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LIPPINCOTT'S MAGAZINE ***
Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Sandra Brown and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team.
Note: The Table of Contents and the list of illustrations were added by the transcriber.
LIPPINCOTT'S MAGAZINE
OF
_POPULAR LITERATURE AND SCIENCE_.
JUNE, 1873.
Vo. XI, No. 27.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
A NEW ATLANTIS.
THE ROUMI IN KABYLIA. CONCLUDING PAPER.
A REMINISCENCE OF THE EXPOSITION OF 1867 by ITA ANIOL PROKOP.
SLAINS CASTLE by LADY BLANCHE MURPHY.
OUR HOME IN THE TYROL by MARGARET HOWITT. CHAPTER III. CHAPTER IV.
SAINT ROMUALDO by EMMA LAZARUS.
A PRINCESS OF THULE by WILLIAM BLACK CHAPTER VIII. "O TERQUE QUATERQUE BEATE!" CHAPTER IX. "FAREWELL, MACKRIMMON!"
THE EMERALD by A.C. HAMLIN, M.D.
BERRYTOWN by REBECCA HARDING DAVIS. CHAPTER VIII. CHAPTER IX. CHAPTER X.
BOWERY ENGLAND by WIRT SIKES.
DAY-DREAM by KATE PUTNAM OSGOOD.
OUR MONTHLY GOSSIP. THE GLADSTONE FAMILY. WHITSUNTIDE AMONG THE MENNISTS. THE RAW AMERICAN by PRENTICE MULFORD.
FAREWELL by LUCY H. HOOPER.
NOTES.
LITERATURE OF THE DAY.
_Books Received._
ILLUSTRATIONS
ATLANTIC CITY FROM THE LIGHTHOUSE. UP THE INLET. LANDING-PLACE ON THE INLET. CONGRESS HALL. MR. RICHARD WRIGHT'S COTTAGE. THE SENATE HOUSE. ON THE SHINING SANDS. MR. THOMAS C. HAND'S COTTAGE. THE THOROUGHFARE. THE EXCURSION HOUSE. A SCENE IN FRONT OF SCHAUFLER'S HOTEL. ABD-EL-KADER IN KABYLIA. AN AGHA OF KABYLIA HUNTING WITH THE FALCON. THE DISCIPLES OF TOFAIL. A KOUBBA, OR MARABOUT'S TOMB. KABYLE MEN. KABYLE WOMEN. DEFILE OF THIFILKOULT. AN ARAB MARKET. POVERTY AND JEWELS. GEORGE CHRISTY IN AFRICA.
A NEW ATLANTIS.
[Illustration: ATLANTIC CITY FROM THE LIGHTHOUSE.]
The New Year's debts are paid, the May-day moving is over and settled, and still a remnant of money is found sticking to the bottom of the old marmalade pot. Where shall we go?
There is nothing like the sea. Shall it be Newport?
But Newport is no longer the ocean pure and deep, in the rich severity of its _sangre azul_. We want to admire the waves, and they drag us off to inspect the last new villa: we like the beach, and they bid us enjoy the gardens, brought every spring in lace-paper out of the florist's shop. We like to stroll on the shore, barefooted if we choose, and Newport is become an affair of toilette and gold-mounted harness, a bathing-place where people do everything but bathe.
[Illustration: UP THE INLET.]
Well, Nahant, then, or Long Branch?
Too slow and too fast. Besides, we have seen them.
Suppose we try the Isles of Shoals? Appledore and Duck Island and White Island, now? Or Nantucket, or Marblehead?
Too stony, and nothing in particular to eat. You ask for fish, and they give you a rock.
In truth, under that moral and physical dyspepsia to which we bring ourselves regularly every summer, the fine crags of the north become just the least bit of a bore. They necessitate an amount of heroic climbing under the command of a sort of romantic and do-nothing Girls of the Period, who sit about on soft shawls in the lee of the rocks, and gather their shells and anemones vicariously at the expense of your tendon achilles. We know it, for we have suffered. We calculate, and are prepared to prove, that the successful collection of a single ribbon of ruffled seaweed, procured in a slimy haystack of red dulse at the beck of one inconsiderate girl, who is keeping her brass heels dry on a safe and sunny ledge of the Purgatory at Newport, may require more mental calculation, involve more anguish of equilibrium, and encourage more heartfelt secret profanity than the making of a steam-engine or the writing of a proposal.
No, no, we would admire nothing, dare nothing, do nothing, but only suck in rosy health at every pore, pin our souls out on the holly hedge to sweeten, and forget what we had for breakfast. Uneasy daemons that we are all winter, toiling gnomes of the mine and the forge--"O spent ones of a workday age"--can we not for one brief month in our year be Turks?
[Illustration: LANDING-PLACE ON THE INLET.]
Our doctors, slowly acquiring a little sense, are changing their remedies. Where the cry used to be "drugs," it now is "hygiene." But hygiene itself might be changed for the better. We can imagine a few improvements in the materia medica of the future. Where the physician used to order a tonic for a feeble pulse, he will simply hold his watch thoughtfully for sixty seconds and prescribe "Paris." Where he was wont to recommend a strong emetic, he will in future advise a week's study
Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Sandra Brown and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team.
Note: The Table of Contents and the list of illustrations were added by the transcriber.
LIPPINCOTT'S MAGAZINE
OF
_POPULAR LITERATURE AND SCIENCE_.
JUNE, 1873.
Vo. XI, No. 27.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
A NEW ATLANTIS.
THE ROUMI IN KABYLIA. CONCLUDING PAPER.
A REMINISCENCE OF THE EXPOSITION OF 1867 by ITA ANIOL PROKOP.
SLAINS CASTLE by LADY BLANCHE MURPHY.
OUR HOME IN THE TYROL by MARGARET HOWITT. CHAPTER III. CHAPTER IV.
SAINT ROMUALDO by EMMA LAZARUS.
A PRINCESS OF THULE by WILLIAM BLACK CHAPTER VIII. "O TERQUE QUATERQUE BEATE!" CHAPTER IX. "FAREWELL, MACKRIMMON!"
THE EMERALD by A.C. HAMLIN, M.D.
BERRYTOWN by REBECCA HARDING DAVIS. CHAPTER VIII. CHAPTER IX. CHAPTER X.
BOWERY ENGLAND by WIRT SIKES.
DAY-DREAM by KATE PUTNAM OSGOOD.
OUR MONTHLY GOSSIP. THE GLADSTONE FAMILY. WHITSUNTIDE AMONG THE MENNISTS. THE RAW AMERICAN by PRENTICE MULFORD.
FAREWELL by LUCY H. HOOPER.
NOTES.
LITERATURE OF THE DAY.
_Books Received._
ILLUSTRATIONS
ATLANTIC CITY FROM THE LIGHTHOUSE. UP THE INLET. LANDING-PLACE ON THE INLET. CONGRESS HALL. MR. RICHARD WRIGHT'S COTTAGE. THE SENATE HOUSE. ON THE SHINING SANDS. MR. THOMAS C. HAND'S COTTAGE. THE THOROUGHFARE. THE EXCURSION HOUSE. A SCENE IN FRONT OF SCHAUFLER'S HOTEL. ABD-EL-KADER IN KABYLIA. AN AGHA OF KABYLIA HUNTING WITH THE FALCON. THE DISCIPLES OF TOFAIL. A KOUBBA, OR MARABOUT'S TOMB. KABYLE MEN. KABYLE WOMEN. DEFILE OF THIFILKOULT. AN ARAB MARKET. POVERTY AND JEWELS. GEORGE CHRISTY IN AFRICA.
A NEW ATLANTIS.
[Illustration: ATLANTIC CITY FROM THE LIGHTHOUSE.]
The New Year's debts are paid, the May-day moving is over and settled, and still a remnant of money is found sticking to the bottom of the old marmalade pot. Where shall we go?
There is nothing like the sea. Shall it be Newport?
But Newport is no longer the ocean pure and deep, in the rich severity of its _sangre azul_. We want to admire the waves, and they drag us off to inspect the last new villa: we like the beach, and they bid us enjoy the gardens, brought every spring in lace-paper out of the florist's shop. We like to stroll on the shore, barefooted if we choose, and Newport is become an affair of toilette and gold-mounted harness, a bathing-place where people do everything but bathe.
[Illustration: UP THE INLET.]
Well, Nahant, then, or Long Branch?
Too slow and too fast. Besides, we have seen them.
Suppose we try the Isles of Shoals? Appledore and Duck Island and White Island, now? Or Nantucket, or Marblehead?
Too stony, and nothing in particular to eat. You ask for fish, and they give you a rock.
In truth, under that moral and physical dyspepsia to which we bring ourselves regularly every summer, the fine crags of the north become just the least bit of a bore. They necessitate an amount of heroic climbing under the command of a sort of romantic and do-nothing Girls of the Period, who sit about on soft shawls in the lee of the rocks, and gather their shells and anemones vicariously at the expense of your tendon achilles. We know it, for we have suffered. We calculate, and are prepared to prove, that the successful collection of a single ribbon of ruffled seaweed, procured in a slimy haystack of red dulse at the beck of one inconsiderate girl, who is keeping her brass heels dry on a safe and sunny ledge of the Purgatory at Newport, may require more mental calculation, involve more anguish of equilibrium, and encourage more heartfelt secret profanity than the making of a steam-engine or the writing of a proposal.
No, no, we would admire nothing, dare nothing, do nothing, but only suck in rosy health at every pore, pin our souls out on the holly hedge to sweeten, and forget what we had for breakfast. Uneasy daemons that we are all winter, toiling gnomes of the mine and the forge--"O spent ones of a workday age"--can we not for one brief month in our year be Turks?
[Illustration: LANDING-PLACE ON THE INLET.]
Our doctors, slowly acquiring a little sense, are changing their remedies. Where the cry used to be "drugs," it now is "hygiene." But hygiene itself might be changed for the better. We can imagine a few improvements in the materia medica of the future. Where the physician used to order a tonic for a feeble pulse, he will simply hold his watch thoughtfully for sixty seconds and prescribe "Paris." Where he was wont to recommend a strong emetic, he will in future advise a week's study
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