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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.