293 DIANA HOUSE, ON THE BANKS OF THE LAKE OF KILLARNEY; A Retreat for such of the Fair Sex as imagine themselves to be in any way the victims of this ill-judging world, and of mankind in general; or that their charms have been neglected and contemned, or their affections trifled with. THE Committee, whose names are hereunto subjoined, have with great care drawn up the following Rules, which not only embody the laws of the Society, but set forth also the numerous advantages offered to the Members of Diana House. I. In every lady's dressing room, which will be plainly but neatly furnished, there will be a good mirror; so that, however slighted or contemned their charms may have been, here they may daily and hourly find a friend who can tell them the real truth of of the case, show them their beauty in its proper light, without sinoothing a wrinkle or concealing a grey hair; and who, if they can't reflect themselves, will reflect for them. II. If their affections have been ever trifled with, they need fear such a danger no longer. Their affections may henceforward be fixed upon themselves exclusively and entirely; so that if they cannot gain other people's, or other people their's, they may at least do all they can to keep their own carefully bottled for their own use, by loving themselves only. III. As in their affections and reflections, so in all other matters, number one will be their first and chief law--a law so much admired by the world in general as to obtain the name of the First Law of Nature. IV. Every inmate will have abundant time for quiet contemplation, and meditation on the beauties of Nature about her, as well as the nature of the beauties her daily companions; also on her own beauty, if she has any, or has not; or on the remembrance of what she once had, or thinks she had. After a few months' residence in this delightful abode, there will be abundance of time and opportunity for this quiet meditation; as, of course, after that time, no inmate will be on speaking terms with more than one or two of the others for any but a most limited period. So that every nymph, when once imbued with the true spirit of Diana House, will at once see how much more fully and entirely she is here fulfilling the duties of life, than she could have done in her own appointed station in the world; where other people's interest will interfere with one's own, and man's duty to his neighbour is constantly waiting to be fulfilled. V. All ladies of a "certain uncertain age" will become members of the Committee after six months' residence; and have two votes at every election, one of which will be sufficient to exclude any candidate for admission. So that, should any improper person apply for admission, such an armed committee cannot fail of detecting the impostor; while every Diana has a grateful opportunity of just revenge on any offending neighbour, and that too without chance of discovery. This last is an advantage rarely to be met with in similar Insti tutions. VI. A dancing room will be attached to each suite of apartments. In each of these it is hoped that at least three couples will be sufficiently good friends to 'polk' for at least an evening, while the more ancient of the community sit around them, and criticize the dancers, their dresses, and their skill. VII. The committee have at length, after painful consideration, determined that no strong waters shall be suffered to gain an entrance into Diana House. Tea at all hours, of all degrees of strength, will, it is thought, prove a grateful stimulant to the flow of charitable gossip and good feeling. By" all hours" is meant not earlier than six A. M. or later than twelve at night. VIII. A few select volumes will form the library, chiefly consisting of the Lives and Adventures of eminent defunct Spinsters. IX. Such inmates of Diana House as think proper may add to their natural endowments a tinge of gloomy moroseness, and try to believe themselves religious, if they can; and aim at becoming at length a genus of "Holy Vegetable," as others have, in bygone times, fancied that they should one day become, if they were not clearly such when first planted. (Signed) DIANA STARCH, President. ELIZA VERJUICE. DOROTHY DOLITTLE. SUSAN DULL. X. N.B. A cat, suited in age to each of the respective occupants of chambers in Diana House, will be provided at the expense of the Society. This, it is thought, will prove the most delightful and improving companion an ancient maiden can have there is so much in common between them in character, habits, and feelings, that they cannot fail of being good friends. N.B. Champagne not being strictly a strong water, but merely an etherial and ladylike beverage, is not of course included in the list of prohibited liquids; also, small beer may claim a similar privilege, which, for the younger votaries, will be found a cooling and healthy substitute. AMERICA. SCARCELY two months have passed since the glorious news of the fall of Sebastopol "burst on Europe's listening ear," and the friends of liberty and justice hailed with heartfelt joy the stirring tidings of that blood-bought conquest. Freely had France and England poured out their best blood on the Crimean waste; unflinchingly through the bitterest privations had our gallant armies maintained the honour of their fatherland; and their furious onset at Alma, their stubborn resistance on the blood-steeped slopes of Inkermann, their dashing valour at Balaklava, their undaunted courage on the banks of the Tchernaya, and, more than all, their long and patient endurance in those dreary trenches, braving alike the wintry storm and the Russian bullet, were at length rewarded with the conqueror's wreath, twined round their bleeding brows. The friends of despotism trembled, in St. Petersburg, in Vienna, in Berlin, when the crushing tidings flashed along the electric wire-Sebastopol is fallen and the heart of every freeman leaped up as the news spread far and wide over the surface of the earth, cheering the long-expectant hearts who had hoped and waited with undying confidence for the glorious consummation of the most gigantic siege the world has ever seen. Russia had given ground, and the champions of freedom and slavery, exhausted with the long and bloody strife, had sheathed for a moment their dripping swords, and paused to gather breath and contemplate the havoc their mutual efforts had wrought in the doomed city. On every hand were heard rejoicings and congratu lations; the inhabitants of Europe's weaker states could not be restrained from giving vent to their joy at the discomfiture of the gigantic tyrant who had overshadowed their path; every steamer that bore the tidings to our distant colonies, brought back the tale of the warm outpourings of English hearts under every foreign sky where floats the British flag, telling us how, far above the clang of the triumph bells and the roar of the cannon, rose the deafening cheer that comes straight from the heart of an Englishman, and never with more heart-felt fervour than when in distant climes he hears the tale of England's glory. But, amid this universal jubilation, one strong voice was silent, one brave heart beat not in unison with ours, one free man, and he our kinsman, gloomily folded his arms upon his breast, and, coldly sneering at our dear-bought triumph, turned muttering away. We hardly expected this: we could scarcely allow ourselves to think that a free and gallant nation, speaking our own language, ruled by our own laws, bound to us by every tie of blood and friendship, could have brooded over old quarrels that had long ceased to trouble our repose, until, nourished by jealousy, the bitterness of their hearts broke out in open regrets for the reverses of Russia. When first we heard this tale, we scarce could give it credence; but its truth is now only too manifest: jealousy has stifled every warm feeling in the American breast; and that nation which declares, as the first article of its political and social creed, that "all men are born free and equal," unhesitatingly publishes to the world that her sympathies are rather with the tyrant of the north, than with the champions of European freedom. This seems at first sight so inexplicable, that many kind hearts will yet refuse to believe that such is the general feeling that pervades the United States; but if we look beneath the surface, we may trace the current that sweeps with "such resistless undertone" through the whole Union, and may well give our attention to the detection of its causes; for there is more than one element, hostile to England, that combines to turn the current of our kinsmen's blood against us. More than forty years have elapsed since America and England shook hands after their last struggle: frothy demagogues on the one side, and muddle-headed legislators on the other, have more than once, since that day, brought the two countries to the verge of war; but at the critical moment the better sense of the nations has prevailed, and the sparks have been trampled out ere they could kindle into flame. Still, all these petty disputes have done their work of mischief, in re-opening old wounds, and furnishing a text for the stump orator to preach a crusade against the Britisher; and, laugh as we may at the stump orator and his absurdities, his influence with the mass of the lower orders is far greater than we are apt to imagine. In most of these little squabbles, the British government, unwilling to plunge the country into war, has made some concessions to America, which are duly chronicled by her demagogues, and paraded on occasion before the eyes of the sovereign people, with a running commentary, the moral whereof is, that because England don't and won't, she can't and daren't fight. And this is swallowed by hundreds of thousands of men who can hardly be expected to refuse a draught of "soft sawder" so flattering to their national vanity, if not to their reflective powers. There can be little question as to the state of public opinion in the United States as regards England in a warlike point of view: the American public is two or three degrees lower in the social scale than our own, and by so many degrees more susceptible of false impressions; and so long have the would-be patriots declaimed against England, and represented her as a cowardly boaster, as an aggressor who shrinks from the storm she has conjured up, as impotent though malicious, "letting I dare not wait upon I would," that the opinion generally entertained by the lower orders (who, by their votes, sway the state) amounts simply to this-that the sun of England's glory has set, and set for ever. Nor is this sketch of public opinion in America a mere a priori conclusion on the part of the writer; for he has heard educated American gentlemen give it as their matured opinion that such, and no other, is the feeling with which the masses of the United States regard the old country. The animosity of the lower ranks thus accounted for, let us consider the feelings which embitter the hearts of the higher classes against England, and engage their sympathies on behalf of our deadly foe. And if we may judge from their own evidence, the strongest and bitterest of these feelings is jealousy-a passion more dangerous to the peace of individuals and of nations than open and avowed enmity. We have seen, in this our day, two great and rival nations, roused by the danger that menaced both alike, fling to the winds all remembrance of eight hundred years of war and hatred, and, burying all animosities in one common grave, advance side by side, their right arms bared to fight for the liberties of Europe. And yet for eight hundred years all peace between France and England was but a hollow truce, wrung from either party by sheer exhaustion, and destined to be broken upon the first favorable opportunity: old traditions, handed down from father to son, told of a deadly foe who dwelt across the Channel, recounted the glory gained in many a well-fought field, and nurtured the passions that burned in the breasts of the youth of both countries to emulate the gallant deeds of their forefathers. As well might water and oil blend in one, as England and France join hands in earnest, honest friendship: so thought, so said, our fathers. But a noble feeling has uprooted and |