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continue to mistake them for her own ;
and then coming down the following
morning, pale for want of sleep, but meek,
and cheerful, and uncomplaining ; and
how .often he bad longed to pour forth his
sympathy and admiration, but forebore lest
it should pain her generous nature ; think
ing within himself what bliss it would be
to call such a treasure his own, and that so
trood and affectionate a sister must needs
make a dutiful and loving wife.
He paused at length for a reply; but
none came. Poor Francesca! slmdistencd
to him like one bewildered in a pleasant
dream, it seemed too great a happiness
to be real ! But Malanotti was not dis
couraged by her silence ; and drawing her
gently towards him, she wept upon his
bosom.
That night was a memorable epoch in
the lives of both the sisters—the one so
proudly triumphant; the other so sweetly
happy • Guglieltno willingly gave his
consent to the match ; and was glad that
his Bird, as he called her. had found so
peaceful a nest; while the Flower remain
ed to cheer his solitary home.
Ursula afterward founded the Convent
of Ursulines, at Monealvo ; where, and at
Casale, she left several altar-pieces and
cabinet pictures, exquisitely finished.
Put of Francesca little more is heard.
Both realized their early dreams. The
one was worshiped—the other, beloved!
Fame speaks most of Orsala ; but the
memory of Francesca was shrined in the
hearts of her husband and children !
THE O’DONNELLS IN SPAIN.
[Tr&nKlated from the “ Oortonlaube.’ - ]
Tho O'Donnell family, as the prefix O’
leads one to expect, came originally from
Ireland. Three brothers of the name left
their native island to seek fortune in Spain.
Only one, however, met with success. The
eldest gained no distinction. The second
was the lately deceased Duke of Tetnan,
whose brilliant political and military career
is well known. The youngest brother, a
man of dauntless courage, had before him
perhaps as signal a career as that of his
eldest brother, had it not been cut short,
almost at the outset. It is of this last
brother that the following story is told.
At the time of the War of the Succes
sion in Spain, the young O’Donnell had
declared for the faction of the intant Isa
bella, and belonged to the party which
was called the “Christines.” In one of
tlie numerous skirmishes of the guerrilla
warfare, which was carried on between
the rival factions, lie was taken prisoner
by the famous “Carlisi” leader Zutnala
carreguy. O’Donnell regarded this, how
ever, almost as a piece of good luck, for
Zumalararregny was an old friend of his
youth, and whilom classmate in one of the
military schools. The two friends had lost
sight of each other for years, and now cele
brated a joyful reunion. Zumalacarreguy
took his friend into his own tent, enter
tained him with the most cordial hospitali
ty, and after they had related to each other
their mutual experiences, the Carlist Gene
ral said :
1 our captivity will not last long, my
dear triend; lam about to send off to-day
a flag of truce to the General of the Chris
tines, to negotiate an exchange of prison
ers, so that you may expect to-morrow to
be again at liberty.”
T iie officer was accordingly despatched
with the ilag of truce, and proceeded on
!r<s mission to thu headquarters of the
< -bri^tinos general. The latter, however,
a brutal and impolitic man, replied to the
proposal ot the envoy, I will show you
how I treat with rebels!” and forthwith
caused al! the Carlist prisoners in his hands
to be led out and shot down before the
eyes ot the officer, who, outraged by this
barbarity, returned immediately to his
chief.
On the following morning, Zumalacarre
guy entered his tent with evident embar
rassment depicted in his countenance, and
tovmd his prisoner at breakfast, comforta
bly regaling himself with his cup of choco
;.te. . Zumalacarreguv took jus seat oppo
site him in silence.
Have you slept badly, was your chocolate
mu ut, or whatever eise has happened to
>ou ? 5 oil look immensely disturbed about
something.”
t . Omni heavens, yes!" replied the Car-
| lS b * l ain , indeed, troubled enough, fori
ha\e bad news to tell j on. The General of
be Christines lias had a’l his prisoners
*hot before tlie very face of my flag of
* 1 w'e, and now I feel myself compelled to
make reprisals. In an hour’s time, there
fore, you will have to be shot along with
i-nc other p.isoriers, however much it will
pain me.”
ft Donnell received this announcement
calmly, and replied, •* Well, that is a inat
>u oi course, so you need have no further
MTupo.-s about it. You cannot do other
wise l would act in the same way myself.
U“.* gi\e Ine . il couple of cigarettes and
writing materials, so that I may write a
miter, which I will trust to vour taking
care of afterwards—”
As he was finishing his letter, the guard
came to lead out the prisoners. ()’] )o,uieh
ro-e to his feet, shook Zumalacarreguy by
tim hand, lit another cigarette, amt walked
off to be shot!
Miss Nellie Marshall, of Kentucky,
[laughter of (General Humphrey Marshall,
is writing a war novel.
A Dream of the South Wind.
BT PAri. H. HA.THE.
O how froslt and fair.
Through the crystal gulfs of air.
The fairy South Wind floated on tl.e f-rulvtl- wiiv*
balm :
And the green earth lapped in bliss,
To the magic of her kiss,
Seems yearning upward fondly through the golden
t reated calm!
From the distant tropica sir and.
Where the billows bright and bland
Go creeping, curling round the palms with sweet taint
duderime,
From its 2eld« of purpling flower*
still wot with fragrant showers,
The happy South Wind lingering sweeps, the roja!
blooms of Juno.
All Heavenly fancies rise
On the perfume of her sighs,
Which steep the Inmost spirit in a lftngour rase atu!
tine.
And a peace more puiv. than sleep’s
Unto dim half-unconscious deeps.
Transports me, lulled and drowning, on its twilight
tides divine.
Those dreams ;ah mo! the splendor.
So mystic clear and tender,
Wherewith like soft heat lightnings they gird their
meaning round,
And those waters calling, e,tiling.
With a nameless charm enthralling,
Ijlkc the ghost of music moiling on a rainbow spay of
sound!
Touch, touch me n t, nor wake mo,
Lent grosser thoughts o’ertake me!
For earth receding faintly v/ith he r dreary dins said
jars,
"What vlewlese arms caress me!
What whispered voices bless me
With welcome dropping dew-like from the weird and
wondrous stars!
Alas dim, dim, and dimmer
Grovrs the preternatural glimmer
Os that trance the. .South Wind brought me on her sub
tle wings of balm ;
For behold its npirit flietL,
As its fairy murmur dietk,
As the silence closing round uve in a dull and sound
less calm 1
[From London Society.]
THE ROMANCE OF MEDICINE.
THK LIFE OF THE DOCTOR AND THE DEATH
OF THE PATIENT.
Very much that is very remarkable be
longs to the diagnosis and prognosis of a
ease. The diagnosis is the making out of
what is exactly the matter with a patient;
the prognosis is the judgment, made with
more or less certainty, of the issue of the
disease. Some doctors attain a wonderful
skill in both respects. They can almost
complete both diagnosis and prognosis by
looking at a patient's face.
“It is a very difficult case/’ said a doctor
one day to a patient, “but I will tell you
one thing for your consolation, which is,
that you will get well ” This proved to
be the case but singularly enough, the
great man himself died suddenly before he
saw the patient again. Asa man, for the
first time, was entering a physician’s con
sulting room, the latter whispered to a
friend : “Case of great pain, I am sure—
muscle adhering to bone—chronic and
hopeless”—as it proved. The same man
was walking down the street, and at the
door of a hotel was a smiling landlord,
portly, fresh-colored, and apparently ro
bust. The friend made some casual re
mark to the effect that there was a typical
Briton, or something If that sort. “You
think so,” said the doctor; “that man is
safe to die wit(>mxi twelve month.” The
diagnosis, someflPrcs easy enough, is occa
sionally perplexing in the extreme. The
great majority of cases are patent enough
—an experienced physician will see it all
in five minutes ; but others are exceeding
ly obscure, and the medical man is never
quite able to clear up the obscurity
Sometimes there is some little circum
stance, unexpected and out of harmony
with other circumstances, which baffles all
the calculations. "In all respects the pa
tient is going on extremely well,”said the
doctor to an anxious member of a family;
“but I confess there is a little twitching
over the eye which I do not at all like.”
The case terminated fatally. It some
times happens that when a patient, by all
the rules of art, ought to be getting worse
or better. It is a question of the patient’s
previous history and constitution; a slight
attack in one case being more dangerous
even than a dangerous attack in another
1 remember being very much amused
with the case oi a young doctor and his
first patient. It was a child afflicted with
hydrocephalus. According to all the rules
the child ought to die. Nevertheless the
untoward infant persisted in not dying,
dhe doctor went from his books to the bed
side and from the bedside t > his books.
He confidently u severated to me ! hat the
infant ought to die, and manifested a not
al ogether friendly feeling towards the in
fant because it dij m»t die. His treatment
was altogether better than his prognosis;
at the time when my knowledge of tue
case terminated it was going on well.
It is very hazardous fir a doctor to give
a prognosis ; if he openly gives an unfa
vorable prognosis, and the case terminates
favorably, his reputation is well-nigu gono.
But you will not ofien find a medical mao
Os ffll ISIfST
doing this sort of thing. Asa rule, the
dactor always takes the most cheerful view
possible of the case, and even hopes against
hope. In the last illness of George IV
the physicians were always pronounuing
him better, and in the midst of the “better
ness" he died. Other doctors however,
there are, morbidly disposed, from whom
you may take every grain of comfort they
may give, and something more. It is
curious taat a doctor cannot always be
trusted with the diagnosis and prognosis of
his own case. The great Dr. Bailie is
said to have been a ease of this. lie is
said to have died of consumption, and yet
to have denied that he was consumptive.
He did not experience any difficulty in
breathing, and argued that while his
breathing was good, his lungs could not
be bad But no medical man now takes
this as decisive. Nature, in her bounty,
provides a larger space of lungs than is
necessary, and will long go on with a very
small amount of lung, and with very little
difficulty in breathing. Another note
worthy case of lung disease is a very differ
ent person, the notorious empii ic, St. John
Long. He professed to cure consump
tion, but, in reality, like other similar
quacks, he only cured cases of cough and
bronchitis, with symptoms imitative of
those in phthisis. lie unquestionably
caused death in several instances by a
treatment which would be perfectly harm
less in most cases, but which was fatal to
many dedicate women. lie was himself
struck down by consumption, and died at
the early age of thirty-seven. One of the
most prominent doctors in chest com
plaints. Dr, Hope, who, at an early age,
had reached almost the summit of his pro
fession, was prematurely cut off by con
sumption. There are few volumes more
affecting than the narrative of his life;
and it is impossible to resist the impres
sion that his fatal illness was, in a great
measure, duo to extreme and unmitigated
devotion to intellectual labor.
Medicine has often very startling sur
prises in store, which are frequently
gloomy enough, though sometimes of a
pleasant nature. We will, in the first
place, select some of the former. A cler
gyman in the neighborhood of Mount
Edgecombe was one day walking very
fast, when he was met by his doctor. He
explained, in conversation, that he was
suffering from pains of indigestion, and
was in the habit of taking long walks in
order to got rid of them. The medical
man insisted on examining him, and then
explained to him that he was in fact suf
fering from aneurism of the heart, and
that these long walks were the worst
thing possible for him ; and was obliged
to add that the disease would some day
prove suddenly fatal. The statement
was sadly verified. Iu the midst of a
sermon, at, a very emphatic passage, the
preacher fell down from his pulpit, and
life was found to be quite extinct, The
congregation broke up in the utmost
consternation and terror. A man was in
company with another, and from some
casual circumstance, he took off his stock
ings. His fri nd took the liberty of ob
serving that one of his feet was really
very black. It was discovered that, from
some cause, the fi/ot was mortified. In
former times it would have been thought
necessary to amputate it; but medical
art has contrivance whereby this is avoid
ed. Avery remarkable case is men
tioned by the pious Bishop Newton in the
valuable fragment of the “Autobiography”
which has come down to us. A young
nobleman in the country was dangerous
ly ill with a fever. Physicians were
summoned from different quarters, and
the Bishop relates that no less a sum
than seven hundred guineas were paid to
them as fees. All the means used were
unavailing, and the; patient sank rapidly.
When he was quite given over and left,
alone to die, lie was heard to murmur a
request for beer. A large g iblet, con
taining nearly u quart of small beer, was
handed to him. which he drained at a
draught, and then drank again. He re
covered. X t!link I recollect also a similar
case in one of the London hospitals. A
man was talking one day at a dinner
table with a physician, and he mentioned
a particular circumstance occurring in his
own instance “1 do not mind mention
ing 1 o a man like you,” said the doctor,
“that th it is a s g.i of the existence of a
cavity in the lung.” A man who had been
ailing for a long time was persuaded by
a friend to consult an eminent physician.
He acc rdingly went to the c insulting
room, and, after an examination, was s:g
nificantly asked by (be physician whether
lie had as yet made h s will. I am in
lormed that he only lived a fortnight
afterward.
The distinguished American artist,
Sully, panel for the Saint Ge rge’s
Society the finest portrait of Queen Vic
toria. It represents her as a young lady
of about nineteen, with the steps to the
taroue embdlished with roses, as au indi
cation of the bright hopes of youth.
MARIE ANTOINETTE.
When, in 1776, the dauphin (afterward
the unfortunate Louis XVI), who had
hardly passed his twentieth year, married
Marie Antoinette, Archduchess of Austria
and daughter of the great Maria Theresa,
then but sixteen, all France burst forth in
one loud acclamation of joy. The beauty,
the purity of the bride, and her angelic
goodness, were celebrated far and wide
throughout the empire. She was said to
have the smile ol a Hebe with the glance
of a June—a very goddess.
She had a shapely head, which was
crowned with abundant blonde tresses, her
eyes were blue, her lips Vermillion, and
her teeth of exquisite regularity and
whiteness, face lull ot expression, a glance
at once dignified and gentle, and a voice
replete with melody, united to an ardent
soul and a devoted heart; while the pride
of her race was tempered by the wish to
please and a certain happiness in appearing
beautiful. Even the dissolute old Kin 2
Louis XV. was inspired by her with
respect, and reverenced her the more that
she preferred the retirement of Trianon
to the corruption of his court. It was
only after she became a mother—first » fa
daughter, who was called Madame Roy ale,
and subsequently of a boy, the unfortunate
Louis XY 11.. that she actually asserted
herself ns queen and took part in State
affairs. But the extravagance of previous
reigns, and the utter want of judgment
and firmness on the part of her husband,
brought on the Revolution which cost her
life. It was then that her very fascinations,
her desire to please, her artlessness and
ignorance of the world, were used by the
malcontents as weapons against her ; it
was then that the people thought of her as
the “Austrian,” and not ns the wife of
1 heir present and the mother of their
future sovereigns.
When the Revolution first declared
itself, Marie Antoinette refused all offers
of protection for herself alike from her
brothers and others desirous of providing
for her safety ; her invariable reply was :
“1 will die at the feet of the king and sur
rounded by my children.” Alas 1 even
this poor consolation was denied her.
After the abdication and bitter humiliation
of the king, and when they were prisoners
in the Temple, she was contented and even
happy, so that she was with her husband,
in spite of the insults and brutality of
their jailors. The transfer of the king to
the Grand Tower was anew source of
grief but after a few weeks of agonyJ of
mind the queen received permission to
join Louis, with her children and his sister.
To suffer together was to rob pain of half
its anguish.
The massacre by the guillotine in Sep
tember, the murder of her devoted friend
and adherent, the princess Lainballe,
ought to have proved to the queen to
what lengths fanaticism and cruelty could
carry the people, yet she still had such
faith in the majesty of royalty that she did
not fear for the lives of her family. Even
when she learned that the Convention
were about to subject Louis to a trie), she
never dreamed of conviction and death.
How fearful must have been her sufferings
when the terrible truth burst suddenly
upon her 1
The parting with her husband on the
20th of January wan probably the severest
trial suffered by any woman—that parting
from which he went forth to the scaffold
separated from the tenderest and noblest
of wives and the most loving of children 1
During this last interview the courage of
Marie Antoinette gave way, and for the
first lime she ranlized ail the horror of
their position. But her sorrows were by
no mean at an end, for on the night of the
3d of July, 1793, six men entered her
prison, and awakening the sleeping Louis
XVII., seized him and bore him away
from his wretched mother by a decree of
the Convention.
This inhuman act was but the prelude to
other iniquities. On the night of the 2d
of August fallowing, the queen was
aroused by orders for her removal to the
prison of the Concergorie. Without a
word she listened to the reading of the
order, and did not murmur at being forced
to dress herself before her tyrants’ They
insisted on searching her pockets, which
she at once submitted to their scrutiny;
then making up a parcel of the scanty
clothing remaining to her, she embraced
her daughter and sister—it was a last
farewell.
She was confined in a narrow, damp
dungeon in the Concicrgeric, and she, the
queen of the most powerful monarchy in
the world, slept on a wretched bed, with
only a table and two chain-bottom chairs
for furniture, and with scarcely a change
of clothing.
On the 14th of October Marie Antoin
ette was arraigned for trial. She was
poorly and shabbily dressed, but she was
still every inch a queen. Her enemies
hud relied on the effect of misery and pri
vations upon her, but although these had
chauged her appearance sadly, they had
not subdued her nature, and she stood
before them unaltered in her dignity nnd
firmness.
The queen condescended to defend her
-Belf against many of the accusations, but
-orae charges were too infamous to admit
. ! . lc i t:ce * She asked once during the
t rial tor a glass of water : at first no one
o.aied to band it to her, but finally, on her
making the request a second time, it was
given to her by an officer, who lost his
position m consequence.
Marie Antoinette listened to her death
warrant at four in the morning on the lGth
of October, in tranquil silence, without a
word or even a movement.
At eleven she was delivered into the
hands of her executioner, who cut her hair
and bound her hands. The queen had
but two dresses, one white, the other
black. She wore the latter when she was
sentenced, and dressed in white for her
execution. Louis XVI. had been allowed
a carriage, but Marie Antoinette was
driven to her death in a cart. She was
taken through the most populous streets
for an hour and a half, and was constantly
subjected to insult and vituperation. When
she reached the foet of the scaffold, she
made a brief prayer, turned a last glance
oi farewell to her children in the Temple,
and ascended the steps of the guillotine ;
in doing so she inadvertently trod upon
the foot of her executioner, who uttered an
exclamation. “Forgive me,” she said
gundy, and almost as she spoke the head
oi the unfortunate queen was severed
from her body.
Gen. Lee and thf. Old Soldier. — One
of Gen. Lee’s tumily tells of a most touch
ing incident that occurred between the
General and an old soldier, soon after
the surrender. It is os follows :
An old man, tall, rough, and ragged,
but a true hearted Virginian, from the
mountains, called at the residence of the
General, and speaking low, emphatically
aim mysteriously low, said : “ Ginral, 1
have come down here to take you and
your wife and darter up to our place in
the mountains—the Yankees has cotchcd
President Davis, and they’d beartervou
sure—they hates you, Ginral. kase you
licked ern so. I haint got no niggers to
wait on you, but me and the obs woman
will do it and, lowering his voice to a
whisper, he continued, “ Ginral there's
places up tlsar where you can hide, and
nary Yankee can find ye.” But,” said the
General, “you surely would not have me,
your General, hide away from the Yan
kees ?' “But, Ginral, ’taint no lair fight
now. They'll sneak up unbeknownst
and if they ootch you, they’ll hang you
sure.’’
The Geueral satisfied the old follow
that there was no danger oi his hanging,
and said, looking pitifully at the stock
ingless foot and tattered clothes, “ Wait*
my kind friend, while I go up stairs.’
He went up and retur*ed with a pack
age, which he gave to the old man. --.ly
ing, “ Some kind Baltimore ladies have
sent me some nice clothing—more than 1
need. I have put up a part of it here
for you. \\ ill you accept and wear if for
the sake of your old commander ;md
friend !" Tho old man held the package
at arm’s length for a moment or tiv
then pressing- it to his bosom, and i\Al
ing liis arms over it, lie held it ther .
Big tears rolled down his furrowed checks.
As soon as he could speak, he said : “31e
wear these clothes, Oinral! No, not.
while I live ; but T’il keep them till i
die, and they’ii put them on the old mail
when his work is done and they lay him
in his coffin. I’ll sleep sweet in them,
Ginral, sure!’ He went out sobbing,
and holding the bundle to his breast ns
he would have done an infant. T believe
my father was crying too : i know that I
was.
Dust Returning to Dust.— lt i-
sorted by scientific writers that the number
of persons who have existed on our globe
since the beginning of time amounts n>
66.627,843,273,075,256. The*- figm. ~
when divided by 3,005,000 —the number
of square leagues on the a-lohc —Icav*
11,320,689,732 square miles of land;
which, beingdiyided as before, give 1,31 P
-1626,076 persons to each square mi! .
|lf we reduce these miles 10 square ■< ■ ,
i the number will be 1,853,174,6004-0 ‘ •
which, divided in like manner, will give
1,283 inhabitants to each square rod, and
these being reduced to feet, will give about
! five persons to each square foot of terr <
fmaa. It wdll thus be perceived that
our earth is a vast cemetery. On each
j square rod of it. 1,283 human beings lie*
buried, each rod being scarcely sufficient
for ten graves, with each grave containing
128 persons. The whole surface of our
globe, therefore, has been dug over 281
times to bury its dead.
Specimen copies of Tite Banner of . e
South sent free to any address.
3