the help of a little wind which is enclosed about one of the largest sticks, can make as loud a crack as a woman of fifty with an ordinary fan.

When the fans are thus discharged, the word of command, in course, is to "ground their fans." This teaches a lady to quit her fan gracefully when she throws it aside in order to take up a pack of cards, adjust a curl of hair, replace a falling pin, or apply herself to any other matter of importance. This part of the exercise, as it only consists in tossing a fan with an air upon a long table (which stands by for that purpose), may be learned in two days' time as well as in a twelvemonth.

When my female regiment is thus disarmed, I generally let them walk about the room for some time; when, on a sudden (like ladies that look upon their watches after a long visit), they all of them hasten to their arms, catch them up in a hurry, and place themselves in their proper stations, upon my calling out, "Recover your fans!" This part of the exercise is not difficult, provided a woman applies her thoughts to it.

The fluttering of the fan is the last, and, indeed, the masterpiece, of the whole exercise; but, if a lady does not misspend her time, she may make herself mistress of it in three months. I generally lay aside the dog-days, and the hot time of the summer, for the teaching this part of the exercise; for as soon as ever I pronounce, "Flutter your fans!" the place is filled with so many zephyrs and gentle breezes as are very refreshing in that season of the year, though they might be dangerous to ladies of a tender constitution in any other.

There is an infinite variety of motions to be made use of in the flutter of a fan There is the angry flutter, the modest flutter, the timorous flutter, the confused flutter, the Imerry flutter, and the amorous flutter. Not to be tedious, there is scarce any emotion in the mind which does not produce a suitable agitation in the fan; insomuch, that, if I only see the fan of a disciplined lady, I know very well whether she laughs, frowns, or blushes. I have seen a fan so very angry, that it would have been dangerous for the absent lover who provoked it to have come within the wind of it; and at other times so very languishing, that I have been glad, for the lady's sake, the lover was at a sufficient distance from it. I need not add, that a fan is either

a prude or coquette, according to the nature of the person who bears it. To conclude my letter, I must acquaint you that I have from my own observations compiled a little treatise for the use of my scholars, entitled "The Passions of the Fan," which I will communicate to you if you think it may be of use to the public. I shall have a general review on Thursday next, to which you shall be very welcome if will honor it with your presence. you

Spectator.

WARNING TO WOMAN.

"JOHN," said Mrs. Sanscript to her husband one evening last week, "I've been reading the paper."-"That's nothin'," grunted John : 'I've seen people before who read newspapers.' Yes; but there are several things in the paper I can't understand." - "Then don't read 'em." -"What do they mean by the strike, John? What is a strike, anyhow?

66

66

66

66

"A strike is where they have struck;" and Sanscript knocked the ashes from his cigar. "I don't grasp your meaning exactly," said Mrs. Sanscript, with a puzzled look. Now, these strikers have stopped all the railroad-trains in the country. Why did they do it?". "To prevent 'em from running." Yes, but why didn't they want trains to run?' "Because they wanted more money for running them.” "Do they pay more for stopping trains than for running them?" 'No, you stupid woman!". -"Then why in the world did they stop 'em? why didn't they run more of 'em, or run 'em faster? Seems to me that would pay better." "Mary Ann, you will never surround the problem.". 'Maybe not, John. Some things are gotten up purposely to bother women. Now here is a column headed Base-Ball.' What is base-ball, John?" Don't you know what baseball is? Happy woman! you have not lived in vain.""Here it says that 'The Hartfords could not collar Cumming's curves.' What under the sun are Cumming's curves?"- "It's the way he delivers the ball."-"Is the ball chained?". No, you booby!". deliver it?". "I mean, pitches it." says Jones muffed a ball after a hard run. doing after a hard run?

"Then how does he "Oh! Now here it What was a ball

"Hadn't you better confine your

66

66

research to the obituary and marriage columns, Mary, with an occasional advertisement thrown in to vary the monotony?" "Yes, but, John, I want to know! There's Mrs. Racket, over the way, who goes to all the base-ball games, and comes home to talk me blind about fly fouls, base hits,' 'sky-scrapers,' and all those things. For heaven's sake, John, what is a sky-scraper? Compose yourself, old woman. You are treading on dangerous ground; your feet are on slippery rocks, while raging billows roll beneath." Mercy on me! What do you mean?"-"I mean, my dear madam, that whenever a woman begins to pry about among three strikes, fair balls, base hits, daisy cutters, home runs, and kindred subjects, she's in danger of being lost." "Well, I confess I'm completely lost to know what this newspaper means when it says Addy stole a base, while the spectators applauded. Have we come to such a pass that society will applaud a theft? Why wasn't Addy arrested? Now here's Manning put out by Start, assisted by Carey, and I can't see that he did any thing wrong, either. Jemima Christopher! Here it says that Pike flew out. don't believe a word of it. I never saw a man fly yet, and I won't believe it can be done till I see it with my own eyes. John, what makes these newspaper men lie so horribly?", John was asleep; and Mrs. Sanscript turned gloomily, not to say sceptically, to the letter-list for information. Newspapers were not made for women.

I

THE CAVALRY CHARGE.

WITH bray of the trumpet, and roll of the drum,
And keen ring of bugle, the cavalry come.
Sharp clank the steel scabbards, the bridle-chains ring,
And foam from red nostrils the wild chargers fling.

Tramp, tramp! o'er the greensward that quivers below,
Scarce held by the curb-bit, the fierce horses go!
And the grim-visaged colonel, with ear-rending shout,
Peals forth to the squadrons the order, "Trot out!"

One hand on the sabre, and one on the rein,
The troopers move forward in line on the plain.

As rings the word "Gallop!" the steel scabbards clank,
And each rowel is pressed to a horse's hot flank ;
And swift is their rush as the wild torrent's flow
When it pours from the crag on the valley below.

66

Charge!" thunders the leader: like shaft from the bow,
Each mad horse is hurled on the wavering foe;
A thousand bright sabres are gleaming in air;
A thousand dark horses are dashed on the square.

Resistless and reckless of aught may betide,
Like demons, not mortals, the wild troopers ride.
Cut right! and cut left! for the parry who needs?
The bayonets shiver like wind-shattered reeds.

Vain, vain, the red volley that bursts from the square!
The random-shot bullets are wasted in air.
Triumphant, remorseless, unerring as death,
No sabre that's stainless returns to its sheath.

The wounds that are dealt by that murderous steel
Will never yield case for the surgeon to heal.
Hurrah! they are broken! hurrah! boys, they fly:
None linger save those who but linger to die.

Rein up your hot horses, and call in your men,-
The trumpet sounds "Rally to color" again.
Some saddles are empty, some comrades are slain,
And some noble horses lie stark on the plain;
But war's a chance game, boys, and weeping is vain.
F. A. DURIVAGE.

WIDOW STEBBINS ON HOMEOPATHY.

THESE 'ere new-fangled doctors they call the homeypaths hev pesky odd noshuns, naow, 'n no mistake. They dew beat all natur' in thar idees 'baout doctorin' folks, ʼn curin' 'em up with jest nuthin' at all but leetle bits uv sugar-pills 'n sech like. Then they hev the queerest names fur thar tincters 'n medicines thet ever I heern tell on. Thar's bellerdonny, cammermilly, pulsertilly, nucks vomicky, illumine

som.

ner, ache o' night, 'n goodness knows what not. I can't keep run on 'em no haow. Naow, my neighbor, Miss Fulis allers tellin' 'baout homeypathy, 'n what a heap er good it's dun her fur all sorts er complaints. She's a sorter doctor, Miss Fulsom is, 'n sez it's her speer ter be doin' all the good she ken fur suff'rin' humanity.

Wall, I wuz tuk daown a peg in my 'pinion on it last spring, I wuz, 'n I'll tell ye haow it happened. My Sairy Ann caught the whoopin'-cough, or sumthin' or ruther uv the sort, 'n I felt a leetle frustrated 'baout it, 'n so I thought I'd run over ter Miss Fulsom's 'n see what she would proscribe fur it. She looked over her medicine chist - she's got a big one, I tell yeou, full uv vials uv all kinds 'n sizes, 'n it looks fur all the world like sum city confeckshunner's shop full uv candy 'n stuff.

66

Wall, ez I wuz a-sayin', she put on her specs 'n looked over her medicine chist, 'n sed sollumly, ez haow ef 'twuz her child she'd gin her a heap er sulphur" right away. Wall, I wuz glad ter hear her say thet, ez I allers thought the homeypaths gin jest the leastest bit uv stuff when a body wuz sick, 'n so I sed I b'lieved I'd try it, ez it wouldn't do her no harm ef it didn't no good. I hed plenty uv sulphur in the haouse - I allers hev it on hand in the spring - 'n so I tuk nigh onter a cup full, ez I wuz sure Miss Fulsom said a heap on it, 'n mixed it up with merlasses, same ez I allus did,`n made Sairy Ann take the hull on't, all ter wunst. Wall, she wuz jest the sickest child fur a while, Sairy Ann wuz, thet ever yeou did see, 'n it didn't seem ter help her cough a bit, nuther. Wall, I went over ter Miss Fulsom's, soon ez Sairy Ann could spare me comfortably, 'n told her what I dun, 'n would yeou b'lieve it? she laughed right aout in my face, - she's sober 'nuff, ginerally, Lord knows, 'n said thet it wuz hepar sulphur thet she told me ter gin Sairy Ann, 'n thet hepar wuz a Latin word, 'n meant "the liver," 'n not a large quantity on any thing, ez I supposed. Wall, thet sickened me on homeypathy, 'n sence then I hev stuck ter the old skule, whar they don't hev no sech ridickerlus words ter bother a body's life out on 'em. Them's my sentyments on homeypathy. CHARLES F. ADAMS.