(Wow; I really hadn’t planned to present this many ads for quack medicines, but I love the way things get worded, and I find it fascinating that we haven’t changed our bizarre fascination with using weird medicine.)

Ah, research and the things you uncover. Searching “juvenile magazine” at newspapers.com, I was chagrined to find a piece apparently reprinted from a “Phil. Juvenile Magazine.” What Philadelphia juvenile magazine? Did I miss one? And what’s the piece?

The “piece” turned out to be an advertisement for Kemp’s Worm Pastilles. (Not what it sounds like.) The “Philadelphia juvenile magazine” turned out to be— I’m still not sure. There were multiple children’s periodicals published in Philadelphia in 1857. If it was Robert Merry’s Museum or The Little Pilgrim, it may have appeared in an advertising section or on the covers. John Newton Stearns might have printed the thing—he printed just about anything—but I don’t think Sarah J. Lippincott would have printed an advertisement like this.

I mean, look at that headline: “Giving Poison to Children.” That’s the finest kind of clickbait—you just have to take a look, because who would want to poison children? And use of the word “pastille,” which is—yes—a medicated tablet, but is also a candy.

But an ad that pretends to be a piece reprinted from a “Philadelphia juvenile magazine” … The format is exactly the format used for reprints: headline in small caps as the first phrase of the paragraph; source at the end, sometimes set apart with a square bracket. In fact, until you get to the name of the product, it does read like the kind of piece you might find in a magazine for women—especially parents concerned that intestinal parasites are harming their children. It’s an advertisement shaped like an informative article; and we don’t still do that, do we? And (1) “juvenile magazine”—how wholesome! With (2) “Philadelphia,” land of 10,000 members of the Society of Friends. There are a number of 19th-century American pieces satirizing them as hypocritical lowlifes, but they’re also presented as pure of mind and soul and honest as the sequoia is tall. So we have wholesomeness with a side order of truthfulness and purity—just what you want in an advertisement for a children’s medicine.

Did the “pastilles” work? Who knows. So often, if the effect of the medication isn’t as desired, the doser or the patient gets the blame. I’m sure it was then just as it is now: if it don’t work, you did it wrong.

“Giving Poison to Children” (from The Louisville Daily Courier [Louisville, Kentucky] 9 November 1857; p. 3)

Giving Poison to Children.—Hundreds of thousands of children have been poisoned, with the best intentions in the world. We do not now refer to the result of accidental mistakes—such as the substitution of laudanum for paregoric, or oxalic acid for Epson Salts; but to the practice which prevails of dosing the young with improper medicines. It is bad enough to administer nostrums impregnated with mineral poison to adults, whose more vigorous vitality enables them better to withstand the deleterious influence; but to give mercurialized preparations to young children is downright madness. And yet this is done daily, and, as we have said, with the best intentions. The nauseous vermifuges forced with such persistent folly down the throats of children, in defiance of their young instincts, and in contempt, it would seem, of common sense, belong to this class of medicines. Calomel is their staple ingredient. Now it is not to be denied that calomel will sometimes destroy worms; but it is a corrosive poison, and cannot be absorbed into the tender system of children without periling their lives.

Why should it be employed when a vegetable preparation like Kemp’s Worm Pastilles will answer the purpose infinitely better? Chemical analysis has demonstrated that these Pastilles contain no mineral substance; and experience has proved that even where calomel fails, they produce the desired effect. It appears that they contain within themselves all the elements of cure; requiring no medicine of any kind to be taken before or after them.

Another peculiarity is giving Kemp’s Pastilles an immense popularity among mothers. They have neither the appearance nor the taste of physic. Never was a remedy for diseases more pleasant to the eye or more palatable. They are just the articles that a child would invest its pennies in at the confectioner’s. Then their operation, unlike that of calomel, is quite harmless. These are merits which it is almost unnecessary to commend to the attention of judicious mothers. They can appreciate without argument, the blessings of an infallible cure for worms in the disguise of tempting “candies.” We can sympathize with all urchins condemned to swallow disgusting potions. The time when our own throat was the conduit for that sort of thing yet lives in our recollection. Ugh! we shudder as we recall the spoon and its thick, black contents!—[Phil. Juvenile Magazine.

A couple notes: The “thick, black” medicine, was possibly sulphur and molasses, which was the homemade cure-all of earlier generations. And the image of a little child investing its pennies at the confectioner’s shop is a far cry from the diatribe against candy shops reprinted in Parley’s Magazine a generation earlier.

I’ve been coming across a lot of eccentric advertisements recently in researching early American children’s periodicals so obscure that they’re known only by a title and a notice. Two of the obscurest were published in Buffalo, New York, which I swear in the 19th century was where odd medicines went to find new life after they’d exhausted everyone else’s wallets.

T. J. T.’s ode to Coleman’s Vegetable Life Pills and Phoenix Bitters is … What can I say? It rhymes. It substitutes apostrophes for syllables. It uses words like “e’er” and “thee.” It makes classical allusions (the “sister Parcæ” are the three Fates in ancient Roman beliefs; Atropos is the Fate who clips the thread of life, in ancient Greek belief). I mean—really—what more do you actually require in a poetic effusion to a quack medidine?

“To John Moffat,” by T. J. T. (from Commercial Advertiser and Journal [Buffalo, New York] 12 March 1842; p. 4)

Proprietor of the excellent and celebrated Vegetable Life Pills and Phœnix Bitters.

To thee, great man, whom thousands fondly bless,
My humble thanks I venture to address,
And that exhaustless gratitude impart,
Which swells my bursting and enraptured heart.
Towards thee with ecstacy my heart is rife,
For ’t is to thee I owe my health—my life.
Long had disease cours’d through my fiery veins,
And all my frame was rack’d with aches and pains;
A raging fever burned my very blood,
And in my sightless eye no moisture stood;
My wasted limbs were seared with scorching fire,
And round my bed laughed ghosts and visions dire;
My mind no longer could its seat maintain,
And false chimeras wandered through my brain;
My bony arms I toss’d in empty air,
And shriek’d and scream’d in wild and deep despair.
There as I utter’d many a deep-drawn sigh,
The licensed leeches said I soon must die.
“He soon will cease,” they said, in pompous tone,
“To send forth cries or heave a painful groan;
“His glass of life is surely almost done,
“And the last sands are hastening now to run.
“Learning and skill th[e]ir utmost aid have given—
“We leave him now to nature and to heaven.”
They left me then o’ercome with dreadful pain,
A traveler to Pluto’s dark domain.
The sister Parcæ hovered o’er my head,
And Atropos called me to join the dead.
Thus as I hover’d near the gloomy grave,
You gave me succor—you drew near to save—
Your pills procured me comfort, rest, and ease,
And from my members drove each fell disease;
No more I panted when I drew my breath,
No more I fear’d the fatal shafts of death;
Thy medicine from pain had set me free,
And I no more was torn with agony.
Thousands like me from sickness thus you raise,
And tens of thousands bear to thee their praise.
E’en he of yore whom fabled Jove struck down,
Must yield to thee his honors and his crown.
Then since your name transported thousands bless,
Despise their frowns who envy thy success.
What alchymists for ages sought in vain,
Wisdom has shown thee—taught thee to attain.
Then flock to him all who with sickness groan,
And he will cure you all, and he alone;
For he can snatch you from the yawning tomb,
And save you from pale death’s relentless doom;
Relieve you from all pangs, and sickness’ rage,
And guide you gently to a green old age.
But I must check my muse’s loosen’d rein,
For to say all I feel, language were vain;
But hasten, reader, e’er it is too late,
And call at Coleman’s, No. 268—
Of them procure the Life-preserving Pill,
The Phœnix Bitters, and save a doctor’s bill.

Buffalo, March 16, 1841.

Nineteenth-century publishers chased just about every money-making avenue there was, including, in the case of A. W. Wilgus (publisher of a very short-lived periodical for school children), acting as agent for the maker of a … creative medication. Brandreth’s Pills apparently cured everything from fever to “costiveness”—a polite word for constipation—by passing through every part of the body, then politely “evacuating” with whatever disease the Pills were intended to cure.

It’s a hyperbolic ad, with Brandreth claiming that the Pills (capital letter used pretty consistently) work in accordance with Holy Writ and asserting that most people are walking around half dead, which explains why some corpses putrify faster than others. (I just can’t think why that last part has dropped out of advertising for today’s medications … )

Brandreth’s ad for the Pills is full of mystery and woo: the life-giving pills cleansing humors and clearing up just about anything that might ail a person. It’s earnest, it’s unspecific, and it has the wordiness of prose meant to lull you into reaching for your wallet. The insistence that the Pills are so wonderful that they’re being counterfeited, that address—so specific—and the paragraph on Brandreth’s copyright are likely intended make the whole thing look even more legitimate.

The woo factor is, of course, entertaining, and we tend to snicker at the kind of assertions Brandreth makes; but we haven’t actually grown past that, have we? People buy shoe insoles that are supposed to suck toxins out of their bodies and make their children drink bleach for … well, I’m not really sure what. Apparently we still believe in magic.

Here, though, you have the magic of words. A lot of words.

“The Brandreth Pills” (from the Commercial Advertiser and Journal [Buffalo, New York] 20 July 1842; p. 4)

At the present time, when the counterfeiters of these celebrated Pills are completely cornered, it is not surprising to find that they endeavor to get off their stock of spurious pills under any name. It is not the first time that the “poor Indian” has had to father the abortions of cunning men. The remarkable cures which have been effected by Brandreth’s Pills, have astonished the whole medical faculty, many of whom have considered that they are the greatest blessing that was ever given to the world. The reason these pills have such universally good effect is, because their action harmonizes with the human body.

“Purge out the old leaven, that ye may become new lump,” is the language of Holy Writ, a figure applied spiritually, it is true, but how could it have any application unless confirmed by practical experience in the body of matter? The foundation upon which this figure of scripture rests is as immoveable as the laws which govern the tides, or occasion the thunders of Heaven.

The Condition.”—The condition upon which God has given health to man is a constant care to keep his stomach and bowels free from all morbid and unhealthy accumulations. The means to effect this must be those remedies which cleanse the bowels and purify the blood.

Good healthful medicine is only a species of food; when the animals, whose habits we have the means of observing, are sick, they wander through the fields, and make selections of those herbs which open their bowels and purify their fluids, which immediately restore their health.

When a dose of Brandreth’s Pills are taken, they are digested, and pass to every part of the system; but they leave the body when they have effected the intended purpose, and health and vigor are by them ensured.

Mineral medicines may enter the system; but they are with difficulty got out again, and they always occasion pain and misery while they remain in the body.

Whereas Brandreth’s Pills are as innocent as a piece of bread, and are evacuated with the disease for which they are taken. From the time we are born to the time we cease to breathe, our bodies are constantly wasting, and as constantly building up. The action of the atmosphere wears or wastes them. The food we eat, the digestive organs convert into blood, which renews or builds up by its circulating power. Thus the human body is healthy when the blood circulates freely, and when any thing prevents its free course thro’ the veins, disease commences.

Costiveness, Dyspepsia, Fevers, Inflammations, are all owing to this, and all the troubles attending them could always be prevented by the timely use of Brandreth’s Pills, as their very action at once tends to clear the circulation of all impediment, and remove every cause or occasion of impurity from the blood. There are thousands—nay, millions—at this moment, in this country, and all others, whom we may really consider as half dead. They may be said to carry their death in their bowels and circulation. This is no imaginary circumstance. I wish it were. The thousands whom we meet every where with cadaverous looks, yellow skins, and green eyes, speak in a language not to be mistaken, of the state of their stomach and bowels, and the consequent condition of their blood. The body is thus, while in life, reduced to the condition of a corpse; and the reason why some bodies are so soon in a putrid condition after death, is more from the quantity of impure humors contained in them at the time they expired, than from any other cause. And who is there that will not allow, that if Brandreth’s Pills had been employed, so as to have removed those impure humors, that life might not have been saved? Whoever will but give this subject a very little consideration, will at once perceive the perfect identity between the putrid humors of the body before death, and the humors which occasion the peculiar fœtor of a dead body.


The public will please observe that no Brandreth’s Pills are genuine unless the box has three labels upon it, each containing a facsimilic signature of my hand writing, thus—B. Brandreth. These labels are engraved on steel, beautifully designed, and done at an expense of several thousand dollars. Remember the top, the side, and the bottom.

PRINCIPAL OFFICE, 241 Broadway, opposite the City Hall, New York ONLY.

Entered according to act of Congress, in the year 1841, by Benjamin Brandreth, in the Clerk’s Office of the District Court of the Southern District of New York.

Always been thus, 1859

March 13, 2020

I’m old enough to have soaked in the “fact” that second-wave feminists were all just ugly, unattractive women who couldn’t get a man and were just jeeeeealous of pretty ones who could … Oh, please.

Looking at stuff published about the Philanthropic Convention in Buffalo, New York, in 1859 (in search of other mentions of the children’s paper published by Anna Denton Cridge), I’ve been soaking in bits of aftermath—many of them sarcastic.

Like the “fashion report” reprinted in a North Carolina paper. Apparently, some of the women attending the Convention wore—are you sitting down? have you prepared yourself for the horror?—bloomer dresses. Bloomer dresses! Fetch the smelling salts!

Plus, the men reporting this thought the women were ugly. Yeah, some things don’t change.

“Bloomers” (from The Buffalo Daily [or Weekly—it doesn’t say] Republic; reprinted in the Newbern Daily Progress [New Bern, North Carolina] 28 Sept 1859; p. 2)

We have noticed, says the Buffalo “Republic,” many of the women who have attendid [sic] the philanthropic Convention, now in session in this city, dressed in the bifurcated raiment peculiar to men, and the stiff blouse of silk goods, peculiar to nobody but Bloomers. It is a singular fact that among them all there is not a pretty woman, nor did we ever see a pretty woman who would deprive herself of all curves of beauty, and grace of flowing robe, to dive into such inconveniences, and paraded their unbustled, uncorsetted and unearthly charms.

Whatever did they think they were seeing, when they looked at women arrayed in yards of skirt and acres of petticoat and mounds of bustle? “Curves of beauty”—did anyone really think women were actually shaped that way, without corsets or wads of cloth? At this end of the time period, it’s difficult to see any bloomin’ [sorrynotsorry] difference between miles of cloth in the shape of a dress and miles of cloth in the shape of something less likely to expose your nether naughtiness if the wind caught you just wrong.

And that “grace of flowing robe” could get pretty ungraceful when it got wet or had been draggled through the muddy (and—let’s face it—manure-y) streets or was accidentally stepped on by a stumbling adolescent.

And those Bloomer outfits could look pretty great:

two women in Bloomer dress

And, really, why wouldn’t a woman who felt she was actually able to walk not be pretty bloomin’ (again, sorrynotsorry) attractive? unless you wanted them hobbled …

I’v been researchng the Philanthropic Convention in Buffalo, New York, 1859, where Anna Denton Cridge (or “Craig,” as one paper has it) mentioned that she published a paper for children. “Philanthropic” meant that just about everybody outside the mainstream was there—including Frederick Douglass—and all subjects were discussed: education, women’s rights, abolition, religion, Spiritualism … So all sorts of … text is coming up. (There are some entertaining descriptions of the goings-on by reporters sitting in the audience, who were … ah … not especially sympathetic observers.)

The stuff from the anti-slavery papers is at least tolerable. But then there’s this, which seems sooooo close to starting to get the point:

“Pitching in to the Women” (from The Buffalo Daily Republic [Buffalo, New York] 20 Oct 1859; p. 1)

At the late Philanthropic Cconvention held in this city, we noticed the presence of a mother and daughter, who had taken to farming, the daughter having plowed and dragged in about eighteen acres of wheat. The Syracuse Courier, on this subject lets drive in this way:

We consider that a woman, who plows eighteen acres or who draggs in the grain is not worth having. Woman has another mission than tilling the earth, or bearing burthens of this character, else would a squaw, who does all the labor, while her husband sits in beastly inaction, be the “ne plus ultra” of desirable feminity. [sic] We have another idea, and that is that the man who owns an hundred acres and suffers his daughters to perform such labor is a brute!

Oh, my: racism, sexism, and “I’m-an-idiot” all in 86 words. That’s efficient!

Leaving aside the ridiculous stereotype of the lazy Native American man (who was only hunting and guarding the village at all hours of the night) living off the labor of his oppressed wife and the demonstration that women always have been competent, efficient, and able to work for themselves, one has to wonder why the Courier didn’t wonder just why those two women were farming their land. Could it—could it really be—could there actually not have been the “man who owns an hundred acres”? Really? Could that possibly happen? That even if there was a man who bought the land, that he died? Or could he be living, but disabled from working a hundred acres by himself? Because, you know, men never die or become incapacitated by work, and women never, ever had to manage on their own.

Why on earth does this never seem to have occurred to people? (Still happening, with some religious types, who seem to assume that women can just live off relatives or, perhaps, air, if they don’t marry or if they’re widowed; and, yes, I’m thinking of certain fundagelicals.)

And, even if the men of the family were working the fields, the women weren’t lolling around being some sort of cut-rate madonnas: they were processing food and materials for clothing, and hauling water, and trying to keep ahead of the ash and dirt of cooking and lighting with fire, and growing food for the household, and tending children—all hard, wearying work that never ended. Because, of course, housework ain’t really no kind of work at all, if you’re not the one doing it.

How the Courier—and, by extension, the Buffalo Daily Republic—thought these women were supposed to support themselves, I’m not sure. But the men publishing the papers got to perform righteousness by coating themselves in mainstream morality.

It’s an easy thing to do. But it never described reality.

The Chicago Fire of October 1871 destroyed much of the city, including the offices of The Little Corporal,but not—apparently—Chicago’s famous entrepeneurial nature.

The Fire’s devastation was legendary: 300 people dead and 100,000 homeless. It also cut a swathe through Chicago publishing. Though four of the five children’s periodicals then published in Chicago recovered, it was only with great effort. The Little Corporal lost everything, from printing material, presses, plates, manuscripts, and premiums to be sent to subscribers, to “all the back numbers on hand from the commencement of the Corporal down to the number for November, which was all ready and partly printed.” The Corporal did, however, issue a November “supplement” in the form of a sheet that folded to eight pages; its December issue was 48 pages, 16 pages more than usual. Mrs. Lou H. Kimball, the editor of the Lyceum Banner lost everything: the Banner’s offices, the unmailed issue, and her personal property; she was reported dead. She printed a supplement to the Banner to replace the burned issues, but it was lost by the express company. A “half sheet” was subsequently sent to subscribers. Her insurance company went bankrupt without paying her.

It’s impossible, though, to keep a Chicagoan down, and the Corporal pointed this out in their March 1872 issue, with an amused look at the small businesses resulting from the Fire, as boys sold partially destroyed bits of salvage. The “relics” mentioned are still treasured by collectors; the safe which the editor wryly offers for a memorial was the one in the Corporal’s office, which securely held all the valuables as they securely burned to safely locked-up ashes inside. It was, the editor had pointed out in the December issue, “new, and as reliable as any in the market”—and probably not as reliable as advertised.

“ ‘Relics of the Fire’ ” (from The Little Corporal, March 1872; pp. 109-110)

The fire that came near burning us all up, started a new trade; and as it ’s mostly in the hands of the boys, I ’d like to tell you in what droll yet sad things it deals.

The big stores, of course, were full of goods, from cellar to attic, and when—in that awful night—the brick walls fell in, everything was buried beneath them. In a few days, before the ruins were done burning, boys began to poke and dig among the piles of brick and stone, as they always do—and, by the way, can any of you Little Corporal boys tell me why they do?

This time they brought up various half-burned articles, which were readily bought by the bystanders, and before a week the new trade was in full blast. Now you can scarcely pass a corner in the business streets, without being saluted with the cry:

“Relics of the fire!” and funny things you ’ll see, spread out on the sands.

Hardware stores furnish whole kegs of nails welded together, yet retaining the shape of each nail; papers of tacks and screws melted in the same way, making curious paper weights; dozens of forks firmly soldered together; and wonderful stalactites of iron.

Stalactites—perhaps you know—are formed like icicles, while the metal is melted.

Crockery stores furnish cups and saucers, bronzed by fire; piles of plates melted together; fancy bottles with a sentimental droop of the head to one side, as if they ’d been faint; unbroken egg glasses with the tops bent over together as though they were about to collapse, but thought better of it.

Then the grain warehouses furnish exquisite bits of charcoal, made of wheat, every grain perfect and glossy, as though polished.

The toy shops—alas! how can I tell the tragedies there! Dolls with glass eyes melted out; wax dolls with
complexion melted off; long haired beauties, with not a hair to their heads; all black and horrid. Square blocks of beautiful glass marbles welded together, and bent as though made of wax; chunks of china dolls, of all sizes, joined for life in grotesque ways. But, saddest of all, china babies in bath tubs, who it seems are packed in pairs (one turned upside down on another, as you put a cover on a dish), fastened together in such a way that one of the unfortunate babies must always sit on its head!

It is proposed to build a monument in one of our parks, of the burnt out safes, among them, perhaps the one which held the Little Corporal’s books and papers, while they burned to ashes.

Earlier generations of women are quite impressive; the mere physical aspects of daily life were time-consuming and exhausting. For example, dealing with those ankle-length skirts and petticoats. All that fabric, picking up mud and snow and dust and rain … ugh.

19th-century Americans didn’t disagree. The Bloomer dress was one response. And here we have two descriptions of some of the problems with long skirts. “Ellery” was a subscriber to Woodworth’s Youth’s Cabinet; the letter was printed in the magazine’s popular letters column. “Aunt Sue” was Susannah Newbould, the magazine’s co-editor. (She contributed to a number of periodicals for children and for adults; she was an interesting woman with a lively writing style.) “Gail Hamilton” was Abigail Dodge, a writer sometimes sentimental and often amusing, whose works were very popular. (Wool-Gathering is my favorite.) Hamilton had few illusions about 19th-century America and fewer qualms about describing the large and small irritations of everyday life.

Really really glad we don’t have to deal with all that fabric on a daily basis.

(from Woodworth’s Youth’s Cabinet, January 1856; p. 38)

New York, Oct. 20th, 1855.

Dear Aunt Sue,—Do you wear very long skirts? If you do, and any one steps on them, and you want to annihilate the offender entirely, serve him as a lady served me the other day in Broadway. But let me tell you all about it. I must premise that I am fourteen years old, and very small,—an evil (if it be one) which I hope to outgrow. I was returning from school with my books under my arm, and a schoolfellow alongside of me. A lady with a long skirt had walked before us for some distance, when, in an unlucky moment, I set my foot upon her dress, and I’m afraid I heard some stitches giving way! In my dismay I dropped my books, took off my cap, and prepared to apologize. Did it ever occur to you what an amount of thinking can be done up in half a second? In about that space of time I thought, “Now I’ve done it! She will certainly kill me with her black looks. I’m very sorry; but confound such long skirts! everybody ought to step upon them,—it’s a duty we owe to society to abolish them, an inch at a time, if necessary. I wish I was in Guinea, or else that she were. I must make the best of it; here goes!” &c. Such were some of my thoughts; my feelings cannot be written. I fancied that I had braced my nerves to sustain almost any shock, even if she looked daggers! but I found I had not prepared myself for what did occur. She turned round, looked at me, and said, with the sweetest smile in the world, “It was my fault, dear; I ought to apologize!” Aunt Sue, can you fancy how I was “taken aback”? I wanted to say, “You are an angel;” but of course I did n’t say the first word. I wanted to step on her dress again, that I might hear her speak again. I wonder where she lives! What an embodied sunbeam she was!—a walking epitome of practical godliness! She did me good. I have been as amiable as possible ever since. When I find no buttons where buttons ought to be, I remonstrate with Maggie, instead of scolding like everything, as I used. I bumped my head against the window-shutter, and, instead of putting the shutter back with a slam, I replaced it just as gently as I could. In fact, she has done me almost too much good. The other day, when Carlo jumped up, and left the tracks of his muddy paws on my “Sunday-go-to-meetings,” I told him so calmly to get down, that he took it for an invitation to come up again, the which he accepted on the spot. Biddy wanted to know what had made me “so good na-thred.” I told her I had seen an angel. “Och! thin, Mas-thr Elly, it’s myself would like to see that same.” I only hope I may see her again. Will you publish this, Aunt Sue? If you do, she may see it, and the knowledge of my sentiments may atone for my carelessness. I make no apology for intruding upon your time, for I think the circumstances ought to be made known to every one.

Yours, truly,

So do I, “Mas-thr Elly.”

Aunt Sue.

(from The Jeffersonian Democrat [Chardon, Ohio] March 25, 1864; p. 4)

Gail Hamilton thus describes a woman on a rainy day: “See how she is forced to concentrate all the energies of mind and body on herself and her casings. One delicate hand clings desperately to the unwieldy umbrella; the other is ceaselessly struggling to keep a firm hold of the multitudinous draperies; and, if book, basket or bundle claims a share of her attention, her case is pitiable indeed. Down goes one fold upon the wet flagstone, detected only by an ominous flapping against the ancles [sic] when the garment has become saturated—a loosened hold of the umbrella, at which it takes advantage, and immediately sways imminent over the gutter—a convulsive and random clutch at the petticoats. The umbrella righted, a sudden gust of wind threatens to bear it away, and, one hand not being sufficient to detain it, the other involuntarily comes to the rescue—sweep go the draperies down on the pavement; then another clutch, another adjustment, forward! march! and so on, to the dreary, draggled end.”