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yesterday: I was so unhappy about it that I staid by myself all the evening, and yet I was half-a-dozen tines on the point of coming here. When I finally made up mind to come, I looked at my watch and found it was too late."
“ I am sorry to be the cause of uneasiness to you," said Sophia ; " but if you say nothing more about that foolish valentine, I shall forget it myself. Come, pray let me see what is in that box ?"
Ovly a pretty set of ornaments for you, my dear Sophia. Here is a chain, let me put it on your neck ; it is very becoming, indeed, and how do you like this watch, and these rings ?"
“ Oh beautiful, most beautiful! and these ear-rings and this aigrette ; every thing indeed is too beautiful to be praised. Oh how costly they are-ought you to have thrown away so large a sum on one so little able to"
The time, I perceive, is not far off my dear Sophia, when you will require a few ornaments of this kind. I am determined to be beforehand with your loverfor lovers generally make their betrothed a present,
day, and hitherto he had always called, especially the niglit before, to find out what little trinket or knick. knackery she most wanted, that he might bring it to her the next day; for he was one of those simple minded men who liked to do that which would give the most pleasure. He thought, very justly, that if he consulted his own taste or judgment, he might not choose that which would be agreable to others; but he did not make his appearance, and Sophia went to her chamber with very miserable feelings. She wished there had never been such things as valentines.
"I cannot think what kept our man of business' from as last evening," said Mrs. Brooks, " he surely will be here to day ; he has never missed coming to dine with us on your birth-day, Sophia."
“ It appeared to me, aunt, that he was a little hurt because I did not show him the valentine, and I could not do it, you know, after his saying so positively that he did not write it, or send it."
"Well, show it to him to-day, for, I will answer for it, that he will be here presently: it is one o'clock, and he generally contrives to be here early. By the way, Mr. Marshall left his card here yesterday whilst you were out: here it is.
P. P. C. Ah! he is going to England. What a fine-looking man he is, Sophia ; do you know that I think he would fall in love with you, if he dared ;"
“I am glad then that he does not dare, for I assure you, my dear aunt, that I should not fall in love with him."
“ Well, well, time enough, dear, time enough. I hope to keep you with me several years yet. How to part with yon at last, I cannot tell."
" Oh, as to that, how often, dearest aunt, have I told you that I would never be seperated from you ? Whoever inarries me must marry you, and old Mrs. Tate, and Caty, and Peter, and little Jemmy and all."
Mrs. Brooks laughed and said, that unless her man of business Mr. Day, would take pity on her, she feared that no one else would. She did not see the colour fly into Sophia's face as she made this remark ; but went on talking abont it, until the man of business himself came into the room. Poor Sophia was afraid that her aunt would repeat her observations, but the old lady, luckily, bad forgotten to order a particular dish for the birth-day dinner, and she hurried out to attend to it.
Mr. Day walked quietly up to Sophia and took her hand, Mr. Marshall's card was still in it, and in putting i: on the table, the name caught his eye.
“ Marshall- then it is Mr. Marshall that sent you the valentine? I know his writing, Sophia-may I have a peep at this wonderful paper to-day ?"
“ Why, your head runs stangely on this valentine, Mr. Day—you that never cared for such trifles ; some time or other I shall show it you, but not to-day. Have you forgotten that this is my birth-day ?"
“ Forgotten it ? no, indeed ; when did I ever forget it ? but there is a formality now that we did without a few years ago. Then you nsed to fly to me, and—"
“Oh, yes, I remember, but you forget that I am a sober, quiet girl of nineteen, and expect something far better than sugar-plums. You have a box there, and I am dying with curiosity to see what is in it.”
“ No, Sophia, you care but little for that box. You are not like yourself to-day nor where you like yourself
when you will require a few ornaments of the kind. I am determined to be beforehand with your lover-for lovers generally make
eir betrothed a present, you know. The writer of that valentine-nay, Sophia hear me out-if it be this Mr. Marshall, he is fully able to cover your head with diamonds.
He is possessor of in mense wealth ; but rich as he is, you shall not go portionless."
6. Mr. Day, you mistake entirely. Look at the card you see that Mr. Marshall is soon to sail for England I saw himn this morning after breakfast and
“ And what, Sophia ?"
" Why, I intended to keep the thing froin your knowledge, as I did from my aunt."
“ You are then engaged to him," said Mr. Day, laying down the box, and walking to the window to hide bis emotion. “ Good Heavens!” said he to him.
why does this so painfully affect me ? ought I not to rejoice that she can give her affections to one so worthy?"
By a strong effort he recovered himself sufficiently to return to his seat near Sophia. He took her hand and gently raised it to his lips: “ Forgive me, my dear girl," said he, “ I have been for so many years accustomed to watch over you, and to care for all your wants and pleasures, that it goes near breaking my heart, stout as you say it is, at the thought of being nothing more in future to yon than a common acquaintance, for a friend you will not then need. You have not known the gentlenian long; but I have, and he is most worthy of you. I presume when he returns from Europe-foolish tellow ! loving you as he must love you, why does he leave you behind ?"
“Oh, Mr, Day, what an error you are in! Now hear me: I tell you truly that I refused Mr. Narshall, ibat he is not the one who wrote the valentine, and I tell you as truly that I will never mary any other man than the one who did write it"
" Tell me then, dear Sophia, is he worthy of you? who can it be? and why am I, one of the most interested in your happiness, to be kept in ignorance? You are in tears. Fear not,' said he, as he gently drew her to him, “ fear not, my dear girl, tell me all; if the want
to the nature of my affection for you? Dear little paper, but for you, I should never have known that I might aspire to be loved in return!”
Poor Mr. Day! love made him loquacious as it does those who have lived upon the thoughts of it all their life. Mrs. Brooks's “inan of business" was like all other men, and Supbia, the happiest of the happy, was thinking how well love-speeches became him. considered by her young friends to be plain-looking, but in her eyes at this moment, he was positively hand.
“I was not many minutes writing what I then thought a very foolish thing," continued he; " and to tell you the truth, I wrote mechanically, without considering the import of the words at all. I only recollect thinking it a silly thing that a man of business,' as Mrs. Brooks always calls me, and which I am, should have engaged in writing love-verses. Ah! if I could have foreseen"
Well,” said Mrs. Brooks, on seeing Mr. Day with his arms around Sophia's waist, looking fondly in her face, you have made it up, I see; why we were all gloomy enough when I left the room; have you found out who wrote the valentine ?"
“ Yes my dear madam,” said be, “ and as Sophia has determined to inarry the one who wrote it, I have given my consent, and I hope you will give yours."
“Oh, my dear, dear aunt,” said Sophia, throwing her arms around her neck, “ Mr. Day wrote it himself; you shall hear all about it."
“ But you promised to marry the writer, be says, is it true ? and is it my man of business' all the while that gave us such disturbance about an old valentine? Ah, Sophia, how often in my heart bave I wished for this, but did not dare to speak my mind."
Sophia has spoken her mind,” said Mr. Day; God bless her!”
Ove great forms of nature ; 0), thou sun
Uprising or descending ; 0), vast sky,
Whether thy infinite expanse on high
The other worlds, a still assemblage drea,
Do ye not, O ye wonders, thus outspread On all sides, fill ibis heart! O sky, 0 earth,
I've lov'd you, and ye forest greeneries
From which trees rise, ye branches of the trees, Ev'ir till I knew not if I had gone forth Among you, or still liv'd- But as before This heart for ever longs for something more.
of fortune on his part be the obstacle, provided he de. serves you in other respects, that shall be no biodrance, for are you not my sole heir ? Most tenderly and de: votedly have I loved you my dear Sophia, froin your ehildhood to this hour, but never til this moment did I know it would be so bitter a pany to part with you, to give you to another. But you may be convinced of the sincerity of my affection by the great sacritice I make in thus giving you up--and must l-must I indeed part with you, just as I have discovered that you are so necessary to my happiness ?-am I to live in solitary wretched ness, without hearing that sweet voice?-without-oh, Sophia, dear girl, forgive me, forget what I have said, and believe me only your friend. Alas! that one so unsuited to you in years, should dare to love you as I do—as I must always love."
Sophia wept, to be sure, but they were tears of joy. She raised her head at length, but he begged her not to speak, not to distress herself further, as he would wait till she were more composed, before he asked her who the gentleman was. She went to the writi..g-desk and took out the valentine ; but when she put it in his hand be shook his head and sighed. “ Not noi", Sophia, not now," said he,
I only want the name; as to the verses, the handwriting, what is that to me now?".
“ Everything to you," said Sophia, casting down her eyes, it is everything to you, if you really and truly love me as you say.”
"If I really love you, Sophia ! -can be who wrote this paper ever hope to love you as tenderly as I do?"
“ Yes, and I hope in time mure tenderly--look at the writing, will you ? pray do, and hear me again declare that I never have, never can love any other that I never will marry any other than the writer of this foolish valentine."
With a desperate effort Mr. Day tore open the paper, but the colour flew to his temples, he was like one in a dream, he looked at Sophia, her eyes were on the ground but there was a smile visible; he pronounced her name in a low voice, and then checked bimself, as if not daring to realise the truth.
“ Sophia,” said he at length, “ Sophia, may I believe in the truth of the words you have just uttered ?"
• Can I believe in all that you have just said ? ” replied Sophia, " when you so stoutly denied having written this valentine ?"
" Blessed paper!” said he, kissing it, “ most pre, vious valentine! little did I dreain that it was to be the means of so much happiness.”
“ But when did you write it?" said Sophia, trying to disengage herself from his arms, “ tell me all about it, for I am still in the dark-to whom did you send it, if not for me?" “ I did not send it to any one, dearest; this was the
About four years ago Ralph Fleming was very desirous of going to the races, and I was very desirous that he should not. He promised me at length if I would do him a little favour he would give up the races, for that year at least. The little favour was simply to write this valentine. He wrote a large ir. jegular hand, and this required the finest of writing and the smallest of letters. It was you my dear Sophia that induced me to form my letters in that way; in fact I had your wishes, your pleasure in view, in everything that I undertook. How could I have been so blind to
way of it.
THE DREAMINGS OF AN IDEALIST.
I am one of those who take a pleasure in losing themselves in the intricacies of speculation. My greatest delight is to make an eternity of my thoughts, and gather up all I have ever possessed or desired into a changeless individual consciousness. My heart feels freer when I am thus employed ; sorrow and disappointment lose their earthly grossness, and leave only a tender sensation like a reflex gladness. The world is then within the sphere of my own soul, and is ruled
and moulded by my will. External objects, as they pass before me, are looked at as a fair pageantry, whose glorious original is imperishably mine ; and the profound wonders of nature, though inexplicable when I contemplate them with material organs, seem, by a strange and mysterious power within me,
an easy lecture for the spirit. That this disposition of mind has not been without its influence on my life, may easily be imagined ; and there have been some incidents in it which have left an awe upon my leart, that is bowed, as it were, by the untimely birth of futurity.
One of these passages of my strange existence I shall endeavour to relate, and shew how, without either opium or astrology, such mysterious scenes may pass before the soul, as only its own secret energy could produce.
I was an inhabitant, in my youth, of a lonely and deserted district that, tradition said, was once populous, but was then only remarkable for the rude simplicity and superstition of its inhabitants. The stories, how. ever which were told of the neighbourhood were neither like the abstracted visions of the Hartz, nor similar to the fairy songs of the Highlands. They were those deep, melancholy narrations which history writes it reverie-details of human suffering, of events that give a voice to the midnight echo, and people the old consecrated abbey or the halls of forgotten barons. I was not singular in having a deep veneration for the traditions of my birthplace; but, to me, they were something more than tales of the winter hearth-they were the foundations of my mental character, the knowledge out of which my reason formed its theories and abstractions. I should have sooner doubted, with Descartes and the Bishop of Cloyne, the reality of my own existence, and that of the earth, than have hesitated for a moment in yielding my thoughts to their influence. I was always surrounded by some of the beings whose history they told. My sympathies were all employed on the events of their existence ; and my mind at last, becaine so habituated to this aerial intercourse, that, for what I regarded mere external things, I was as much a disembodied being as my companions.
To a deep thinker, there is much less difference between sleeping and waking than to less intellectual characters-to him they are like the same state of bring. The powers which have been most active in one condition are the same which are active in the other ; and the long changeless stream of existence seems going uninterruptedly on, lengthening and deepening in its course.
I have known hard students whose minds have laboured as much in the night as in the day; and there are countless instances of imaginative men, to whom sleep has made revelations of secret and indescribable loveliness. To me, employed as I ge. nerally was, there was still less difference ; and I might almost be said to live in a dream, which the entire repose of the body heightened into a supernatural vividness aud distinctness. But, to proceed :-One of my most favourite baunts was an old Norman castle, situated at the extremity of a narrow dale, which here and there retained traces of human labour, but for the most part was choked up with wild and tangled shrubs. The place had once been of considerable importance, and the last in the line of its original inha. bitants was a courtier of Henry the Eighth. After this time it became deserted, but its traditionary annals
continued to be regarded with the same reverence; nor could there any where be heard wilder tales of feudal strife or baronial magnificence than in its neigh: bourhood. These had all their share of respect in my lone and dreamy reveries ; but the later history of this place afforded my imagination a theme on which it dwelt till thought became deep and fervent passion.
On the desertion of its noble proprietors, the castle was left to decay, and many years intervened before any one thought of taking shelter under its roof. On the accession, however, of Mary to the throne, when those who had embraced the reformed doctrines foresaw the approaching storm, many who were unwilling to for. sake their country, fled for shelter to such ruinous and deserted buildings as were not likely to be speedily reclaimed. The old Norman ruin was well calculated for the purposes of such a retreat, and it became the refuge place of one of the Protestant prebends of a neighbouring cathedral. He was accompanied in his retreat by an only daughter, whose filial piety would not suffer her to leave him in his solitude. While they dwelt here she seems to have been a ministress of love and mercy to the surrounding hamlets, Sometimes daring, with her father, to aid the devotion of the little flock that remained faithful to the truth, and at others stealing forth to administer comfort to the sick or the aged. Her memory was like a sweet gentle dew on that lonely place ; and there was not a Rowery bank
murmuriug rivulet which was not, in some way or other, associated with her name, Her father and she remained here in safety for a considerable time, till, at length, the cruel vigilence of Bonner discovered the prebend's retreat, and hastened to make him a sacrifice to his barbarious superstition. The father and daughter were both seized and carried before the council, where, after a long examination, the former was condemned to expiate the crime of an open confession of the truth in the flames. His daughter escaped, it is probable, through the malignant satisfaction already given by the con. demnation of her parent, and she was left with him during his few remaining hours rather through carelessness than mercy.
Borne up by the same strength which had been her confort and support iu solitude, she passed, it is said, the night preceeding his execution in listening at intervals to his parting exhortations, and at others watching his quiet peaceful slumber, which was, like death disarmed of its sting and terror. The fearful morrow came and passed, and, under the cloud of its night, the martyr's orphan bore back the ashes of her father to the solitary mansion which had furnished them with shelter. Here, it seeins, she continued to make her home holding communion with no one, but when some purpose ot charity called her forth, and then retiring into her loneliness,—:00 gentle not to be broken hearted, but too full of hope not to bear her anguish.
How long she remained here, whether she died under those ruined walls, or passed the rest of her life amid other scenes, what was her fate, tradition had not recorded ; and there was an uncertainty and mystery in this latter part of her history, which strongly favoured the creations of my imagination. The other forms with which these solitary scenes were peopled were to me more like the persons of a drama ; but the vision of that meek and lonely girl was constantly with me; it
a something tells me that that bright form is fled, from which the destiny of my earthly nature has seperated
A dark and fearful doubt comes over me some. times whether I may ever enter that inner sphere of being ;-though I feel it is the law of my existence to be for ever quickening in perception, – there may not be another law wbich shall repel me when I approach its confines.
There are awful golphs in the wide sea of thought, down which we inay plunge till we are lost in their abysses.- I have tempted them, but in vain!
LONDON AND PARISIAN FASHIONS.
hung upon my heart like a spirit of hope and joy, and I felt myself linked to her by a spell that must last for ever.
This was the bright and sunny period of my existence. I had before, and bave since, been little affected by the cares or caprices of fortune, but, during that period, I seemed to move in an element of delight. My mind was wedded to the fairest being in its intellectual creation, and, wherever my fancy wandered, I still heard the same unceasing song of love. But it is not the things of the earth only that are subject to change.
I was sitting one evening under what had once been the purtcullis of the castle, looking down through the deep green valley before me, and which might almost be said to be flooded with the full thick melody of the birds, when a heavy sultry haze fell over the scene, and it became silent as at midnight. I felt my heart op. pressed by this external change of nature, and, retiring within myself, I became gradually insensible to everything without. But thought was awake, and quickened into unwonted activity. The sphere of vision seemed almost interminable, and I saw around me, with but one exception, all the forms with which I had ever held communion. She alone was absent who was to me as existence, and I felt as if sinking into nothing while vainly endeavouring to call her to me. At length, at the farthest verge of that wide sphere, she appeared rising, like a thin impalpable mist, and came before me. There was a mysterious change in her appearance, which I cannot describe, but I felt that her spirit could no longer hold communion with mine. I struggled with the strength of my whole being to retain her, but it was in vain ; and I saw her vanish, as it were, into another eternity.
The heaviness of the night passed away, but I bave been from that hour alone in the wide world of exis. tence. I have journeyed since then over seas and continents, and have felt my material frame wasting under the returning years; but I have found no change or rest to my thoughts. That lost vision has never returned, and I have no companion in my long wanderings but my own dark fancies, Sometimes, indeed, in the vast desert or the pathless forest, I have doubted whether their silence was not made audible by her voice; and I have sometimes thought, when the clear midnight sky seemed receding into its everlasting depths, that I saw her gliding in the blue thin element. But these were momentary thoughts, and I shrunk back into my
former solitude. I have read of some who, penetrating into the secret holds of nature, bave gained a mastery over her elements, that enabled them to change her ordinary courses; and there are strange tales of others who, in the dark ages of the world, were able, by an abstruse and hidden art, to control the actions of spiritual beings. But, brooding, as I have done, on these unearthly mysteries, neither could I ever discover, in the wild sublimities of the old magicians, nor in the intel. lectual anatomics of philosophy, anything that could bring back to me that companion of my spirit. I have been able to see wonders in the universe of being that are hidden to other eyes ; have lived from my youth in a state of almost-perfect idealism; and have felt as if the outward form 1 bear where every day becoming less and less a barrier to my desires : but there is a charmed circle, which I cannot pass, and within which there is
Dresses.—The ancient style is prevalent in the sanie degree as ever, and the numerous modes which result from this and the extensive field afforded by the many arrangements of costume which are worn on all sides, give full scope to the taste, and produce a variety not only pleasing, but becoming.
Among these varieties may be particularly enumerated the Châles à Capuchon, Pelisses, Burnous, Châles-mon. 'ches, Manteaux Arabes in satin &c. the make so ar. ranged as to admit the arms and head as well as to form such folds around the shape, as to exhibit it to advantage, while the form is not as in many of the old modes ungracefully enveloped.
The pointed corsage, flowing sleeves short to the inid-arm, are most in requisition, the lace in profusion, mostly of the old pointed and other ancient styles, and the other embellishments of the massive and heavy character so gorgeous, which, in union with the other accessories of this species of toilette. At the same time it must be remarked that variety being the order of the day, no peremptory necessity exists of adopting a rigorous observance of any particular mode ; and the Elizabethan, Louis Quatorze, or the light and elegant manner originated by our modern taste, are seen side by side in the highest circles,
Among the recent adoptions, the loop must by no means be overlooked, and the more frequent examples the inprored modern hoop, must induce a more favorable reception from those hitherto opposed to its introduction.
The Berthes of precious stones, pearls, jet &c. are one of the inost admired styles of ornament for the neck &c. and when applied to some of the gorgeous costuines in velvet. Velvet-nakara, satin &c. which are so much in vogue at this moment present an indescribable effect. The cordelière as well as the neads or other ornaments to the sleeve, ought to be made to correspond ; a bouillon or biais of velvet for the lower part of the sleeves, fixed by a næud of precious stones, is suitable.
A dress of velours d'Afrique, pearl-grey color, iced cherry-color, had a sweetly pretty effect; the corsage was draped, the sleeves long and ornamented by bello shaped additions, finished by ribbons with pendant ends, flounce to correspond.
A dress in levantine had a corsage en cæur half high mounting; the sleeves which were long, had næuds of material similar to the dress with an admixture of black lace which gave a very excellent effect.
A satin dress iced blue and rose-color, had a blond fall on the upper part of the coraage, which was interspersed with satin roseties with pendant ends; a broad blond ornament extending from the ceinture in a double line down the front of the skirt, separating at the lower part, and sprinkled also with satin rosettes gave this costume a beautiful appearance,
A white satin dress, e.nbroidered with cherry-colored silk, had the corsage oroaniented with lace volans ex. tending down the dress and looped up at intervals with cordelières and tassels.
Hats & Caps.-Among the most tasteful of the head dresses which the fertility of French invention has laiely originated is the Memphis Coiffure, which is composed of gauze, ornamented with the most delicate fiuwers and gracefully folded round the head falls in a veil on the neck.
A hat of gros d'Afrique, straw.colored, was formed with the brim rather elevated and thrown back, and the curtain slightly curved, a bouquet of small roses mixed with camelias.
A moire hat, somewhat fat, turned on the extremity of the brim and widened at the top hal a pretty light ornament of blund with a sınall sprig of beather intermixed, the exterior was ornamented with a garland of the same.
A green velvet turban, embroidered with silver, was formed into an elegant series of parallel folis on side and one bouillon on the other, divided by a pearl band and having the long flowing end which rested on the neck entwined with a silver fringe.
A black velvet turban, rather higher than the previously described one, was ornamented with a glistening garland of diamonds which produced a most admirable effect.
A dress bat of Pekinet had one side more extended and elevated than the other, and was embellished with a plome of marabouts mingled with diamond wbeat-ears.
An African cacheniere shawl was tastefully mingled with the hair, a rich addition of point lace and a gar. land of diamonds, was skilfully blended so as to form a most elegant decoration.
MATERIALS & Colors. - At some of the truly de. lightful meetings of the select circles many of the most elegant fabrics and designs were seen, and in our illus. trations we have availed ourselves copiously of those aids.
New Reps, Moires, velvets, satins, cherry-colored, chocolate, white, &c. with fresh combinations both of texture and pattern, and capable of adaptation to every style of costume were observed, some of the most elegant of which are depicted in our figures.
ornament of net lace on the bust extending from the shoulders to the middle of the ceinture. The sleeves long, bouffanted to the elbow, whence a ruffle depends to almost the wrist round a portion of the sleeve which terminates there. The entire front of the dress is embellished in the robe style with a row of black lace placed on full and spirally, and encreasing considerably in width at the lower part, and where it turns round towards the hem. Satin hat with feathers.
Figure 3.-Fancy Costume.—The body of satin, the skirt of satin de laine. Hat to correspond.
FIGURE 4.--Costume Moyen-Age ---Velvet robe lined with satin, bodice ornamented with cross pieces of the saine ; a rich embroidery extends down the front of the skirt: the hair ornamented with long feathers.
The first half figure forms a back representation of the underneath dress.
The second half figure, a walking dress, being a satin pelisse faced with velvet, has the sleeves ornamented in a corresponding manner. The hat in spot. ted silk has a feather banging on one side.
Dress and carriage hat in velvet and satin, with bird of paradise feathers and flowers. Turbans in mousseline de laine and tulle.
PLATE II. Figure 1.-Evening Dress.-Crape dress, draped in the upper part of the corsage ; sleeves very short but enveloped with an outer one more ample, showing the arms through its transparent texture ; a double row of Aounces with a running garland of Aowers ornaments the lower part of the skirt. A turban elegantly decorated with pearls interwoven with the folds of the fabric and with marabouts.
FIGURE 2.–Fancy Costume. - Velvet body faced with satin aed satin skirt ; chemisette bigh over the shoulders, Hair having a single ribbon næud.
Figure 3.– Fancy Costume.--Striped silk che. misette; skirt and trowsers of satin de laine. Hat of satin made very small.
FIGURE 4.–Ball Dress.-Tulle dress with blond fall; sleeves to the elbow with lace ruffle ; skirt full with double row of Aounces. The Hats and Capotes in satin. velvet and Tuscan.
PLATE III. Figure 1.- Evening Dress,- Velvet spencer and satin body, the corsage cut pointed; sleeves long and moderately full, lessening gradually to the wrist which has an embroidered cuff; a worked collar, old pattern, embellishes the upper part of the corsage, the front of which has the addition of that very elegant ornament recently introduced under the name of Berthe from which depends a series of chains with articles of jewel. lery &c. attached ; the skirt has two founces laid on rather full and baving a narrow lace edging. The head has a most elegant light cap with .
DESCRIPTION OF THE PLATES.
Provre 1.-Evenina Duess -- Levantine dress, made la Fiounet elementeve koca BRESS. -- Moire dress, half
rather low in the corsage, which is embellished with drapings, reaching a considerable way down the extent of the bust, pointed at the extremity ; the sleeve close fitting above and full towards the elbow which is termipated by a ruffle of old point lace. The skirt ample ornamented with a bouillon Aounce at the hem, sprinkled with flowers; the upper part ornamented with a garland extending from the ceinture both ways towards the founce. Coiffure decorated with pearls.
Figure 2.-Walking Dress.-Satin dress, mantilla
high mounting corsage with long and very peaked point, the upper part having a double lace fall laid on pretty full, the front ornamented with an upright row of bows; the sleeve short and in bouillons, ornamented with bows and finished with tolerably deep ruffles; the skirt em. bellished in a corresponding style in the tablier figure. Turban of embroidered tolle with ends hanging pendant,
FIGURE 3.-Evening Dress.-Satin dress, the corsage balf-ligh mounting, pointed, the apper part placed on full, the centre having a rather large rosette; the