with other muscles. "let us select a joint, which, in its spherical form, and the circular arrangement of its muscles, is analogous to the eye; for example, the shoulder joint. i think it will be uniformly found, that in the use of this joint, the curves most readily traced, are those of gentle and nearly equal curvature, and being such as are most easily traced by the eye, they would appear more beautiful than those drawn by the fingers with the same education. for example, let a man, without bending his wrist or elbow, draw various lines with a light stick or cane on the surface of snow: the lines most easily drawn (or most easily traced if already drawn), will be curves of considerable beauty, and nearly equal curvature; such as waved lines and spirals and looped curves. circles and ellipses would also be among the figures with most facility and precision traced, and especially in cases of repeated tracing; but we are not at present considering figures in the proper geometrical sense of the term. in writing letters by the above method, a succession of 'e's, would be more readily drawn than a succession of 'i's, or a zigzag line with acute angles. "to institute a fair comparison between terminated lines and figures, the component lines of the figures should be as beautiful as the terminated lines with which they are compared. with this precaution, physiology will conduct to the conclusion, that figures are more beautiful than terminated lines. for the survey of any figure requires the successive action of all these ocular muscles, and a repeated survey requires no reversal of the motion. "we may apply the same principles to _figures as compared with each other_. here we shall find the advantage on the side of those which are geometrically regular. we perceive that the circle and ellipse must possess in great perfection the essentials of beauty. "from figures, the transition is natural and easy to _solids_ or bodies of three dimensions. the form of a body depends on those of all its faces and sections; and these last are plane figures. the elliptical sections of a regular spheroid are all highly beautiful, but its sections are not all elliptical. unless the spheroid be in certain positions, the sphere possesses still higher beauty, as presenting the same circular and highly beautiful outline in every position; although a variety of positions is not essential to the perception of its peculiar beauty, whenever the observer has learned by different methods, and especially by different degrees of convergence of the two optic axes, to estimate the relative distances of the different points of the visible hemisphere, and thus to recognise the spherical form. i will only add, from the analysis of the beauty of the circle it is evident, that within certain limits, to magnify a sphere is to magnify its beauty. "the relative beauty of the sphere and spheroid, and of the spheroid as compared with itself in different positions, is modified by _symmetry_. the principle of symmetry, is in some measure distinct from any other heretofore considered. it may be treated under the heads of 1st, geometrical symmetry, or symmetry of form; 2d, of symmetry of position. "_symmetry of form_, though implied in geometrical regularity, is not identical with it, and requires a separate consideration. the beauty of forms geometrically symmetrical, in contradistinction from those deficient in the correspondence of opposite halves, depends upon two similar series of actions in different pairs or muscles. for example, the survey of an ovate leaf, or indeed that of almost any vegetable leaf--so numerous are the provisions for our gratification--requires for its opposite halves two series of muscular actions, the different parts of the one corresponding with those of the other in duration, intensity, and order of succession. the gratification in this case results from the harmony of muscular sensations individually pleasurable. the agreeableness of this harmony may depend upon a principle more psychological than that of the agreeableness of its elementary sensations. yet the former is to a certain extent susceptible of a physiological generalization. this harmony would probably have been impaired by any considerable inequality in the distances between the points of insertion of the recti muscles, or in the strength of the antagonists. it is a curious coincidence, that in both these respects, these muscles are more nearly symmetrical than any others in the human body. physiology, then, explains, not only the agreeableness of the elementary sensations, which give rise to the perception of beauty in regular curves, but unfolds the provisions for two similar series of such sensations, not only in figures simply regular, but in those which are simply symmetrical, and in those which are both symmetrical and regular. the principles of muscular action explain the agreeableness of a rapid succession of varied actions equally distributed among the muscles, and the structure of the optical apparatus explains why the curvature and regularity of an object require such actions in vision. again, we discover in the symmetrical structure and arrangement of the ocular muscles, a provision for two similar series of pleasurable sensations in the survey of a symmetrical figure, in whatever position it may be placed, provided it retains its symmetry with respect to some visual plane. the coincidence between the location of the ocular muscles diametrically opposite, on the one hand, and our propensity to compare the opposite halves of bodies, and the pleasure afforded by their similarity on the other hand, is curious, and to a certain extent affords a physiological explanation of the beauty of symmetrical forms. "the same principles which apply to the beauty of form of inanimate objects are applicable to the paths described by them in _motion_. the intrinsic beauty of their motions is exclusively referrible to sensations in the ocular muscles of the observer, while the gracefulness of human motions is referrible in part to these, and in part to sensations in other muscles. "it would be foreign to the subject of the present memoir, to consider the beauty of expression of the human countenance; although this species of beauty is in a great degree referrible to muscular action. that muscular action which belongs to the present topic is not that of the object, but that of the observer. it may be scarcely necessary again to disclaim any design of giving a complete analysis of beauty in general, or to repeat the concession that man's notions of beauty are modified by various associations. "_final cause._--the benevolence of the author of nature is strikingly manifested in connecting present pleasure with obedience to the natural laws. it has been shown that vision is attended with muscular action which is generally pleasurable. if seeing had required no muscular action, we should have wanted one of our present stimuli to the acquisition of knowledge. this stimulus is especially necessary in infancy, and then powerfully prompts to observation, even anterior to the dawnings of intellectual curiosity, with which it subsequently co-operates. we see, in this arrangement, the exemplification of a principle which extensively pervades the laws under which we are placed by the creator--which is, that mental attainments, as well as other acquisitions, shall require action; and that action shall be attended with pleasure. whether the acquisition is to be made by the manual labor of the artisan, by the manipulations of the artist, the chymist, or the experimental philosopher, by the sedentary student of books, or by the observer of natural phenomena in his original survey of the universe--in every case it is muscular action. "this application to natural theology, has thus far had reference to that degree of intrinsic agreeableness which is common to forms in general. but the laws of nature specially tend to the production of curved, regular, and symmetrical objects and motions, in inorganic vegetable and animal bodies; and impose the necessity of similar forms in artificial structures. with a different structure and arrangement of the ocular muscles, those forms peculiarly conducive to our welfare and that of the universe, had possessed no peculiar attractions; and we had felt no special impulse of this kind to conform our own artificial structures to those laws of nature, or to investigate many of the most important works of the creator. yet neither gravity or any other law of the external world could have determined the peculiar formation of the muscles of the human eye. we must, therefore, refer their actual structure and location to that being who gives to the objects of his creative power, and to the principles by which he governs them, such a mutual adaptation as conduces to the greatest achievable good. thus, while muscular pleasure originally prompts to the observation of the creator's works, this observation is rewarded and subsequently prompted by a pleasure of an incomparably higher order, of a character purely mental, by the discovery of _moral beauty_, which in rank and refinement surpasses all others. still, the muscular pleasure of the eye strongly incites to the examination of the numberless forms of beauty in the organic and inorganic kingdoms, such as the symmetrical leaf, the bending bough, the symmetry of the tree itself that of inferior animals, and of the human form. or we may extend our view to the circular or undulating horizon, the apparent limits of the apparently round world; or we may elevate the eyes to the arched dome of the firmament, on which the arches of the iris and aurora occasionally confer additional beauty. or with the telescope we may pierce this apparent limit of upward vision, and discover beyond it a universe of spherical and spheroidal worlds, revolving in circular and elliptical orbits, worlds and orbits which present, even in our diminutive diagrams, a high order of beauty, designed to incite us to the contemplation of these most magnificent works of the creator. "all this beauty had been lost to man, but for the property of the eye, which, on a superficial reflection, might seem a defect. it is no less true than paradoxical, that the perception of these beauties depends on _indistinctness of vision_. to a being so constituted as to see with equal distinctness by oblique and direct vision, the same forms might be presented, but not as forms of beauty. has the creator, then, sacrificed a portion of our perceptive powers to our sensual gratification? i answer no. has he, then, sacrificed a portion of our _direct_ means of acquiring knowledge, to afford an incitement which should ultimately and indirectly enhance our attainments? again i am compelled to answer in the negative. there is, in this arrangement, no intellectual sacrifice whatever, direct or indirect. this indistinctness of oblique vision, which might seem a defect, i consider an excellence. a simultaneous and distinct impression received from the whole field of vision, would distract the attention and preclude a minute and accurate examination of any particular part. but as our eyes are so constituted as to receive a strong and distinct impression only from the images of those objects toward which their axes are directed, and as our minds are so constituted that we can in a great measure neglect the weaker or less distinct impressions, we are able to acquire a more exact knowledge of any part of the field to which we choose to attend. to see every thing at once, would be to examine nothing. such a constitution of the eye would be to vision what an indiscriminating memory is to the understanding. e. standard of beauty. to show that the sentiments of mankind with regard to female beauty, have been very various in different ages and nations, and that it is not possible to establish a standard which shall comprehend all, without discriminations, a few facts may be mentioned. among the ancients, a small forehead and joined eyebrows were much admired in a female countenance; and in persia, large joined eyebrows are still highly esteemed. in some parts of asia, black teeth and white hair, are essential ingredients in the character of a beauty; and in the marian islands, it is customary among the ladies to blacken their teeth with herbs, and to black their hair with certain liquors. beauty, in china and japan, is composed of a large countenance, small, and half-concealed eyes, a broad nose, little and useless feet, and a prominent belly. the flat-head indians compress the heads of their children between two boards, with a view to enlarge and beautify the face; some tribes compress the head laterally; others depress the crown, and others make the head as round as possible. "the moors of africa," says park, "have singular ideas of female perfection; the gracefulness of figure and motion, and a countenance enlivened by expression, are by no means operative points in their standard; with them corpulency and beauty are terms nearly synonymous. or women of even moderate pretensions, must be one who cannot walk without a slave under each arm to support her, and a perfect beauty is a load for a camel. in consequence of this prevalent taste for unwieldiness of bulk, the moorish ladies take great pains to acquire it early in life, and for this purpose many of the young girls are compelled by their mothers to swallow a great quantity of _kouskous_, and drink a large bowl of camel's milk every morning. it is of no importance whether the girl has an appetite or not, the kouskous and milk must be swallowed, and obedience is frequently enforced by blows. i have seen a poor girl sit crying with the bowl at her lips for more than an hour, and her mother with a stick in her hand watching her all the while, and using the stick without mercy whenever she observed that her daughter was not swallowing. this singular practice, instead of producing indigestion and disease, soon covers the young lady with that degree of plumpness, which in the eye of a moor, is perfection itself." these facts show that every nation almost has ideas of beauty peculiar to itself; and it is no less evident that nearly every individual has his own notions and taste concerning it. "the empire of beauty, however," says a writer already quoted, "amid these discordant ideas, with respect to the qualities in which it consists, has been very generally acknowledged, and particularly in all civilized countries; and when it is united with other accomplishments that tend to render females amiable, it contributes in no small degree, to give them importance and influence, to polish the manners of society, and to contribute to its order and happiness." f. temperament. the views of mr. walker in relation to temperaments, correspond with those usually entertained by physiological writers. it is to be observed, however, that they rarely occur simple in any individual, two or more being generally combined. the _bilious_ and _nervous_, for example, is a common combination, which gives strength and activity; the _lymphatic_ and _nervous_, is also common, and produces sensitive delicacy of mental constitution, conjoined with indolence. the _nervous_ and _sanguine_ combined, give extreme vivacity, but without corresponding vigor. dr. thomas of paris, has advanced the following theory of the temperaments: when the digestive organs, filling the abdominal cavity, are large, and the lungs and brain small, the individual is _lymphatic_; he is fond of feeding, and averse to mental and muscular exertion. when the heart and lungs are large, and the brain and abdomen small, the individual is _sanguine_; blood abounds, and is propelled with vigor; he is therefore fond of muscular exercise, but averse to thought. when the brain is large, and the abdominal and thoracic viscera small, great mental energy is the consequence. these proportions may be combined in great varieties, and modified results will ensue.[59] mr. combe, in his late lectures in this city, laid great stress on the relative size of the three great visceral cavities, in determining the temperament. thus, if the abdominal and thoracic cavities be small, and the cranial cavity large, the _nervous_ temperament is indicated. if the abdomen and scull be comparatively small, and the chest large, the sanguine temperament is indicated. the predominance of the abdominal cavity indicates the lymphatic temperament. mr. c. also pointed out the important changes produced in the temperament by a long continued course of training. it is common for the bilious, to be changed into the nervous temperament, by habits of mental activity, and close study; and, on the other hand, we often see the nervous or bilious changed into the lymphatic about the age of 40, when the nutritive system seems to acquire the preponderance. spurzheim used to say, that he had originally a large portion of the lymphatic temperament, as had all his family; but that in himself the lymphatic had gradually diminished, and the nervous gradually increased; whereas, in his sisters, owing to mental inactivity, the reverse had happened, and when he visited them, after being absent many years, he found them, to use his own expression, "_as large as tuns_." the subject of temperament has been treated with consummate ability by dr. charles caldwell of kentucky; and as his essay is but little known, we shall present some extracts from it. it will be seen that his views bear a close resemblance to those of dr. thomas, already mentioned; but dr. c. has shown that they were publicly maintained by him, at least two years before the appearance of dr. thomas's work.[60] after explaining the doctrine of the temperaments, as taught by the ancients, and showing that it is founded on the exploded hypothesis of humoralism, dr. c. goes on to show, that it is the _solids_ of the body which make man what he is; that they form the _fluids_, and give them their character; that they are, in short, the _cause_, and the fluids the _effect_. "the difference," says dr. c., "between individuals, or rather classes, of the human family, which temperament is made to designate, appears to depend on two causes; diversity of organization in parts or the whole of the bodies of different persons, giving rise to a corresponding diversity in the vital properties; and difference of size and vigor in certain ruling organs of the system. the existence and influence of the former of these causes are in the highest degree probable; those of the latter certain. the one is susceptible of strong support, the other of proof that may be termed positive. by 'organization' is here meant, the minute interior or radical structure of the tissues which compose the human body. that diversity in this creates a diversity in the vital properties, and that again a diversity in character, cannot i think be doubted. whether the difference of organization here referred to, consists in different proportions of the element of living matter that form the tissues, united in the same way, or in their different modes of arrangement and union, or both, or whether it may not arise in part from different proportions of the simpler tissues entering into the formation of the more compound organs, is not known. minute anatomy has not yet attained a degree of perfection competent to settle a point of such subtility." dr. c. afterward goes on to prove that no single nerve, or organ, can perform two distinct functions, but that each is capable of one mode of action, and no more; that between a nerve, a muscle, and a gland, the only difference known to exist, is that of organization; and that if they are organized alike, and endowed with life, their properties will be similar, and they will act in the same way. so also between animals of the same race, we discover innumerable differences, which can be referred to nothing but differences in organization, and the same may be affirmed of vegetables. the conclusion to which dr. c. arrives, and which he maintains with great ingenuity is, that independently of all other causes, differences in human temperament are to be attributed, in part, to corresponding differences in the organization of certain portions, or the whole of the body; and that, other things being equal, in consequence of this source of influence alone, one person differs from another in many of the qualities of both person and intellect. in other words, he is more highly gifted, sprightly, and vigorous, or the reverse; or he is more courageous or timid, generous or selfish, according to his organization. "but the second cause that was represented to be instrumental in diversifying the human temperaments is by far the most powerful. it will be remembered to have been, 'difference of size and vigor in certain ruling organs of the system.' the organs alluded to are those contained in the three great cavities of the body; the chylopoetic, situated in the abdomen, and including the stomach and intestines, with the liver, pancreas, mesentery, and lacteals; those of sanguification and circulation, situated in the thorax, and consisting of the lungs, heart, and bloodvessels; and the brain, with its appendages, the spinal cord and nerves. these three _groups_ (for the brain is _multiplex_ as well as the other two) are not only the ruling organs in the person of man; connected with the hard and soft parts that enclose them, they _constitute the person_. the upper and lower extremities are but appendages; important and necessary, it must be acknowledged; but still appendages. the individual can exist and be a human being without them. nor have they any influence in imparting constitutional character to their possessors. standing only in the capacity of subordinates to the controlling organs, they are not only nourished and put in motion by them; they labor mechanically for their uses, and serve as instruments to execute their purposes. they are composed of the extreme ends of the organized matter of the system, constitute only its outworks, and possess but little influence over its central parts. this representation rests on evidence that may be termed demonstrative. many persons destitute of the upper or lower extremities, or both, have strong characters and well-marked temperaments. but the extremities, if deprived of the influence of any one group of the ruling organs, are converted not only into useless but lifeless masses. of the skin, muscles, and bones, which compose the head, neck, and trunk of the body, the same is true. of themselves they possess no character, and can therefore bestow none. they also are but appendages to the organs they cover, affording them a secure lodgment and protection from external injuries, and aiding them in the performance of some of their functions. and from this alone is their importance derived. were it possible for them to exist apart from the viscera they contain, their grade of being would be below that of many vegetables. most fatal diseases, moreover, have their original seat in the viscera of one of the three great cavities of the body, and no disease originating elsewhere can become fatal, until, by sympathy or metastasis, some of those parts are deeply affected. to enlightened physiologists this statement presents but a series of familiar truths. to the groups of organs exclusively, then, i repeat, contained in the abdomen, the thorax, and the cranium, must we look as the main source of human character. and that character is different according to the predominance, in different individuals, of one group or another, or of any two of them. an equilibrium between the three groups constitutes another variety, by bestowing on character a corresponding equilibrium. let the word _temperament_ be substituted for 'character,' and what is true of the latter will be so of the former. as already mentioned, the organs referred to will be its source; and the differences in their predominance will give diversity to it." dr. c. then shows that the strength and perfection of each of the senses are proportioned to the size of the nerve on which that sense depends. this is illustrated by a powerful array of facts, drawn from different orders of the animal kingdom, as well as from the different varieties of mankind. it is also stated, that where any nerve or set of nerves, is peculiarly large, the portion of the brain to which they belong, and by which they are influenced and commanded, is correspondingly large. "inasmuch, then, as, other things being equal, size gives power to everything else, we are not only justified in believing, on grounds of analogy we are compelled to believe, that the same is true of the organs contained in the cranium, the thorax, and the abdomen. when they are in a sound and natural condition, their size is also the measure of their power. were not this the case, they would be either altogether abnormal, or subject to laws that govern no other kind of matter, whether organic or inorganic, of which we have any knowledge. but the position i am contending for is not to be regarded as a mere inference in a process of reasoning. it will appear hereafter that it is a positive fact, which observation has discovered, and continues to confirm. i have alleged that the size of the three groups of ruling organs may be ascertained by that of the cases in which they are contained. nor do i perceive on what ground any one, who is even moderately acquainted with the structure of the human body, can controvert the belief, or cherish the slightest doubt on the subject of it. in healthy persons (and my remarks relate only to such) the size of the brain is necessarily known by that of the head. as the viscus completely fills the cranium, the case cannot be otherwise. although the bones of the head and the soft parts that cover them are thicker in some individuals than in others, the difference is so small as not materially to affect the result. the chest is filled by the lungs, heart, and large bloodvessels. its measure, therefore, cannot fail to be the measure of them. any deviation from exactness in this, that may be produced by varieties in the thickness of the skin, muscles, and other parts, is of no moment. of the chylopoetic viscera the same is true. they also fill exactly the cavity prepared for them. the size of the abdomen, therefore, affords a knowledge of their size sufficiently accurate for all practical purposes. by a mere inspection of the person of man, then, the absolute measure of the groups of organs i am considering, as well as their magnitude in relation to each other, can be fairly ascertained. and it will appear on examination, as already stated, that the predominance in size and energy of any one or two of them, always imparts a corresponding diversity to the human character. does the brain predominate? the individual to whom it belongs is more remarkable for the vigor of his intellect or feeling, or both, than for any other constitutional quality. these modes of mental manifestation constitute the natural functions of the brain; and when of an order unusually high, they give a peculiarity of character to the whole system. the person thus endowed feels more keenly, thinks more strongly, is more eager in pursuit of knowledge, and attains it with more facility. his relish for pleasure is also inordinately keen, and he pursues it at times with burning ardor. such was the constitutional character of mr. fox, and also of our distinguished countryman the late mr. bayard. i need scarcely add, that this predominance of sensibility and mental action must necessarily modify the diseases the individual may sustain. but of this i shall speak hereafter. do the lungs, heart, and bloodvessels predominate? a larger volume of highly arterialized blood is formed, and thrown more forcibly and in greater quantities throughout the system. from the abundance of that fluid, and the superior size of the vessels conveying it, those parts of the body nourished by the red blood will be comparatively most copiously supplied. but it is more especially the muscles that are thus nourished. they will be therefore large and powerful. hence persons with broad and full chests have well-developed and vigorous muscles. in proportion to their size their animal strength is necessarily great. nor can such constitutional peculiarities fail to be productive of peculiarities in disease? do the chylopoetic viscera predominate? the amount of chyle formed is very large in proportion to the quantity of food eaten. but the lungs, heart, and bloodvessels being comparatively small, neither is sanguification abundant and perfect nor circulation vigorous. the blood is not either highly arterialized or animalized. its amount of red globules is small, and it circulates feebly through vessels of a limited size. the consequence is, that the muscles receive less red blood, and are less fully nourished; the system at large is not so highly endued with life, and the soft parts generally have a lower tone. the individual thus marked is less robust and vigorous than one whose system is supplied abundantly with highly arterialized blood, and less intellectual and sprightly than those whose brain predominates. it is almost needless to say, that, under such circumstances, disease must be modified in conformity to the constitution. "from the preceding views it clearly appears, that the comparative standing of individual man, as relates to his race, is graduated by the predominance of his leading organs. do his abdominal viscera preponderate? he has much of the animal in him, and his grade is low. are his thoracic viscera most highly developed? his qualities are of a superior order; but he still partakes too much of the animal. does his cerebral system predominate; and is it well developed in all its parts? he rises above the sphere of animal nature, and stands high in that of humanity. he is formed for an intellectual and moral being, with no more of animality in his constitution, than is necessary to give him practical energy of character. "this subject may be farther illustrated by a reference to some of the animals below us. the worm commonly denominated a grub is but little else than a mass of abdominal matter. it is therefore one of the humblest and grossest of worms. the insect has also a large abdomen, with a very small chest, and a smaller head. hence, though superior to the grub, it is low in the scale of animal nature. reptiles and fish are more elevated, because their abdominal viscera preponderate less. but still they do preponderate; and therefore the rank of the animals is humble. in the hog the abdominal viscera are most strongly developed, and hence his standing among quadrupeds is low. the same is true of the bear and the ox, and also of the sheep and the goat, but in an inferior degree. the horse, especially the barb and the racehorse, furnish no bad specimens of the mixed or balanced temperament. when the latter is undergoing preparation for the course, the object of his keeper is to make the thoracic temperament preponderate as much as possible, for the time, in order to increase his vigor and endurance; in the language of the turf, to give him more strength and 'better bottom.' the warhorse approaches the thoracic temperament. in the canine race, more especially in the greyhound, the thoracic viscera hold the ascendency. hence the muscular power of the dog is greater, and his grade among quadrupeds higher than those of most of the preceding animals. the same is true of the wolf, the panther, and the tiger. in some dogs there is a considerable cerebral development, but it is never large enough to counterbalance the thoracic. of all animals, the lion affords the most finished specimen of thoracic preponderance. in proportion to his size, his lungs and heart, especially the latter, are immensely large. and his muscular power corresponds to them. the magnitude of his heart is generally considered the cause of his boldness. hence a very courageous man is said to have a _great_ heart, or to be _lion-hearted_. all this is popular error. the heart is but a muscle; and, in man, has no more connexion with courage than the gastrocnemii muscles; nor, in the lion, than the muscles that move his tail. courage is exclusively a cerebral attribute, and has its seat in an organ specifically appropriated to it. in none of the inferior animals does the brain preponderate. that preponderance belongs to humanity, and, as already mentioned, indicates its highest grade. of all the beings below us, some of the ape tribe have the highest cerebral development. and they approach nearest to man in their degree of intellect. this is farther proof that, other things being alike, the brain gives the measure of mental power. i have lately seen a publication, in which it is gravely asserted, that the large orang-outang catches crabs with a stick, and makes a rude basket of osiers to contain them. notwithstanding the well-known sagacity of that animal, this statement savors strongly of the 'tale of a traveller.'" "considered in relation to these principles, temperament may be divided into seven varieties. 1, the mixed or balanced, in which the ruling organs are in fair proportion to each other; 2, the encephalic; 3, the thoracic; 4, the abdominal; 5, the encephalo-thoracic; 6, the encephalo-abdominal; and 7, the thoracico-abdominal." "1. _the mixed or balanced variety._ in this the name explains the temperament. the external marks of it are plain. they consist in a well-adjusted proportion between the sizes of the head, thorax, and abdomen. if the limbs are in harmony, the symmetry of the entire person is complete. although individuals, in whom this temperament prevails, are usually above the middle height, and well-formed, they are not necessarily so. they may be of any stature, and any shape, straight or crooked, provided the three great cavities and their contents be accurately balanced. this is not the temperament of either early life or old age. it commences with manhood, and continues until the fortieth or forty-fifth year, and then passes into somewhat of the abdominal. the apollo belvidere, by phidias, is an exquisite specimen of it. but some modern artists have violated it, in painting that statue, by making the chest and the head loo large. although the manifestation of strength, majesty, and intellect, is heightened by this, the beauty of the youthful god is marred. the figure, though more imposing, has lost its charm." "2. _the encephalic._ in this variety the head is relatively large, but is not always equally developed in every part, a circumstance which varies greatly, as will presently appear, the characters of those who possess the temperament. the development of the thorax and abdomen is moderate, the person lean, and the countenance expressive of intense feeling and deep passion. in some individuals, however, the countenance beams with intelligence, without much passion, while, in others, manifestations of powerful intellect and passion are united. the thoracic and abdominal activity is never high; yet in many instances the personal hardihood and endurance are invincible. it is men of this temperament alone that can immortalize themselves by great achievements, good or bad. all history and observation testify to this. is the development very large in the moral and intellectual regions of the brain, and so moderate in the animal as to be held fully in check? the individual will distinguish himself by a dignified purity of deportment, and by the performance of great and good deeds." "are the animal and mere knowing compartments largely developed, and the moral and reflecting very slightly? as relates to vice and profligacy in their foulest shapes, this is the worst of all temperaments. nothing more prone to depravity can be imagined. the person possessed of it delights in some sort of animality alone; and if he ever engages in anything higher or purer, it is for a sinister purpose, that he may return to his chosen indulgences in more security, or on a broader scale." "is the development very large, and equally so in all the departments of the brain, animal, moral, and intellectual, giving to the head unusual size? the individual possessing it has a lofty and powerful character, is capable of attaining the highest renown, and making an impression, not to be erased, on the age and country in which he lives. his career may be occasionally stained by irregularities and checkered with clouds, but will be brilliant in the main. his designs are vast, because he feels his power, the instruments with which he works are men, and he wields them in masses. the term _little_ has no place in his vocabulary, nor its prototype in his thoughts. his aim is greatness of some kind--high achievement or deep catastrophe." "3. _the thoracic._ under this variety the head is small, usually round, and covered with thick curling hair, the abdomen of limited dimensions, the chest spacious and powerful, and the muscles swelling and firm. whether fair and ruddy or otherwise, the complexion is strong. respiration is full and deep, and the action of the heart regular and vigorous; and the pulse has great volume. like the result, in every other kind of inordinate vital action, the animal temperature is high. this temperament, in which neither feeling nor intellect prevails, begins to show itself about puberty, and continues until the decline of life, when it undergoes a change. the farnesian hercules is the _beau ideal_ of it. this shows that it was known to the ancient greeks, who were probably indebted for their acquaintance with it to observations made on the persons of their wrestlers. in modern times it is strongly developed in boxers and porters, and sufficiently so in bakers, wood-choppers, operative agriculturists, and others who have been habituated to labor from their boyhood. i have observed no little of it among the london boatmen, the occupation of whose life is to ply the oar, a mode of exercise well calculated to develop the chest, together with the muscles of the upper extremities. i have seen good specimens of it also in the african race." "4. _the abdominal._ this temperament is easily recognised by the character it imparts to the person and intellect. the pelvis is broad in proportion to the shoulders and thorax, the abdomen large and prominent, and the adipose matter abundant, filling up the interstices of the muscles, and often forming a layer between them and the skin, in consequence of which the limbs are round and smooth and soft to the touch. in such constitutions, ecchymosis succeeds with unusual readiness, to slight contusions. circulation in the skin being feeble, the complexion may be fair and delicate, but never very ruddy or strong. the size of the head is limited, the intellectual moderate, the eye deficient in lustre and the countenance in expression, and the movements heavy and seldom graceful. the abdominal viscera seem to draw everything into the vortex of their action. the amount of vitality is evidently below its common measure in the human system, and, in some instances, the flesh seems to hang as a load on the spirit." "5. _the encephalo-thoracic._ this temperament is a type of power both bodily and mental. its compound name expresses fully the external appearances that mark it, as well as the attributes that always accompany them. with an abdomen of moderate dimensions, the head of the individual who possesses it is large and vigorous to conceive and direct, and his chest and muscles powerful to execute, and hardy to endure. it is the temperament of masculine and comprehensive thought and strong propensity, united to energetic action, rather than of seclusion and profound meditation. as in all other cases, the character is varied in it according to the portion of the brain that is most largely developed. he to whom it belongs feels himself in his proper sphere when he is among men, and is well fitted to act his part in times of tumult and scenes of difficulty. is his brain large in each of its compartments? if an occasion present itself, he not only mingles in the moral storm, but aspires to direct it. in case of his becoming a warrior, his genius and sword are alike formidable. in battle, previously to the invention of fire-arms, such a man was the terror of his enemies and the hope of his friends. ulysses, as sketched by homer, is as fairly the _beau ideal_ of this temperament, as hercules is of the thoracic. that chieftain was alike wise to counsel, intrepid to dare, and powerful to perform. plato, so called from the uncommon breadth of his chest, who had also a very large head, is another excellent model of the same. even in times of peace the corporeal attributes of a man of this description add to his influence. jupiter, the emblem of wisdom and power, as represented by the ancient statuaries, with an immense head and trunk, and arms of matchless strength, is as finished a specimen of the encephalo-thoracic temperament, as apollo is of the mixed." "6. _the encephalo-abdominal._ here again the name bespeaks sufficiently the development, form, and character of those who possess the temperament. the head and abdomen are comparatively large, the thorax small, and the shoulders narrow. hence the sensibility is keen, and the intellect, if not powerful, active and respectable. for the reasons given, when the abdominal temperament was considered, the limbs and person, under the present one, are round and smooth, and the flesh is soft; but, owing to the influence of a well-developed brain, and nerves that correspond to it, the movements are sprightly and the air graceful. though rarely powerful, the character is attractive. this is the temperament of childhood and woman, much more than of adult life and man. fine genius, but elegant and playful, rather than strong and brilliant, is often connected with it. it is females, in whom the encephalic development is larger than usual, that possess minds truly masculine." "7. _the thoracico-abdominal._ in this temperament the head is comparatively small, and the thorax and abdomen large, with a corresponding size of the muscles and bones, and much adipose substance. it is the temperament of mere animal strength and patient endurance, without any of the elevated, sprightly, or attractive qualities of human nature. it forms good laborers and fatigue-men, but is entirely unfit for those whose province is to meditate, plan, and direct. it comports well enough with the character of soldiers of a certain description, but is altogether out of harmony with that of an officer. it is, i think, more favorable to health than any of the other temperaments, except perhaps the mixed. if those who possess it have weak intellects, their passions are usually moderate, and rarely hurry them into pernicious excesses. the tenor of their lives is but little interrupted by either irregularity or disease. hence they retain their vigor uncommonly well, and are often day-laborers and industrious husbandmen at an advanced age. true, their appetite for food is strong; but they are not prone to an excessive indulgence of it; i mean at a single meal. like those possessed of the abdominal temperament, they eat often rather than superabundantly at once. besides, such is the strength of their chylopoetic viscera, that they subdue and digest without sustaining any injury, as much food as would produce disease in those of different constitutions. nor are they so much endangered by vascular fulness as persons of the simple abdominal temperament. the reason of this is plain. their bloodvessels are larger, and their excretions more copious, especially those by the skin and the organ of respiration. from the warmth of their constitutions, owing to an abundance of well-arterialized blood, and a concomitant vigorous circulation, they perspire freely, and secrete and exhale copiously from the lungs. this temperament is rarely found among women, and is not very common among men." dr. c. maintains that at certain periods of life, one temperament passes into another, as the result of the natural changes which take place, in the progress of the growth and decay of the human body; and that every one, who attains longevity, partakes, in the progress of growth and decline, of five temperaments; the purely _abdominal_, which prevails before birth; the _encephalo-abdominal_, which exists at birth, and for some years afterward; the _encephalo-thoracic_; the _mixed_; and the _abdominal_ of real senility. thus passes the circle of life, beginning with the abdominal temperament of the foetal state, and terminating in that of extreme old age. that there is an intimate connexion between temperament and personal beauty, will be manifest from the above view of the subject. our limits, however, forbid an application of dr. caldwell's views in illustration of mr. walker's theory; these, however, have been given so much in detail, that the reader will be able to make the application for himself. g. there is hardly any habit relating to female dress more destructive of grace and beauty, at least of deportment, than that of compressing the foot in a shoe of one half the proper size. it would seem that our ladies were trying to ape the fashion of the chinese, in this respect, and though they do not at present carry it to the same extent, yet they carry it sufficiently far to destroy their comfort. we look in vain for the sprightly, light, and elastic step, where the feet are bound tight, and cramped up in disproportionately tight shoes; and it would be strange in such a case, if we did not find an unhappy and distressed expression of countenance--the muscles of the face sympathizing with the distorted and painful feet. such a custom, also, interferes materially with taking that measure of exercise which is necessary to health. mrs. walker, in her work on female beauty, remarks as follows: "ladies are very apt to torture their feet to make them appear small. this is exceedingly ridiculous: a very small foot is a deformity. true beauty of each part consists in the proportion it bears to the rest of the body. a tight or ill-made shoe, not only destroys the shape of the foot, it produces corns and bunions; and it tends to impede the circulation of the blood. besides, the foot then swells, and appears larger than it is, and the ankles become thick and clumsy." the pernicious effect of tight or ill-made shoes, is evident also in the stiff and tottering gait of these victims of a foolish prejudice; they can neither stand upright, walk straight, nor enter a room properly. to be too short, is one of the greatest defects a shoe can have; because it takes away all chance of yielding in that direction, and without offering any compensation for tightness in others, and in itself, it not only causes pain, and spoils the shape of the foot, by turning down the toes, and swelling of the instep, but is the cause of bad gait and carriage. many diseases arise solely from the use of shoes of very thin materials in wet weather; but no female who has the slightest regard for her health, or indeed for the preservation of her beauty, will object to wear shoes thicker than are usually worn, if the pavement is at any time wet or damp. h. the effect of alcoholic drinks upon beauty, has not been over-estimated by mr. walker, though he is doubtless mistaken in supposing that none but those who reside amid the artificial customs of city life, experience the deleterious influence of such beverages. not only alcoholic stimulants, but tea and coffee, and especially opium, which has of late come into very extensive use as a substitute for the former, tend to produce an unhealthy action of the skin, from their influence upon the secerent system, causing blotches, pimples, and discolorations, in a greater or less degree. where used moderately, they produce either an unnatural paleness, deadness, or duskiness of complexion, or a bloated appearance, far removed from the fresh roseate hue of health. such is the effect of wine, cordials, and malt liquors, which are extensively employed by ladies, particularly in cities, during the period of nursing, under a mistaken impression that they cause a greater flow of milk, and tend to invigorate the system. whoever desires to attain health, strength, and beauty, should not seek them through the agency of bitters, tonics, and cordials, or distilled, or fermented liquors, which only inflame the blood, but from free exercise in the open air, regular occupations, tranquillity of mind, a mild diet, and a proper allotment of time for sleep. it has been remarked that the lower classes of females in cities, consume as much, and probably more intoxicating drinks, than men of the same class, and this is no doubt true. but to the honor of our countrywomen, a great change has been brought about within last few years, with respect to the use of alcoholic liquors, not only in this, but in other countries, with a corresponding improvement in health, happiness, and beauty. in advancing this blessed reform, the ladies have borne a conspicuous part--as they have in every other philanthropic work--and their _combined_ influence is only needed, to banish such drinks entirely from civilized society. the facial line of camper. in order to determine the cerebral mass, and, consequently, the intellectual faculties, camper draws a base line from the roots of the upper incisors, to the external auditory passage; then another straight line, from the upper incisors to the most elevated point of the forehead: according to him, the intellectual faculties of the man or animal, are in direct proportion to the magnitude of the angle, made by those two lines. lavater, with this idea for a basis, constructed a scale of perfection from the frog to the apollo belvidere. as nature really furnishes many proofs in support of this opinion, it has been generally received, even by anatomists and physiologists; and, notwithstanding the arguments by which it is victoriously opposed, the learned cannot resolve to abandon it. cuvier himself furnishes a list of men and animals, in support of this doctrine; few naturalists oppose it, but almost all give it their support.[61] camper's attempt necessarily failed; for his manner of drawing the lines and measuring the facial angle, enabled him to take into consideration the anterior parts only of the brain situated near the forehead: he entirely neglects the posterior, lateral, and inferior cerebral parts. this method, then, at most, could decide upon those faculties only, whose organs are placed near the forehead. cuvier estimates the facial angle of the new-born infant at ninety degrees; that of the adult, at eighty-five; that of decrepit old age, at fifty. from this statement it appears, that, at different ages, changes take place in the form, either of the brain or the cranium; hereafter i shall prove that such changes really occur. the forehead of the newborn infant is flattened; on the contrary, that of a child some months old, and until the age of eight or ten years, especially in the case of boys possessed of superior talents, it is projecting, and forms, notwithstanding the approximation to the age of puberty, a larger facial angle than in the adult; this angle, therefore, does not diminish in the inverse ratio of the age. in like manner we find decrepit old men, whose facial angle is as great as it was in the vigor of manhood; for, although in decrepitude the brain is subject to atrophy, there are old men, the exterior contour of whose crania undergoes no change. the angle, as stated by cuvier, for different ages, were measured upon different individuals; if it were estimated upon the same persons at different epochs of his life, the result would be entirely different. in general, the proportion between the forehead and the face, is different in different individuals. no conclusion can be drawn from the proportions, which exist in one person, relative to those of another; among a hundred individuals of the same sex and age, no two can be found, in whom the same proportion exists between the forehead and the face; it necessarily follows, then, that no two will have the same facial angle. physiologists seem to admit, that the proportion between the brain and the bones of the face, is different in different species of animals: but they appear to think that, in all the individuals of the same species, all the young, all the adults, all the old, there exists a constant proportion between the cerebral mass and the face. the researches of blumenbach show that threefourths of the animals known, have nearly the same facial angle; and yet what a disparity between their instincts and faculties! what information, then, do we derive from camper's facial angle? moreover, as cuvier himself observes, the cerebral mass is by no means placed in all animals, immediately behind or beneath what is called the forehead. in a great many species of animals, on the contrary, the external table of the frontal is at a considerable distance from the internal, and this distance increases with the age of the animal. the brain of the swine is placed an inch lower than the frontal bones seem to indicate; that of the ox, in some parts three inches; that of the elephant, from six to thirteen. in other animals, the measurement is generally commenced at the frontal sinus instead of the cerebrum. from these considerations, cuvier was induced to draw a tangent to the internal instead of the external surface of the cranium. the cerebrum of the wolf and many species of dogs, especially when the individuals are very old, is placed directly behind the frontal sinuses. in the wolf, especially the large and most ferocious variety, it is depressed as in the hyena; in the dog it is situated higher or lower, according to the species; but, notwithstanding this difference in the situation of the brain, the facial angle, as it is commonly measured, must be the same; from this the inference would be, that the dog, the wolf, and the hyena, have the same qualities, and each in the same degree. in the greater part of the rodentia, the morse, &c., the brain is so depressed and so placed behind the frontal sinuses, that the facial line cannot be drawn. the facial line of the cetacea, on account of the singular conformation of the head, would lead to results absolutely false. i know many negroes, who, with very prominent jaws, are quite distinguished for their intellectual faculties; yet the projection of the jaws renders the facial angle much more acute, than it would be with the usual conformation of europeans. in order that the same angle should exist in a european, the forehead must be flattened and retreating. but the foreheads of the negroes in question, on the contrary, are very projecting. who, under these circumstances, would expect to find the same amount of intellect corresponding to the same facial angle? the facial line cannot be applied to birds, as many naturalists have already observed. from what has been said, we should expect that naturalists would at length renounce the facial angle of camper; but the most ignorant are generally the most conceited. in spite of this complete refutation of camper's facial line, delpit extols it in the following terms:-"if ever a relation of this kind presented characters of generality and fixedness, adequate to excite a reasonable confidence in matters belonging to the domain of empiricism, rather than that of science, it is the relation or proportion of magnitude, which camper first perceived and revealed, by comparing the brain of man with that of the different species of animals. we here see a successive decrease of intelligence, proportionate to the acuteness of the facial angle and the consequent diminution of the cerebral cavity. this affords a constant and fixed relation. it can be appreciated with a sufficient degree of exactness by the direct light of comparative anatomy, and by observation of the habits and intelligence of the different classes of animals; it can also be verified by the comparison of men very unequally endowed with intellectual faculties, in whom the contraction of the cerebral cavity and the magnitude of the facial angle exhibit the most remarkable diversities. here the physiognomical sign has, if i may be allowed the expression, a wide extent of acceptation; it rests upon a broad basis, upon a definite division, and one of easy comprehension and verification; for, if there is some discrepancy of opinion, in regard to the number and nomenclature of the faculties of the mind, the sentiments of the soul, the modifications or shades of character which give birth to particular passions, moral dispositions, habits, whether virtuous or vicious; if these classifications are, in a great measure, arbitrary, and the language used somewhat vague; if, in short, the greater part of these nominal faculties are mere abstractions of the mind, purely imaginary existences, and therefore cannot be actually located in any part of the brain; the case is quite different, when we merely seek to establish a general relation between a constant sign manifested in the organization, and the degree of reason, mind, or intellect, attributed to different men, or the degrees of sagacity attributed to different species of animals. here, no one is at a loss, because there is ample latitude for comparing and judging; in the system of gall, on the contrary, the comparisons rest upon minute points, which are subject to discussion, exceptions, a thousand uncertainties in the signs and various applications."[62] if the reader will review what i have said against camper's facial line, he will find a refutation of all this reasoning of delpit; a proof that he defends it merely because it is in vogue. it is this very generality and fixedness, which render it, in almost all cases, inapplicable; this is the inherent defect in the supposed importance of camper's facial angle. it is implicitly supposed, that no difference but that of degree, exists between the capacities of the different species and individuals of the human race, and the different species and individuals of the animal kingdom. thus the intelligence of men and other animals would always be proportioned to the magnitude of the facial angle. this being premised, i ask, which, out of two, three, four, &c., has the most intelligence, the dog, ape, beaver, the ant, or the bee? ants and bees live in an admirable republic, and form astonishing constructions, which they know how to modify according to circumstances. the beaver and penduline build with equally marvellous skill, and with a foresight which seldom errs; the dog and the ape have very little foresight, and are incapable of the most insignificant construction. which has the greater intelligence, voltaire or descartes? could the former have been a mathematician and the latter a poet? which has the higher degree of intellect, mozart or lessing, who, with all his genius, detested music? in short, which has the most intelligence, my dog who retraces his steps through the most complicated routes, or myself, who am always going astray? measure now the facial angle of the ant, bee, beaver, penduline, ape, my dog, and of myself, and estimate the result. acknowledge, then, that your division, so definite, so easy to be apprehended, is absolutely useless, and that you are obliged to advert to divers instincts, propensities, faculties, and their different degrees of energy, to which your facial angle is wholly inapplicable. your intelligence, instinct, address, are in reality mere abstractions, imaginary existences. do you consider the propensity to procreation, the love of offspring, the carnivorous instinct, the talent for music, poetry, &c., as imaginary existences? you see, then, that it is more convenient to tread the beaten path, than to verify observations.--_gall on the functions of the brain_, page 195. footnotes: [1] utopia, book ii., chap. viii. [2] i do not wish to be forced into any discussion of this last point. but, if necessary, i shall not decline it. [3] we fear that mr. walker's analogical reasoning here is not very conclusive. to reason from a living to a dead subject may be very logical but it is not altogether satisfactory. [4] "the magazine of the fine arts," no. vi, for october 1833. [5] i am not here called upon to vindicate the errors and absurdities which poets and others introduced into mythology. [6] appendix a. [7] george iv., though the "first gentleman" in england, was guilty of cheating at a horserace.--ed. [8] the above remark is true of the same class of females in this country.--ed. [9] appendix b. [10] appendix c. [11] to the reader unaccustomed to inquiries of this kind, it may save trouble to peruse first the brief summary of the contents of this important chapter, beginning in page 120. [12] regularity expresses the similarity of parts considered as constituting a whole; and uniformity, the similarity of parts considered separately. [13] appendix d [14] the common character of these arts has been overlooked. [15] proportion is here employed, not as expressing an intrinsic relation, as in the beauty of inanimate beings, but as expressing an extrinsic relation to fitness for ends. [16] "the nervous system, anatomical and physiological: in which the functions of the various parts of the brain are, for the first time, assigned." [17] communicated by the writer to the "magazine of the fine arts," no. 11, for june, 1833. [18] "human nature," chap, ix., sec. 13. [19] "reflexions critiques sur la poesie et sur la peinture." [20] "reflexions sur la poetique." [21] "adventurer," no. 110. [22] essay on tragedy. [23] to some it may appear, that the organs and functions of digestion, respiration, and generation, are not involved by this arrangement; but such a notion can originate only in superficial observation. digestion is a compound function easily reducible to some of the simple ones which have been enumerated. it consists of the motion of the stomach and contiguous parts, of the secretion of a liquid from its internal surface, and of that heat, which is the common result of all action, whether mechanical, vital, or mental, and which is better explained by such motion, than by chymical theories. similarly compound are respiration and generation. thus, there is no organ nor function which is not involved by the simple and natural arrangement here sketched. compound, however, as the organs of digestion, respiration, and generation, are, yet, as they form so important a part of the system, it may be asked, with which of these classes they are most allied. the answer is obvious. all of them consist of tubular vessels of various diameter; and all of them transmit and transmute liquids. possessing such strong characteristics of the nutritive or vital system, they are evidently most allied to it. in short, digestion prepares the nutritive or vital matter, which is taken up by absorption--the first of the simple nutritive functions; respiration renovates it in the very middle of its course--between the two portions of the simple function of circulation; and generation, dependant on secretion--the last of these functions, communicates this nutritive matter, or propagates vitality to a new series of beings. in such arrangement, the digestive organs, therefore, precede, and the generative follow, the simple nutritive organs; while the respiratory occupy a middle place between the venous and the arterial circulation. nothing can be more improper, as the preceding observations show, than considering any one of these as a distinct class. more fully, therefore, to enumerate the nutritive or vital organs, we may say, that, under them, are classed, first, the organs of digestion, the external and internal absorbent surfaces, and the vessels which absorb from these surfaces, or the organs of absorption; second, the heart, lungs, and bloodvessels, which derive their contents (the blood) from the absorbed lymph, or the organs of circulation; and third, the secreting cavities, glands, &c., which separate various matters from the blood, or the organs of secretion, and of which generation is the sequel. [24] appendix e. [25] in perfect consistency with the assertion, that, though the organs of digestion, respiration, and generation, were really compound, still they were chiefly nutritive or vital, and properly belonged to that class, it is not less remarkable, that, in this division of the body, they are found to occupy that part, the trunk, in which the chief simple nutritive organs are contained. this also shows the impropriety of reckoning any of these a separate system from the vital. [26] the bones resemble these, in containing the greatest quantity of earthy mineral matter. [27] it is the possession of vessels which constitutes the vitality of vegetables. [28] in animals, alone, is nervous matter discoverable. [29] plants have no real circulation, nor passage of their nutritive liquids through the same point. [30] this arrangement of anatomy and physiology was first published by me in 1806; and, notwithstanding its being the arrangement of nature, it has not been adopted by any one that i know of, until very lately, when it was in some measure used by dr. roget, without acknowledgment. the originality, as well as the truth and value, of this arrangement, will be illustrated by referring to any other published previous to 1806, or even to 1808, when i republished it in "preliminary lectures," edinburgh. [31] the cause of this has never been explained; and it could not well be explained, without a perception of the views in my preceding physiological arrangement.--the brain, at this period, becomes more subservient to purposes connected with generation; the communication between the trunk and the head is more frequent, intense, and sustained; and the neck, which contains the communicating organs, necessarily increases in size. this unexplained circumstance led to the mistake of the craniologists respecting the cerebel. here, therefore, as in other cases pointed out in my work on physiognomy, gall and spurzheim ascribe to deeper-seated organs what belongs to more superficial ones. [32] appendix f. [33] appendix g. [34] memoire sur le beau physique. [35] a curious but true remark is made by moreau, namely, that if these conditions are met with without being united to a certain expression, and to the most complete combination of the elements of beauty of countenance, they frequently give an air of insensibility and of mental weakness, which greatly enfeebles the impression that a first view had caused. [36] statistical results in relation to the supply of hospitals and prisons, carry the expense of a man much beyond that of a woman. [37] appendix h. [38] appendix i. [39] see the causes of this explained in my work on "physiognomy." [40] pallas--voyages en siberie. [41] humboldt's political essay on the kingdom of new spain. [42] it is remarkable that, in infants, the nose is almost always flat, and that, in some members of the same family, it always remains so, while, in others, it rises. this is attended by difference of function. [43] "physiognomy founded on physiology, and applied to various countries, professions, and individuals: with an appendix on the bones at hythe--the sculls of the ancient inhabitants of britain, and its invaders: illustrated by engravings."--smith, elder, & co., cornhill. [44] of the best works on this subject, those of mengs alone, i believe, have been translated; but the translation is so inaccurate as to be worthless. [45] thus it is not correct, as stated by leonardo, that when some parts are broad or thick, all are broad; though, in peculiar combinations, that may occur. [46] lib. ii. in timã¦um platonis. [47] this member of the royal academy was suspected of having written that "republics had done more for the advancement of the fine arts than monarchies." the late george iii., who did not approve of truths of that kind, was thereby so much enraged, that he instantly sent for the list of the members of the academy, and therefrom erased the name of barry. the academicians humbly submitted to the indignity which hereditary wisdom thus inflicted. it would appear, however, that bad principles are spreading among the royal academicians; for the works of this expelled member are now daringly given by them as a prize to students at the academy! [48] this rule is well explained, and variously illustrated by donald walker, in his work, equally philosophical, instructive, and amusing, entitled "exercises for ladies," a knowledge of which, and the practice of its principles, would render beauty, and especially beauty of the shoulders and arms, far more common in every family. [49] it was at the extremity of the modern cape crio, anciently triopium, a promontory of doris, a province of caria, that was built the celebrated city of cnidos. here venus was worshipped: here was seen this statue of that goddess, the most beautiful of the works of praxiteles. a temple, far from spacious, and open on all sides, contained it, without concealing it from view; and, in whatever point of view it was examined, it excited equal admiration. no drapery veiled its charms; and so uncommon was its beauty, that it inflamed with a violent passion another pygmalion. [50] the phrenologists have told us that the head of this venus is too small. they might as well have said, that the head of the minerva, or of the jupiter, is too large, or a hundred other ignorant inapplicabilities, and ridiculous pedantries. but to set aside ideal forms, i may observe, that sex makes a vast difference in the head, and a woman with a small head often produces a son with a large one. [51] this is beautiful, but is evidently borrowed from the great philosophical poet's "te, dea, te fugiunt ventei, te nubila coeli, adventumque tuum." [52] that, in plants, these odors are even necessary to their reproduction, is proved by their uniform existence at that period. and if being affected by odors implies a sense of smell, or some modification of it, then must plants possess it. [53] in all grossly sensual nations and individuals, the lips are everted even at the angles. [54] see this explained in "physiognomy." [55] "venere suol tenere alquanto aperte le labbra, come per indicare un languido desiderio ed amore."--_storia delle arti._ [56] in the cupid, the form of the head is godlike. the hair not only curls with all the vigor of early years, but, with perfect knowledge of nature's tendency, is bent into a ridge along the middle of the upper head. the brow, full, open, and charmingly rounded, is the evident throne of young observation, and it flows with such beauty into the parts behind, as if it actually _said_ its purpose was to fling its observations back on thought and will. its beginnings at the eyebrows display exquisite knowledge: the bony ridge is admirably shown to be yet unformed; and while its outer extremity forms but the orbital convexity, or shell for the globe of the eye, the inner extremity of the eyebrow is with infinite art drawn over soft and hollow space, as if the few hairs that composed it made there its only convexity. in short, in every part of the face, fine and faint as is every youthful feature, no detail is lost; and this, added to the pointed chin and upper lip, declare the purpose of the little god. [57] appendix k. [58] i speak not of paint here. it is now used only by meretricious persons and by those harridans of higher rank who resemble them in every respect, except that the former are ashamed of their profession, and the latter advertise it. [59] combe's phrenology. [60] physiologie des temperamens on constitutions. paris, 1826. [61] this doctrine is revived, _dict. des sciences med._ delpit and reydellet. [62] dictionnaire des sciences mã©d. t. xxxviii. p. 263. transcriber's notes: passages in italics are indicated by _italics_. the misprint "and and" has been corrected to "and". footnote 6 appears on page 34; however, it has no corresponding marker. 