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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