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THE STANDARD AND EXPRESS.
A . IU.IRS4 H\LK )
W. A. IQARmhalK,| Rdtlorw ud Proprietors,
MOSS,
EDGAR FADCETT.
Btrantre tapestry, by Nature span
viewless looms, aloof from sun.
An^ Bprea ! 1 thron K (l lonely nooks and or ts
o mol r 0 r *J p au<l leafy rest-
O moss, of all your dwelling-spots
In which one are you loveliest ?
I it when near erim roots that coil
iheir snaky black through humid soil •>
°r when you wrap, in woodland glooms,
Or wL? P r n “ rotted red?
Ur ™ n s""i dim, on sombre tombs
rhe requiescals of the dead ? ’
Or is it when your lot is east
In some quaint garden of (he past.
°“ B , < ?® e * r V y > pr mWd basin's brim,
Wht e h von r i ChS AK ,t m,!(lpsre( l Tritons blow,
While jonder, through the poplars prim.
Looms up the turreted chateau ?
?fay, loveliest are you when time weaves
Your emerald films on low, dark eaves
Above where pink porch-roses peer, ’
bcp * k 1,1 fragrant, foam,
And children laugh, . . . and you can hear
The beatings of the heart of Home.
THE life OF THE HOUSE.
rru Ancient French Legend.
the duke of Provence knocked on his
daughter's door with the hilt of his
sword ; “ Arise, Maguelonn© ; it is
break of day and the Angelas will soon
sound; thy brothers wait for tbee below
the horses paw the pavement in the
court; it is time to depart.”
It was just after a bloody war, in or
der to cement a treaty of peace, that
Maguelonne was married, while a mere
child, to Prince Herbert, who was of
the same age. After that day they had
grown up, separated from one another •
hut the time had now come to conduot
Marmelonne to her husband.
Maguelonne made the sign of the
cross to commend her soul to the virgin
Hhe rose and put on her bridal robe’
with the long veil hanging to the floor*
Then, very pale, she went below. Her
brothers, looking at her admiringly
placed her in her saddle. ’
“Is the realm of Prince Herbert a
great distance from here ?” she asked.
“Oh. a long way off To get there
we must traverse plains and forests, and
aseend many a blue-topped mountain*”
Then Maofuelonne bowed her head in
sad cess. Nothing before had fiver sepa
rated her from the homo where she was
born. Tims mounted she could touch
the ivy which covered its walls; but
now her father and brothers said, “ Let
ns depart!” Just then the mother of
of Maguelonue cameont from the house
bathod in tears, and, with trembling
arms, pressed against her heart the lit
tle foot of her daughter, which rested
on the stirrup.
“Thou lea vest me,” she said, “ whom
I nourished with this breast! The
room where thou didst sleep (Oh, my
heart!) will remain empty, and I shall
seek m vain for thee in my deserted
home.”
“Alas!” answered Maguelonne, “is
it not you and my father who have given
me to Prince Herbert?” But it waa in
vain that tears glittered like drops of
dew in the eyes of the noble girl; the
cavalcade moved, and the foot of
Maguelonne dropped from the hands of
her mother.
The stir* npo jmgica, one spars
clanked, the pebbles struck Are under
the hoofs of the horses. Tli3 duke ef
Provence and his three sons were pow
erful horsemen covered with black
armor, the terror of the Saracens. In
the midst of this double hedge of iron
rode the fair Maguelonne on a white
horse.
They rode on and on ; they traversed
the plains ; they disappeared under the
green vault of the forest, then they
could be seen on the side of the steep
mountain.
Their thoughts were sad, and neither
a song nor a ballad did they utter to
divert themselves by the way.
Nevertheless days and nights had
gone by since their departure, when, at
the ford of a river, the old duke stopped
his horse entirely. “As truly as the
waters of this river will never flow past
here again, so true is it,” said he, “that
I will not go on one step further. Thy
brothers, O Maguelonne. will accompany
thee further, my road is now behind
me.”
“What will become of me if thou
dost abandon me ?” said Maguelonne in
tears.
“ T s it not right I shonld go to con
sole thy mother? Farewell, dear child;
years have accnmnlatcd over my head,
and perhaps I shall die without ever
seeing thee again.”
“The will of God be done! But you,
O mv brothers, promise me never to
abandon me.”
Her brothers bowed their head, in
silence. “ How long and tiresome the
journey is ! My brothers, we pass with
out cessation from forest to mountain
and from mountain to plain, but we do
not arrive at our destination. Are we
not lost in the country of dreams?”
"No, my sister ; but Prince Herbert
lives a long distance beyond those blue
mountains there. *
“ Still on, my brothers ; does it not
seem to you that as we advance the sky
darkens behiud us, the grass withers,
and the trees bow their weeping
branches to the earth.?”
“ Yes, Magueloune, sadness extends
behind thee because thou wilt never
pass this way again. At this hour our
father travels alone, his heart black with
sadnpss, and our mother wrings her
bauds in despair.”
“Do you think.” said Maguelonne,
“ that 1 have not my portion of grief ?
But what do I see ? Is it thy horse
which rises on his feet, or thou who pul
lest the bridle ?”
“Do not accuse my horse. This oak
a* my right merks the line that I ought
not to pass. My brothers will descend
With thee to the valley.”
“ What !” said Maguelonue, clasping
her hands, “ Hast thou not sworn not
to leave me ?”
“ Vain oath, my sister. Ought I not
to t o and console my father and moth
er ? Far* well, Magnelonne, much be
loved lam young, but one often sees
the young die before the old. Shall I
never see thee again ?”
“Depart then, my brother. No ; by
the Holy Virgin thou hast not loved
me!”
Of the two brothers who remained,
Amanry, the vouDgest, was highly ac
complished ; and Magnelonne loved him
intensely.
“Dear Amanry, the youngest, was
highly accomplished ; and Maguelonne
loved him intensely.
“Dear Amanry,” said she, “sing me
one of the ballards which please the
knights and ladies so muoh.”
“ Willingly, my sistsr, I will sing for
thee the ballad of Inesille du Beam.''
“Stop,” cried Maguelonne, “ that is
a very bad ballad vou have chosen for
me.”
But while she was talking in this way
the second of her brothers stopped
suddeslv. Maguelonne understood that
this one also was going to leave her,
and retrace his steps. She looked at
him with scorn and anger.
“ What is it, then, which frightens
thee, valiant knight ? Is it this grass
hopper w hich crosses the road ? Ah !
keep silent. What canst thou sav to
me? Go and be cursed, thou who dost
abandon the woman who is thy sister ”
Having thus spoken in a fit of passion,
for the blood of her race was as violent
a? the flames, she lowered her veil over
, 1 eyes so as not to see her brother
depart.
Very soon a traveler passed them on
the route:
“ Salutations to thee, Maguelonne.
Thy brother who has just left thee was
robbed and wounded by the bandits.”
Another passed by soon after and said
to her : “God protect thee, Mague
lonne ! thy brother has fallen in an am
buscade, and the Moors have carried
him off in captivity. ”
t third called to her from a distance :
“A pleasant journey to thee, Mague
lonne. Dost thou know that the duke
of Provence was drowned in crossing
the river?” 6
A fourth passed by and said : “ Pray
to God, beautiful woman. The house
where thou wast born has fallen in the
flames and they are seeking for the
body of thy mother in the ruins.”
Hearken, Maguelonne!” cried Am
aury. “By the holy rood ! my horse
shall feel the spurs.
“This is overwhelming,” said Mag
uelonne. “ Wait for me, my brother,
and let us torn our bridles at* the same
time.”
But there passed at this moment a
fifth traveler, who crossed on the op
posite side.
“ Hasten thy steps, Maguelonne;
Prince Herbert is dying of grief, for he
has been told his young wife has been
carried off on the journey, and that
t hey do not know what has become of
her.”
“Day of misery!” cried the poor
girl, “let us separate, my brother, and
let us pray to God to conduot me to the
man to whom I belong.”
They saw her then pale and tremb
ling press on alone with her horse.
But the sky became darker than night;
the tempest broke loose with violence ;
gloomy birds flew through the darkness,
skimming with their heavy wings
the soft cheeks of the young bride.
Her horse, overcome by terror, rose on
his feet. Magnelonne let herself slide
to the ground, and continued the jour
ney on foot; the thickets caught her
dress in their thorny arms, the stones
tore her shoeß of velvet in shreds and
made her delicate feet bleed.
At this moment her hermit met her.
“ Ah ! father,” said Maguelonne, “take
pity on my misfortunes. Of my three
brothers, the eldest is wounded, the
second is a captive, the third has gone
to help the other two. The duke of
Provence, my father, has perished in
the great river, and my mother has
been buried under the ruins of our
bouse; and Prince Herbert is perhaps
dying at this moment, and has not God
said: ‘ A woman shall leave father and
mother, go with her husband and leave
all to follow him ? ’ Tell me, man of
God, if I have acted well ?”
“ Thou art a noble and courageous
woman. Magnelonne,
rnen, now miraculous i me ueaveus
cleared away, the tempest subsided in
the distance, and while the rain poured
in drops from the leaves of the trees
the birds began to sing.
“Tell me, holy father, wbat does
this signify?” Behold, the sun shines
again, the trees are quiet, and the birds
sing.”
“This signifies that we approach the
domain of Prince Herbert, for joy goes
before the woman whose husband waits
for her.”
“ But see, everywhere my feet rest
the earth is covered with verdure and
flowers.”
“This is because thy feet will never
more be wounded with stones and
briers, my daughter.”
“ Tell me again, is it not a dream ?
It seems to me that high and rugged
mountain decreases and lowers itself to
the level of the plain ? ”
“Is it because the dwelling of thy
husband, the prince, will soon appear.”
And so it was; the palace of the
prince could now be seen ; but the front
looked somber, and the windows seemed
as though they had not been opened for
a long while.
“ How gloomy the house looks!
They will say, alas ! that no one is
living to inherit it.”
“ Life will only enter there when
thon dost, Maguelonne, for it is a noble
and beautiful woman who is the life of
the house.”
At these words the hermit disap
peared, and Maguelonne having taken
a few steps further, touched the door of
the palace with the tip of her foot, the
door opened, and in a moment the
whole house seemed illuminated ; the
meat delicious music sounded through
the vast galleries, and Prince Herbert,
magnificentlv arrayed, hurried followed
by his retainers, to present his hand to
Magnelonne.
“ Thou art most welcome here,” said
he, “thou who art the life of the
house /”
Then Maguelonne smiled and colored
in recognizing in her handsome husband
the hermit who came to her in the
forest. But that which was the greatest
surprise of all was to find in the large
hall the old duke, her mother and her
brothers, who waited for her in festive
costnme.
“Be blessed, dear child,” said the
duke, “thou who hast preferred thy
husband to all others ; thou shalt be a
noble lady and shalt command many
servants. ‘ For God is my witness, if
thou hadst failed in this trial the doors'
of a convent would have shut thee in
forever.”
Having thus spoken he embraced
Maguelonne, and there were brilliant
festivities held on this occasion which
were heard of throughout all Christen
dom.
Hints on Diet. — The stomach should
never be overloaded. Bread is the staff
of life and is very nutritious as well as
as digestible. The best bread is made
of unbolted wheat (Graham flour.) It
should form a part of every meal.
Bread and milk is the best diet for
children, and is good for adults. Too
mnch salt irritates the stomach.
Colds are frequently produced by drink
ing hot tea and exposure afterwards.
Lite suppers induce heart disease.
Pastry, cake, and fine flour bread con
stipate the bowels. Boiled potatoes are
not so healthy as baked ones. Fruits
are to be eaten at breakfast and dinner.
The stomach must rest to be healthy ;
purgative medicines weaken the bowels.
Cheerful conversation promotes diges
tion ; and fatigue, sorrow, and anger
p -event it.
A New Jersey man has invented an
easy method of killing the potato bug.
He shuts the bug up in a room forty
eight hours and allows it to eat nothing
but salt. Then when he lets the insect
ont it makes a straight shoot for the
nearest creek to get a drink, and the
chances are ten to ono, if there is no
creek nearer than ten miles, that some
wagon will run over the bug and smash
it before it gets back to the potato-patch.
1881 -HUMS.
[ The following prophecy was first announced
in 184 1 by a Mother Shipton. It will he good
news to people having long mortgages to run
etc. -1
Carriages without horses shall go.
And accidents fill the world with woe !
Around the world man’s thoughts shall fly
In the twinkling of an eye.
Waters shall yet more wonders do-
How strange ! but ehall yet be true
The world upside down shall be
And gold be found at the root of a tree.
Through hills man shall ride,
And no horse or ass be at his side
under water men shall walk
Shall ride, shall sleep, shall talk
In the air men shall be seen,
In white, in black, in greeD,
Iron on the river shall float
As easily as a wooden boat.
Gold shall be found and shown
In lands not now known,
England shall at last admit a Jew,
And fire and water shall wonders do.
The world to an end shall come
In eighteen hundred and eighty-one.
TENNYSON’S “ QUEEN MARY.”
English Views ol the Latest Effort ot
the Poet Laureate.
The London Times of Jane 19fch, hai
ihe following review of Mr. Tennyson’s
Queen Mary: The appearance of Mr.
Tennyson in the field of drama is an
event of interest, it sayi, both for Eng
lish poetry and the Euglish stage. To
say that the experiment was regarded
with some anxiety by those who most
appreciate the subtlety of his artistic
power is only to say that a fine poem in
the dramatic form is not necessarily a
fine drama; but, uuless we are deceived,
it. will be generally allowed that Queen
Mary is not only a fine poem, but a fine
drama, and that though each of the
several powers which go to make it so
has already been proved by the author,
the masterly harmony in which they
work together here entitles Queen Mary
to be considered something mere than
merely a success in anew kind. The
dramatic glow .and impetus which are
proper to a poem of action may be imi
tated, but cannot be replaced by epic
splendor or lyrical passion, in our
own days we have seen these, or feebler
substitutes, essaying to do duty for it;
but it is long since the genuine inspira
tion, at least of tragedy, has been
among us. The ingenuity of the apolo
gies which have been suggested for the
fact is characteristic of the ag which
required them, but the fact is generally
allowed. If we welcome Mr. Tenny-
son’s drama for one reason more than
another, it is for this—because here we
seem to recognize the presence of that
rare and precious virtue which has so
ion z seemed dead even in those works
of English poetry which are most dis
tinctly products of genius—dramatic
fire; and if we had to say when last this
great quality found a comparably vivid
embodiment in the treatment of an
English bist'irioal subject, we should
not know where to stay our search until
it had carried ns back to the year when
the series of Sbakspeare’s English his
tories was completed and crowned with
Henry V. Thp ,sQjjpn
accession, in 1553, to her death, in 1558.
Asa study of the time, at once truth
ful in its broad aspects and accurate in
detail, we believe that it would bear the
scrutiny of Mr. Froude and Mr. Sped
ding. Asa vivid picture of the whole
reign—of the feeling in England toward
the Spanish marriage, of “Mary’s”
effort to cancel not merely the Protes
tant reformation, but the more mod
erate reforms of the new learning, of
the temper in which the new parlia
ment and the nation, after the submis
sion to the papacy, refused to accept
the purely Catholic policy of Spain,
and, lastly, of that profound tragedy
which centers in the blasted hopes and
blighted love of the queen—the drama,
merely as a matter of English history,
can be appreciated by all. Some ex
tracts follow, and then the reviewer con
tin les : The paramount merit of the
poem as a work of art conists in the
skill with which the dramatist has held
the balance between the horror excited
by “Mary,” the persecutor, and the com
passion felt for “Mary,” the sufferer.
“ Howard ” tells “ Paget ” how he has
seen heretics of the poorer sort, in daily
expectation of the rack, lying chained
in stifling dungeons over steaming sew
ers, fed with bread that orawled upon
the tongue, drinking water of which
every drop was a worm, until they died
of rotted limbs. Among those voices of
the night which pass the palace in
which “ Mary ” is dying, there is one of
a citizen who had seen a woman burned
in Guernsey.
“* * * and in her agony
The mother came upon her—a child was
bom—
And, sir, they hurled ii back into the fire,
That, being but baptized in fire, the babe
Might be in fire forever.”
The impression made by the entire
drama deepens that red brand which
rests on the memory of “Mary’s,” reign.
Yet, while the awful cruelties of a more
than Spanish bigotry are thus made to
live before the imagination, we are at
the same time irresistiblydrawn to sym
pathize with whatever is womanly,
whatever is heroic, whatever is of tragio
intensity in the miserable story of “ Ma
ry’s” personal life. When, some months
after her marriage, “Mary” for a mo
ment anticipates the realization of a
y reat hope, her joy finds utterance in
wbat is, perhaps, the grandest, as it is
certainly the most pathetic passage of
the whole poem :
“Ho hath awaked! he hath awaked!
He stirs within the darkness! ,
Oh! Philip, husband ! now thine love to mine
Will cling more close, and those bleak man
ners thaw,
That make me ashamed and tongue-tied in
my love
The second Prince of Peace —
The great unborn defender of Faith,
Who will avenge me of mine enemies—
He comes, and my star rises.
The stormy Wyatts and N>>rthumberlands,
The proud ambitions of Elizabeth,
And all her fiercest partisans—are pale
Before my star!
The light of this new learning wanes and
dies ;
The ghosts of Luther and Zumglius fade
Into the deathless hell, which is their doom,
Before mv star!
His sceptre shall go forth from Ind to lud!
His sword shall hew the heretic peoples
down?
His faith shall clothe the world that will be
his,
Like universal air and sunshine! Open,
Ye everlasting gates! The King is here !
My star, my son!”
And when the end is near, and
“ Mary,” on her death-bed, has passed
into delirium, the anguish brought by
the failure of that hope is interpreted
in a scene of wonderful power, from
which we quote only a few lines:
Mary— This Philip shall not
Stare in upon me in my haggardness:
Old, miserable, diseased,
Incapable of children. Come thou
down. [Cuts out the picture
and throws it down].
Lie there. [Waits]. O God, I have
killed my Philip.
Alice — No,
Madame, you have but cut the canvas
out,
We can replace it.
Mary — All is well then ; rest—
I will to rest; he said I must have
rest.
The narrative passages of the drama
CARTERSYILLE, GEORGIA, THURSDAY, JULY 29, 1875.
—especially the descriptions of “Lady
Jane Grey’s” death, acdof “Cranmer’s”
death—are worthy of Mr. Tennyson;
and, for descriptive passages, there
could not well b 9 higher praise. The
two or three songs, again, are, as might
have been expected, perfect in their
way. The prose passages—dialogues be
tween citizen, etc., —are in one sense
the most difficult for a nineteenth cen
tury dramatist treating & sixteenth cen
tury subject, since it i.a precisely in
homely talk that the artist runs most
risk of seeming an antiquarian. It is
Mr. Tennyson’s humor which has en
abled him to succeed sc well heie. The
conversation between the two “garni
lons country wives,” in Act IV, scene
3, could hardly have been written save
by the author of the Northern Farmer.
But space forbids tis to dwell longer on
details. We can but end as we began—
by saying that we do not know where
to look in past-Sbakspearean English
poetry for a poem in which the true fire
of drama so bums as in Mr. Tennyson’s
Queen Mary .
AN IRINH FABLE.
The Fortunes ot rhe Bad and the Uooil
Sons.
“An’ it was once long ago, in the
ould oountry,” said Mrs. Biddy, “ there
was livin’ a fine, clane, honest, poor
widdy woman, an’ she havin’ two sons,
and she fetched the both of them up
fine and careful, but one of them turned
out bad intirely. An’ one day she says
to him, says she:
“ I’ve given you yonr liven’ as long
as iver I can, and its you must go oat
into the wide worruld to sake your for
tune. ”
“ ‘Mother, I will,’ says he.
“An’ will ye take a big cake wid me
curse, or a little cake an’ me blessing ?”
says she.
“ ‘The big cake, shure,’ says he.
“So she baked a big cake and cursed
him, and he wint away laughin’. By
an by he came forninst a spring in the
woods, and sat down to ate his dinner
off his cake, and a small, little bird sat
on the edge of the spring.
“ ‘ Give me a bit of that cake for me
little ones in the nest,’says she; and
he caught up a stone to throw at her.
“ ‘l’ve scarce enough for meself,’ says
he ; and she bein a fairy, put her bake
in the spring and turned it blaok as ink,
and went away up in tha trees. And
while he looked for her to kill her, a fox
wint away wid bis cake.
“So he wint away from that place
very mad, an’ nixt day he stopped, very
hungry, at a farmer’s house, and hired
ont to tind the cows.
“‘Be wise,’ says the farmer’s wife,
‘for the next field is belonging to a
giant, and if the cows gets in his clover
he will kill you dead as a sthone.’
“ But the bad son laughed and wint
away ont to watch the cows; and before
noontime he wint to slape up in a tree,
and the cows all wint in the clover, an’
out comes the giant and shook him
down out of the tree an’ killed him
dead, and that was the ind of the bad
“And by the next year ttie poor wiuuj
woman, she says to the good son :
“‘You must go out into this wide
worruld and sake your fortune, f@r I
can kape you no longer,’ says she.
“ ‘ Mother, 1 will,’ says he.
“ ‘An’ will you take a big cake wid’
me curse, or a little cake wid me bless
ing?’
“ ‘ The little cake,’ says he.
“So she baked it for him and gave
him her blessiu’ and he wont away, and
she a weepin’ afther him foine and
loud. An’ by an’ by he came to the
same spring in the woods where the
bad son was before him, and the small
little bird sat again on the side of it.
“ * Give me a bit of your cakeen for
me little ones in the nest,’ Bays she.
“ ‘I will,’ says he, an’ he broke off a
foine piece, and she dipped her bake in
the spring an’ toorned it into sweet
wine ; an’ when he bit his oake, shure
an’ she had toorned it into a fine plum
cake entirely, an’ he ate an’ drank an’
wint on light-hearted. An’ nixt he
come to the farmer’s house.
“Will ye tind cows for me?” says
the farmer.
“ * I will,’ says the good man.
“ ‘ Be wise,’ says the farmer’s wife,
‘ for the clover field beyant is belongin’
to the giant, an’ if you leave in the
cows he will kill yon dead.”
“‘Never fear!’ says the good son;
‘I don’t slape at my wurruck.’
“ And he goes out into the field and
lngs a big stone up in the tree, and
thin sinds ivery cow far cut in the
clover fields, and goes back ag’in to the
tree. And out comes the giant a-roar it/
so that you could hear the roars of him
a mile away; and when he finds the
c w boy, he goes under the tree to
shake him the good little
son slips out the lug stone, and it fell
down and broke the giant’s head in
tirely. So the good son wint away to
the giant’s house, and it bein’ full to
the eaves of gold and silver and splen
did things !
“ See what fine luck comes to folks
that is good and honest! An’ he wint
home and fetch his old mother, an’
they lived rich and continted, and died
very old and rispicted.”
Love’s Young Dream Dissipated.—
There is a family at Sandy Hill, N. Y.,
which has a very practical way of view
ing events in life and dealing with tud
den emergencies. Tbe fourteen-year
old daughter of this family, who has
been addicted to dime novels and other
sentimental gush, eloped with a school
boy, got married to him, and then re
turned with him to be forgiven, after the
manner of the lovers in the dime novels.
The parents, however, were not like the
parents in the dime novels, for the
mother soundly spanked the girl, and
the boy op bis way ont of the house
was kicked eighteen times by tbe father.
As neither of them had ever read any
thing of this sort in novels, the denoue
ment was a genuine surprise to them.
The welcome of the fond parents, how
ever, is said to have worked like a
charm, and both of the lovers are cured
of their folly. Love may langh at a
locksmith, but when it comes to spank
ing and No. 12 boots, love can raise at
best only a very sickly smile.
Those Indian Exiles —The trans
portation of the Indian murderers of
the Germaine family is no doubt
fresh in the mines of our readers.
The citizens of St. Angustine, in
Florida, the most venerable of Ameri
can cities, will, no doubt, be delighted
to learn that they are shortly to be
favored with the company of some three
bmidred squaws and pappooses, to be
sent at the expense of the government to
Florida to soothe the pangs of exile
and imprisonment which now wring the
manly breasts of fifty or sixty
Kiowa and Comanche warriors. Your
ordinary white assassin once caught in
the clutches of the law, is deprived
throughout all his term of punishment
of the amenities of family and sooial
life.
ENGLAND’S TRIBUTE.
The Slßtnre of Stonewall Jackson In
ike Galleriea of the Royal Academy.
The Royal Academy, in its collection
this year, presents an exhibition of
painting and statuary perhaps never
before equaled, either in the number or
excellence of its works of art. Nothing,
however, among the marvelous crea
tions of brnsh, pencil, or chisel is so
worthy of the admiration of the cos
mopolitan American as Foley’s statue
of Stonewall Jackson, soon to be sent as
a gift to the state of Virginia. Although
it stands among galleries crowded with
meritorious productions on canvas or in
marble, the mind regards all other sub
jects with cold cariosity or vague ad
miration, for the attention is riveted by
this meed of honor to the hero of so
many battles, which at the same time
embodies the highest art of the sculptor.
The feeling may exist in the breasts of
onr countrymen, which in one section
would detract from the valor and worth
of the rebel chieftain, and in another,
through overwrought zeal, rank him
above Alexander, Hannibal, Caesar and
Napoleon, yet time, which makes all
things even, while assigning him a
proper niche in history, will not dim
the purity of his character or the glory
of his military prowess.
When news of the death of Stonewall
Jackson reached England a movement
arose among persons who took an inter
est in the struggle to show the English
sympathy for the hero by a statue. A
small committee was formed, of which
Mr. J. H. Beresford Hope, M. P., was
treasurer, and Mr. Gregory, M. P., now
the Right Honorable W. H. Gregory,
governor of Ceylon, secretary. Among
the members of the committee were the
late Marquis of Lothian, Lord Arthur
Hill Trevor, Mr. Street, the architect,
and other well known personages. Sub
scriptions were raised sufficient for a
standing statue, and the work was in
trusted to the distinguished sculptor,
John R. Foley, R. A. 11l health on Mr.
Foley’s part, and a desire to make the
likeness as perfect as possible, protract-
ed the work. When it was first started
the projectors had the advantage of the
advice of the late James M. Mason,
who procured from Virginia the best
photograph he could get. When Gen.
Bradley Johnson was in England two
years ago, and the work was near com
pletion, he provided another photo
graph, which caused further delay and
improved the likeness. About the time
of Mr. Foley’s death, last fall, the work
was com leted for casting, and, being
otherwise perfect, it has been no doubt
carried out with as much finish as if
the lamented sculptor had lived to su
perintend it. The works of a deceased
artist are allowed to be exhibited in the
Royal academy for a year after bis
death, and when the academy closes,
about the Ist of August, the statue will
be sent to Virginia. Mr. Beresford
Hope having made the tender of this
magnificent gift to the state through
Gov. Kemper, the Legislature voted
poiuatxutt, fleAgjjYgthe expense of trans
o S aa jle oeremonieg
of Virginia granite, and a
position has been selected in the capitol
grounds at Richmond, w here the cere
monies will, it is expected, take place
during the state fair, in October next.
The statue, which is in bronze, bears
a striking resemblance to the original.
The tall, muscular figure, high cheek
bones, broad forehead and firm lips
faithfully portray the man, austere and
religious, yet gentle and trustful—the
stern fatalist who yet in the hour of
trial implored the guidance of Provi
dence, with passion subservient to rea
son, impulse controlled by discipline,
the slave’s master, yet the slave’s teacher
and spiritual guide, the str ct Sabba
tarian yet the broad philanthropist,
reticent in speech, yet open and eloquent
in manner. Worthy is it alike of the
master and the hero.— Philadelphia
Press.
rrison Life in France.
The lowest order of mankind are
probably those degraded scoundrels
who betray their comrades even in jails,
and are called “ sheep,” or “moutons”
in French. As soon as their rascality is
suspected, it becomes necessary to sepa
rate them from the other prisoners ; and
I saw a whole room full of them thus
kept apart. A little hump-backed man
had lately asked to be employed as a
“ sheep ” or spy in this infamous ser
vice ; he wished to get a few halfpence.
Ey means of the “moutons” plans of
escape are sometimes revealed before
they can be carried into execution, and
light is often thrown upon mysterions
robberies which have baffled the inves
tigation of the police. The hidiug
places of stolen money, too, have been
found ont in this way.
The diet of the prisoners at La Ro
qnette is wholesome and abundant. It
consists chiefly of harricot beans, bread
and soup. They have meat on Thurs
days and Sundays. The prisoners are
in good care, and there is seldom any
illness among them. La Roquette is
not a cellular prison, and therefore its
inmates are allowed to associate freely
together. They rise at five in summer
and six in winter. They have two hours
for recreation, and spend them chiefly
in talking and lounging about. Cards
are forbidden, but games of hazard are
played in secret. Ordinary offenses
against the prison rules are punished
by confinement in a cell on bread and
water diet. But if a prisoner becomes
violent and dangerous, a straight waist
coat is put upon him. I entered one of
the cells in which prisoners are confined,
and I sav a culprit come out of another
of them. He did not seem much the
worse for his confinement, and began
protesting with a vehemence and volu
bility which nearly got him sent back
again. The punishment cells at La
Roquette are not deprived of light or
air. They are famished with a wooden
bench, so that a man majr sit and think
there, or walk about and take exercise.
I inquired whether the more hardened
sort of criminals really oared mnch for
the cells or the straight waistcoat; and
one of the wardens explained that the
straight waistcoat is much dreaded by
experienced prisoners There are three
methods of using it—it is merely buckled
round a culprit to keep him quiet, and
he is then simply helpless. But if he
continues to be noisy and abusive, his
hands are placed in front of him, and
this position after a while beoomes irk
some. In extreme oases his hands are
placed behind his back, and the utmost
fortitude cannot long support that pun
ishment. There are no other modes of
chastising refractory prisoners in use at
La Roquette. The condemned cells of
this prison, which are only tenanted by
criminals sentenced to death, are three
lofty, well-lighted rooms, cool and airy
in summer, and warmed by an ample
stove in the winter time. They are fur
nished with iron bedsteads, on which
are placed two soft woolen mattresses,
one above the other, and a bolster with
sufficient coverings. There are chairs
and tables, with other conveniences, and
the apartments have a singularly oheer
fnl aspect. Bacquet, who murdered M.
Rocher, a commission merchant, was
the latest occupant of one of these cells.
He was the man who had terminated
his previous sentence only twenty-four
hours before his re arrest, and he was
such an admirable prisoner that the
director of La Roquette was called as a
witness in his favor at the trial. Pris
oners under sentence of death are not
subjected to any particular restraints ;
they are merely watched by two warders,
and each of the condemned cells is fur
nished with an alarm bell. There is a
good library in the prison.
Most of the French criminals who are
executed die bravely ; some die joking.
Troppmann, the wholesale mnrderer,
was an exception to this rule. He was
awfully frightened at the near prospect
of his doom. The dressing room, or
chambre de toilette where the director
of La Roquette delivers over his pris
oner to the executioner, is a narrow
apartment like a bit cut off a passage.
It is whitewashed as to the upper part
of its walls, and painted brown near
the floor ; three doors, all narrow, and
capable of being solidly bolted, lead
out of it. Its furniture is an alma
nac, six registers, used to keep account
of the relicts and personal effects of
the prisoner about to suffer, two wooden
benches, one chair. The floor is un
carpeted and uncovered ; it seemed to
mo as though blurred and stained with
tears of blood. French executions are
still conducted in public, but a hedge
of mounted policemen prevents the
crowd from witnessing the last agonies
of the dying. Moreover, the guilotine is
not now raised upon a scaffold as it was
formerly. A man going to have his
head cut off may dress as he pleases ;
and some indulgences are shown to him
if he has any appetite for them, as he
common’y has on the day preceeding
his execution, for attempts seem to be
made with questionable mercy to keep
his spirits up to the last. When the
order for his execution arrives he is dis
posed of with marvelous celerity. At
6:30 a. m. the governor enters his cell
to warn him he is about to die; at 6:50
he has ceased to exist. The whole
business of preparing him for eternity
is concluded in just twenty minutes.
The terrible ceremony of the toilet
used to consist in cutting off the con
demned man’s hair; now the hair of
culprits sentenced to death is always
kept closely out beforehand, and his
brief agony is not prolonged by any
preliminary formalities. The execu
tioner merely tears off his shirt-collar
by an adroit movement of the hand,
and then the criminal’s neck is ready
for the knife. M. Rich, the execu
tioner, is un homme tres froid, deeply
pitted with the small pox, and he does
his duty in a cool, collected, very im
pressive manner. It is necessary to
send him away privately in a closed
carriage immediately after each execu
tion or the mob might molest him.
Victor Hugo and other great French
writers havei pleaded against capital
punishment with suoh passionate
ment employed and paid to shed it is
very loathsome to the populace.—Lon
don News.
The “ Hammam ”
The Overland Monthly for July has a
very interesting description of the Turk
ish bath recently erected in Sau Fran
cisoo by Dr. Loryea, called the “ Ham
mam,” supposed to be the most perfect
now in existence. The olimate of Cali
fornia was found to be admirably suited
to demonstrate the manifold benefits
conferred by the hot-air bath, and with
commendable spirit and liberality John
P. Jones, United States senator from
Nevada, came promptly to the assistance
of Doctors Loryea and Trask. The
Hammam is located in Dupont street,
in the heart of the city. Ascending the
steps the visitor is at once delighted by
a beautiful bronze fountain. Over the
entrance door is a finely executed in
scription in Arabic : “ Bishmillah, Alla
il Alla.” To the right of the entrance
stands an apartment well supplied with
refreshments and appropriate stimu
lants. At the office, upon the opposite
side of the hall, the bather deposits hi;'
valuables and receives his check. He
then enters the “ mustaby,” or cool
room, in the centre of which stands a
marble bath, and here a silver fountain
play3. On either side are lounging and
smoking-rooms, each splendidly fitted
up and separated by carved and painted
trellis-work. The ceilings and walls
are magnificently frescoed. The light
enters through two large circular sky
lights of colored glass in perfect har
mony with the colors of the frescoed
walls. On the doors are Arabic inscrip
tions. Plate glass mirrors reflect the
various images ; and the visitor is filled
with a sense of dreamy and yet soothing
languor. The muataby is the opody
teiium, conclave, or spoliatorum of the
Romans Succeeding the mustaby is
the tepidyrium, corresponding to the
“ sea” of the Jews and the piscinium of
the Romans. It is the warm room,
wherein a heat of 120 to 130 Fahrenheit
is constantly maintained. The next in
order of apartments is the calidarium or
sudatorium, corresponding to the stone
baihs of the Russians, Icelanders, and
American Indians. The heat of this
room is maintained at 160 to 180. The
whole room is composed of marble, with
a large marble table in the centre, sur
rounded by marble seats. The em
ployes are all from Turkey, having been
educated to the business from the age
of eight years. Shampooers generally
work for eight hours in the baths. The
handsome arching of the ceiling of the
calidarium is lighted by superb chan
deliers of exquisite design, and radiates
the heat equally to all portions of the
room. Thick curtains separate this
room from smaller apartments, in which
the heat is higher than in the main
room. The second floor is devoted to
ladies and the third to medicated baths
of all descriptions. The ladies’ rooms
are sumptuously furnished; the room
dedicated to mercurial vapor baths is
composed entirely of transparent plite
glass so that the bather can be seen at
all times by the operator. Dr. Loryea,
having availed himself of the powerful
aid of chemistry, administers all the
most noted baths of the spas. One can
revel in the sea-water bath of the Med
iterranean, in the alkaline baths of
Vichy, in the serpent baths of Schlang
enbad. Electric and perfumed cos
metic baths are also among the treas
ures within the reach of beauty. Ali
the walls, floors, and ceilings of this
establishment are hollow, the doors and
oeilings being composed of iron and
stone arches. Prof. Tyndall’s theory of
ventilation is here in successful practice.
Shower-baths are entirely dispensed
with, but in their place are marble
basins, hewn from the solid rock, con
taining hot, warm, tepid, and cold
water, which is sprinkled from needle
jets over the bather, so as to avoid any
sudden shock to the system.
BEIUTY AND BRAINS.
Ora malic Succrg* tu the Lone Run Only
Perches Where It Is Deserved.
It is easy for persons who have failed
upon the stage to sulk at persons who
have succeeded, and, sarcastically, to
ascribe their success to various eanses
aside from merit and desert. All read
ers of current theatrical comment and
disonssion are familiar, for example, j
with the ironical assertion that no wo-
man can succeed on the stage unless
she has a pretty face and a flue ward
robe—the implication being that pnblic
taste and intelligence are low and nar
row, and that good looks and good
clothes are the surest, if not the only,
passport to its favor. Muoh nonsense i
is talked on this subject. The fact is,
as experience shows, that the public
forms a ratioual and correct judgment
as to most of the dramatic aspirants
who seek its favor, and that, upon the
whole, it pays no more attention to
comeliness and fine raiment than these,
in reason, deserve.
To a woman who attempts the stage,
beauty in person and taste in dress are
great advantages. They do not imply
the possession of dramatic talent or
general intelligence but, upon the other
hand, neither does ugliness indicate
genius. The vinegar-faced and nasal
voiced ladies who file out from time to
time as Julia, or Pauline, or Juliet, may
not be able to comprehend this ; but it
is a fact that mankind prefers beauty to
ugliness, and that talent has always a j
better chance of success when beauty
commends it to fpvor. No sane person,
of course, will contend that a pretty
face makes an actress; but every ob
server of human nature and the stage
must concede it to be a fact, aud a nat
ural one, that the woman who is an act
ress, and has a pretty face, has an easier
task in achieving public favor than her
homely professional sisters. Almost
every play that is acted contains a love
stoiy; and in the dramatic illustration
of a love story, youth and beauty are
imperatively essential. Romeo must
not be bow-legged or red-nosed, and
Juliet must not have a hump back or a
swivel eye. Elderly men and women
have been known to act Romeo and
Juliet, and to succeed in pleasing their
audiences; but they did this through
the skillful and effectual simulation of
youth, beauty and passion, and not by
decrepitude; they seemed to possess,
and therefore practically did possess,
the physical qualifications necessary to
create and sustain an illusion. Undue
estimation of these attributes would be
an error; but all sneers at them, as of
little or no value compared with brains,
are premature and silly. Among the
requisites that Sir Roger de Coverly
prescribed in bis chaplain were a good
aspect and a clear voice ; aud this was
a very sound judgment as to what is I
neoessary in a person who must be often
seen and heard.
Instances are on reoord of success
upon the stage achieved in despite of
personal defects. Betterton was a
thick-limb aDd pock-mark9d man, and
Macready had a bad fio r nrx —. but
pleasing voice, m<i a uarsh
when as Hamlet he beheld tka ghost,
bis countenance blanched to an awfnl
pallor—so intense was the magnetic
feeling which possessed him and which
he imparted to others ; and Macready’s
earnestness was so profound, his pas
sion so just, his carriage so noble, and
his taste and execution so true, that he
thrilled the spectator and satisfied him
and made his own grim looks forgot
ten. Miss Cushman upon our own
stage, has, in like manner, been tri
umphant over some disadvantages of
face and physique—for she is a woman
of wonderful magnetic force; aDd
besides, she was wise enough to leave
the Mrs. Hallers a id the Biancas and
adhere to Meg Merilles, Queen Kathe
rine, and Lady Macbeth. These and
others like them are exceptions, which
only prompt regret that persons so
highly endowed should hot also have
been blessed with physical perfection.
They would certainly have had an
easier time, and probably they would
hav" conquered a more extensive and
enthusiastic admiration
While, however, the public takes
kindly to beauty, there is no instance
in which mere beauty has won success
for a dramatic performer. It is usually
the passport to immediate notice, but
it proves an injury rather than a benefit
when it is found to cover emptiness and
incapacity. We might mention several
exceedingly handsome women who
have failed on the American stage be
cause their talents were found to be of
mediocre description. In the long run
success perches where it is deserved,
and in all the arte, sooner or later, the
true artists get tneir acceptance and
reward.
A FREAKE OF FORI CNF.
Charles J. Freake, to whose assem
blies half the aristocratic world delight
to crowd, and whose residence accom
modates somewhere about 1,000 guests,
was originally a pot bey, whose father
gained a livelihood by carrying on a
double trade in beer and building—both
on a limited scale. His youthful in
clinations led him to give a considerable
larger measure of attention to building
than to beer, and he quickly became a
small speculative builder, trading in his
own name. With him speculation pros
pered ; he purchased lands, built on
them, and sold the houses, From mod
est houses he went on to build man
sions, and what is known as Queen’s
Gate, where the most spacious and
costly dwellings in the metropolis are
located, sprang into being under the
persevering toil of this hero of an al
most romantic story.
He now employs thousands of men in
his various works, occasionally gives a
church (building it himself) to anew
parish, erects schools at his own ex
pense, is a millionaire, and occupies the
largest of the houses he has built,
namely, Cromwell house. He did not
design to occupy that house, however.
It was built for the duke of Rutland.
His grace resided there some time, and
might be residing there still, for he
liked Cromwell house exceedingly well;
but, when the adjoining mansion was
finished, Freake settled himself and his
family in it, and as a duke, with his
builder for a neighbor, was wholly con
trary to his grace’s ideas of propriety,
and certainly does seem an odd illustra
tion of the eternal fitness of things,
negotiations were hurriedly completed
for handing over the larger residence to
the tradesman, while the most noble
tenant removed to Bute house, on
Campden hill, becoming the next neigh
bor to his grace of Argyle. Other nobles
have been less punctilious, and at the
present time the lord chancellor and
the earl of Denbigh are the millionaire
builder’s very near neighbors, and
princes of the blood not unfrequently
deign to make morning calls, and even
occasionally appear at fashionable gath
erings there. —Jjondon Letter,
VOL. 16--NO. 31.
SAYINGS AND DOINGS.
Gbockks Cheating in England.—
In apt adulteration
Oar tradesmen now eanlt;
They’d kill the English nation.
Both infant and adult.
In trade what lots of •rickery!
In ale how little malt!
The coffee's full of chicory,
The beer is full of salt.
Nntrition for the nursery.
For babies plnmp and arch,
Tnms out upon a cursory
Inspection to be—starch!
Maizena and Oswego
Are starch without the bine;
Bnt. where the deuce will he go
Who dares such things to do ?
What though a man lias led a list
Of traders of renown ?
Even a Moscow medalUt
The analyst runs down.
And O how sad to utter
The statement Punch has seen.
That even best fresh batter
Is made from butterine!
The truthful grocer non est —
Alas ! his frauds are gross;
Neither is vintner honest
Nor brewer, inter nos.
If von would wear gray locks on
Brains that with age won’t'fail.
Grow your own sheep aad oxen,
And brew your own good ale.
— Punch..
Socialism is on the decline in Ger
many, the number of its adherents
having dwindled in a few years from
340.000 to about 25,000.
The Scotia, the last side-wheeler ot
the Cnnard Line, has been withdrawn,
as too expensive and too easily dis
ordered to be worth keepi ag.
The wife of “ Max Adeler” weighs
200 pounds; and the Brooklyn Argns
says when Max asks her, “Shall I help
you over the fence ?” she replies, de
murely, “ No ; help the feuoe.”
The “Black Death” scourge, which
has recently appeared in the rivers
Tigris and Euphrates, is the same which
destroyed millions of lives in Europe
and Asia during the fourteenth century.
Montaigne said : “ The thing I am
most afraid of is fear.” Ho never
thought of a woman watching the night
lat-ch of a front hall door at one o’clock
in the morning, with fire enough in her
eves to save the expense of gas-light.
When a mother cuts her son’s hair
with such nice precision and artistic
| neatness that the boy is ashamed to
take off his hat when he goes to bed, it
is about time our domestic institutions
were overhauled and remodeled.
Elder sister (condescendingly)—See,
Ethel, yon had better come and walk in
my shadow. It will be cooler for you !
Yourger sister (who resents patronage)
—Yon are very good, Maud ; but I have
a shadow of my own, thank you !
Smith spent two whole days and
nights in considering an answer to the
conundrum, Why is an egg underdone
like &n egg overdone ? He would suffer
no one to tell him, and at last hit upon
the solution—because both are “hardly”
done.
Ihe following occnrs in Moore’s
Reminiscences : Scott told of a Ger
man in some small theater, saying, at
dienee was in stall ana orcHimeso inru
“ I would like mucu w/ -j —
was dat spat in my eye.”
Feathers are shooting all over the
toilettes. The gossips say feather fane,
feather parasols, and feather hats are
all the go. Feather trimmings are now
arranged with so mnch lightness and
beauty that they are considered as suit
able for summer as well as ivinter wear.
They are mounted with fringe as well as
bands, though as bands they are used
for the trimming of bonnets and para
sols.
Afber died rich, covered with years
and with glory; Mozart at thirty-six,
poor and neglected. Anber will soon
jiossess a tombstone ; but Mozart wi 11
never have one for this reason: He
died in the morning of a gloomy win
ter’s day ; the same evening his body
was carried to a common vault, accom
panied by a few persons orly. In the fol
lowing night there was a terrible storm,
the cemetery was inundated, devastated.
And since then no one has been able to
discover the spot where he was interred.
Enthanasy.
Its practice in foi* tha
Mi|pref lon of the Custom.
During the incumbency of Sir Cecil
Beadon (the friend of India of the 22d
of May says) an attempt was made to
regulate the practice of taking sick peo
ple to the riverside to die ; but nothing
was done then, as the government of
India and the secretary of state did not
consider any interference in this matter
necessary, although the more advanced
section of the native community threw
their opinion into the scale with the
lieutenant governor. That some regu
lations are absolutely necessary will be
seen from these facts: “On the Thurs
day before last, at about five o’clock in
the afternoon, a procession was ob
served passing through a station not
far from Calcutta, accompanied by the
usual din and noise. At the head of
the procesion was a man about bix feet
high carried on a litter about four feet
long, in much the same way as the bed
of Procustes in the olden time was
made to accomodate its victims of any
statnre. At first the occupant of the
stretcher was taken for a. corpse, but
on a closer examination it was discov
ered to be a human being in the last
stages of prostration. The head was
dangling over one end of the stretcher,
and the face exposed to the full glare
of the sun, which the dying man at
tempted to keep off by shading it with
his right hand. Thiß was observed by
his son in the crowd who opened an
umbrella and held it over him. The
procession stopped at a gate opposite
the station public library, and the
stretcher with its burden was laid on
the ground. The sick man expressed a
wish for something to drink, and a cup
of milk was held to his lips; he then
had a smake and convei*sed freely in
the meanwhile with his friends who
had followed him. A miserable looking
and shabbily-attired native who was
addressed as the koberaj mohashal,
held the pulse of the sick man with a
gravity of circumstance worthy of a
disciple of Galen. To cut the matter
short, the sick man was. kept at the
gate till the Saturday following, and as
he still persisted in disappointing his
friends and relatives in their expecta
tion of seeing him depart this life, he
was removed to another gate higher up
the river, where he was kept for a time
immersed in water with the head and a
portion of the chest above it, till he
expired in this position. The deceased
was a man of the weaver caste and of
some prospects. He had removed to
this station some years back from
Doud, where a portion of his family
are still residing. Another ghastly
murder took place about two or three
weeks ago. In this case the victim
was a woman, the wife of a respect
able shop keeper.