Flying streamers are unpardonable. Milton's
description of Dalilah does not prepossess us
in her favour:

          Sails fill'd and streamers waving,
          Courted by all the winds, that hold them play.

Nothing looks worse than a veil flying behind
your bonnet. Either draw it over your face, or
leave it at home.

We have not yet mentioned the subject of
dressing the hair. By attention to this, much
may be done to decrease the defects of the face.
If this be too long, the hair should be arranged
so as to give width; if too short, the hair should
be plaited and put across the fore part of
the head, or turned back, which, if the forehead
be low, gives height, and an open expression.

We have not, perhaps, pressed sufficiently
strongly on the necessity of the dress being suitable
for the hour. No dress, however charming,
is admissible in a morning but one strictly fit
for that time of day. Every woman, whatever
her station in life, has duties to perform in the
forepart of the day; and to see a lady ordering
the dinner, or arranging the wardrobe in satin
and artificial flowers, would be simply ridiculous.
A velvet jacket may appear at the breakfast-table;
but the simpler and neater the costume the better.
All jewellery in a morning is in bad taste. Cobbett
warns a man against a woman "fond of hardware."
The imitations of gems which are frequently
worn, are not only in bad taste, but are
absurd. Pearls, which, if real, would be a
monarch's ransom, and mock diamonds, before
which the Koo-i-noor looks small, are
sometimes heaped upon tasteless persons in terrible
profusion.

Some years ago, we English imitated our
neighbours, the French, in wearing almost entirely
stone-coloured, or grey dresses; but we neglected
the ribbons of either scarlet or pink, with which
they enlivened those grave colours. Another
of our great mistakes, is to suppose that a ball-
dress, when its freshness is gone, will do for a
dinner or evening dress. There are some small
folk, who appear on the first of May, to whom
it would be a suitable and welcome present.
Gloves and shoes are most important; a new pair
of well-fitting gloves add wonderfully to any
dress, morning or evening. Cobbett in his work,
Advice to Young Men, says, "When you choose
a wife, look to see how she is shod, if her shoes
and stockings are neat: a slip-shod woman is a
poor look-out."

We do not advocate spending much money
upon dress; but we ask to have it spent with
thought and tact in its arrangement and colour.
We all know beautiful women—wise, good,
charming women—whose dress is generally
totally deficient in taste, and we ask for the same
improvement in mixing colours in dress that our
artists, our architects, and the stage now
display to us. How much of our associations with
people depends upon dress! Elizabeth's "muslin
mane" seems needed for her character. Mary
Queen of Scots only rises before us in her black
velvet, and the cap which bears her name; and the
vision of Laura is not complete without the
dress of green velvet and violets which Petrarch
did not disdain to chronicle.

                WITHERED FLOWERS.

Strange are the memories, oh, withered flowers,
      That to my heart ye bring in wordless speech;
Brightly as sunshine falls on distant towers
      And gilds their outlines—of the past ye teach.

For from my childhood and its sunny pleasures,
       As with a key, ye turn the lock of years,
Ye lift the lid, and bring forgotten treasures
      Before these eyes that watch the store with tears.

Have ye a mirror in your withered petals,
       Wherein I read the history of my youth,
That ye give back like glass or polished metals
      A thousand visions fraught with light and truth?

Again I view my home at quiet even:
      The sparrows hopping on the gabled eaves,
Windows illumined by the crimson heaven,
      Varnished with joy and framed with quivering
            leaves.

I seem to hear the murmur of the river,
       As it flows on beneath the arching bridge;
To see the moonlight with its white-hued shiver,
      Lying in bands upon the pebbly ridge.

And, stranger still, I have the self-same feeling
       That traced the letters of my old romance:
The glow of love, o'er all around me dealing
      One hue of joy—that old forgotten trance.

A moment since, and some unknown connexion
      Gave me a strange reality of bliss:
I pressed another's hand in dear affection;
      I felt my forehead glow beneath a kiss.

Now—but the light is vanished from my spirit,
       A cloud conceals the splendour of my sky.
How could I build on mortals who inherit
      The common fate—to live—to love—to die?

For they are dead, those loved ones. Life is fleeting,
       And steals away the props on which we trust:
Leaving one only hope of future meeting,
      A stamp for memory, and a heap of dust.

Leaving affections like these withered flowers,
      That we may hold and turn with reverent hands
And thoughts that picture out the glorious bowers,
      Of which these figures are but shadowed bands.

         TWO TRAINS OF PLEASURE.

MOST people ought, by this time, to be able
to answer the following question: What is an
enjoyable excursion train; or, as the French
phrase it, a train of pleasure?

Ten minutes under a mountain; half an hour
down a coal mine; to Huddersfield and back in
a day, or to Newcastle and back in a day and
night; glimpses of cathedral cities; hurried
dinners in coast towns; dim, fleeting views of
docks, and ships, and harbours; glances at
lakes; whirlings past monuments; superficial
panoramic lessons in the topography of your
native land, to say nothing of bilious voyages
across different parts of the Channel,—are these
the kind of excursions which reinvigorate the