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A MUSSEL SHELL. .
ST CELIA THAXTEB.
Why ait thou colored like the evening; ahy
Sorrowing for (unset 7 Lovely dost thou lie,
Bend by the washing of the eager brine,
At the snow’s motiomeis and wmd-oarved line.
Cold stretch the snows, cold throng the waver, the
wind
Stings sharp.—an icy fire, a touch unkind,— ,
And sighs as if with passion of regret
The while I mark thy tints with violet.
0 beauty strange 1 O shape of perfect grace,
Whereon the iovriy waves of color truce
it- 1 .' ...I!v'tj of me years that passed mv by,
And touched thee with the pathos of the sky!
The sea shall crush thee, yea: the ponderous wave
Up the loose beach shall grind, and scoop thy grave,
Thou thought of God l What morn than tbou ami?
Both transient as the sad wlhd’s passing sigh.
Donn Piatt’s Observations.
Donn Piatt writes to the Washington
Capital the following * ‘editorial notes
at sea
We looked calmly upon the tearful
leave-taking going on all about us.
How frantically wives threw tbemf elves
into the arms of fend husbands and wet
their shirt-bosoms with the salt water of
onr life’s sea.
Said one, between sobs, “It was so
eru-oru-el of you not to let me take Ned.
Iknow-ow-ow he’ll be neglected and
snf suf suffer.
Ned, pet name for a child we thought,
how hard to have the mother separated
from the darling of her heart. Bnt the
husband, his eyes wet with tears, as
sured her that Ned should not be
negleeted. He would see to Ned him
self.
“And out his meat and make his
bed ?” sobbed she.
“Yes, darling."
“And bathe him in bran and warm
water and comb and cu-ou-curl his
tail?’’
Yes, there was no mistaking' it, Neddy
was a little dog, a wretched poodle or
blaok and tan, that was drawing from
the depth these burning tears. . . .
We have aboard two celebrities—
Clara Morris and Eate Field. Both of
our celebrities were carried below, and
up to the present writing neither has
put in an appearance, either on deok
or at table. The sea is no respecter of
persons, and genius goes under dtok
howling same as the stupidest land
lubber. The trembling ooean would
fetoh the most dignified. Think of the
greatest in that line, old George, the
lather of his country, on shipboard,
withhiB immortal lips blue and his
immortal countenance ashy white; his
patriotic legs stretched apart, and his
patriots stomaoh throwing up its
patriotic contents. A fit of seasickness,
it is said,, saved England an invasion.
The great Napoleon had made all his
preparations to cross the channel in
force, when the whim seized him to
take a little ran out for observation.
He had been to sea before, and believed
he possessed sea legs, but the ohannel
tanght him a lesson. The great captain
threw up his boots, and returning to
land swore that for all England he
would not again undergo suoh an attaok.
In behalf of our two celebrities we
had floral demonstrations and a salute.
No end of boqueta were brought aboard
with oards attached, while even Will
Winter, the mildest-mannered man who
ever sonttled a theatrical oraft or cut an
artistio throat, held out his little hand
and Bpoke with a voice that bubbled up
through tears. As for the salute given
Clara Morris by Jarrett & Palmer from
the Plymouth Book, it sounded wonder
fully like an old-fashioned, brass-mount
ed horse-pistol—for suoh is the kingdom
of God—but it was a salute all the same,
and everybody waved and the colors
dipped as if it had oome from a forty-
two pounder smoothbore, welcoming in
the fourth o' July at or near the centen
nial. ‘
While scratching away on deek in a
sheltered nook on “ Smith’s adjustable
table or evaiw man his own writing
desk," who siioum come creeping up
the gangway stairs but Kate Field, our
brilliant contributor to the Tribune.
This slender maiden, with her rioh
ohestnut- colored hair tumbling about
her teraceful shoulders, was blue about
the ups, while her faoe had precisely
the tiut of the stone purchased by Mal
let—the mighty Mallet—with which to
build the Chicago custom house. Miss
Eate failed as Peg Woffington, bnt had
she tried “Lost at Sea," or appeared as
the seaside heroine in “ Harold Fitz
KUlene: or, the Black Avenger of the
Spanish Main,” her present get-up
og to be sympathetic.
“I don’t feel like the morning star,
but shoo fly, don’t bother me.”
“ Do you apply that to the seasickness
or to the questioner”
“Tb both,” responded the seasick
Eate, sinking into a steamer chair
marked “Stone, N. Y.”
Nothing tries one more than a sea
voyage, and it is no disparagement of
man or woman to say after suoh trial
that he or she was not precisely the sort
of parson nno would rvrnpnfc nr hnng fn
mteb in iteavcu; meaning that such
seafaring individual would mar the har
mony of the oelestial harpists, and there
by greatly depreciato that happiness of
our Hebrew home which consists in
walking about streets paved with pre
cious stones, carrying gold harps in
onr hand and singing Old Hundred
forever. We make all allowance then,
for this brilliant journalist, whoso far
has been just tick enough to be miser
able, and gives one the business end of
her toague when accosted. ...
We had a dinner with the- everlasting
toasts, noted for a handsome speech
from the captain, a thoroughbred sea
man, who, daring the fogs and while
we were in the ice region, never left the
deck. The toasts were commonplace
and speeches a bore. Oar real amuse
ment came off in the evening, when,
with the discovered music, Miss Eate
Field presided at the piano and quite
captured the ship by her exquisite
music. We were quite taken aback bv
the parity, strength, cultivation, ana
pathos of her voice; and we marvelled
mneh that if Eate Field would leave
journalism, where she has been so suc
cessful, why with that remarkable voice
of hers she did not try opera. By the
bye, as the seasickness disappears Miss
Eate exhibits her better Bide, and will
leave the ship with the kindest feelings
from all for the part she has played in
making a rather dull voyage agreeable.
After all, in the straggle a woman must
make who enters upon the paths to
fame and wealth held sacred to men
alone, there’s so mneh that is mean un-
jnst in her treatment that to retain a
Bweetnessand patience of spirit is really
marvelous.
Sandwich Islanders in the Surf.
A late number of Appletons* in a
sketch entitled .“A Tropical Paradise "
gives a lively description of surf bath
ing at the Sandwich islands. It is de
scribed as being a most exciting and
interesting pastime, and needing in a
heavy sea immense nerve and *kill.
The surf-board is a narrow plank from
six to nine feet in length. Legions of
forms, moulded with the lithe and sin
uous beauty of olassio bronzes, are seen
sporting in the waves like bom denizens
of the foam. A party of forty or fifty
with their surf-sliding boards come out
from the dusky throng, and with muoh
laughing obatter prepare for the fasci
nating game of riding astride the
breakers. Wading ont from rocks on
whioh the sea is breaking, the islanders
push their boards before them and
swim out to the first line of breakers.
Suddenly they dive down ont of sight,
and nothing more is teen of them till
their black heads bob up from the
smooth seas like oorks, half a mile from
shore. Then the fan commences.
Watching for a very high roller, they
leap on from behind, lying face down
wards on their surf-boards. As the
waveBpeeds on, and its bottom touches
ground, the top carls into a gigantic
comber. The swimmers pose themselves
on the highest edge by dextrous move
ment of hand and foot, keeping them
selves on the top of the earl and always
seeming to slide down the foaming
hillook. So they come on majestioally
just ahead of the breaker, borne shore
ward by its mighty impulse at the rate
of forty miles an hour, yet seeming to
have a volition of their own, for the
more daring riders kneel and even stand
on their surf-boards, waving their arms
and uttering exultant cries. Always on
the verge of enguliment by the fierce
breaker, whose white crest rices above
them, just as one expects to see them
dashed to pieces on the rooku they
quietly disappear and emerge again ont
at sea, ready for another perilous race
on their foaming coursers. The great
art seems to be in mounting the breaker
at just the right time, and to keeo ex
actly on its end. The leading athletes
are always vociferously cheered by the
spectators, and the presence of the
elite rarely fails to stimulate the swim
mers to their utmost exertions. Even
the maidens and old men often join in
this national amusement.
The Famous Bone-Setter.
Writing from Oonegliano, Italy, Charles
Warren Stoddard says: I have met
one of the most celebrated women of
Italy, Begins del Oin,%hose marvelous
successes in the setting of dislocations
of long standing have made her famous
even beyond the sea. You can read of
her in the standard works on surgery.
This uncultured woman, born with an
instinctive knowledge of anatomy, lives
111 ct uHLumwmw Ml/UUb v if vi i ij iliiiUo
distant. She is sought by people from
all parts of the world, and,' though she
sometimes attempts to straighten limbs
that have been distorted from birth and
to correct the blunders of unskillful
professionals, her specialty is the set
ting of hip dislocations, and I be
lieve in this line she is without a
living rival. I had been recommended
to visit Kegina, as she is familiarly
called in this neighborhood, to see if
she might not be able to regulate on
arm that has troubled me somewhat
since an accident I met with a year ago
near Borne. The marvelous storieB I
had heard of her skill, the flattering
tributes paid to her character by people
of all professions, nationalities, and
creeds, encouraged me to believe that
my salvation rested in her hands, and I
sought her this morning with my heart
in my throat and my arm in a state of
suspense. I went on alone to the villa
of Begina, with its broad, cream-colored
walls shining brightly on the hillside.
A maid held the door open as I ap
proached the villa, and I was at once
ushered into a small drawing room
tastefully famished. A portrait of
Pope Pius IX. hangs conspicuously on
one wall; a life-size photograph of
.Begina is on tho. opposite side of the
room; a smaller photograph of the
famous lady stood on the etagero in an
elaborate frame, while a third was set
in the oover of a large volume which
ornamented the centre-table. This
book, presented by the city of Trieste
to Begina when she removed to her
present villa, contains fonr thousand
autographs of the best known eitizens
of that place. There was also a large
album, containing the photographs of
for deformities of varions kinds by that
lady whom I had oome to see. While I
was looking at this album she entered
—a very plain ’woman of forty or
more; short, stout, untidily dressed.
The lower hooks of her waist were
bursted, and there was nothing
attractive in her personal appear
ance. Two of her front teeth were
gone, her hair was rolled into a small
wad at the top of her haad, long gold
eardrops dangled upon her shoulders,
and about her neck she wore a massive
gold chain. We proceeded at once to
business. She stripped my arm to the
shoulder, touched it lightly here aud
there with a touch that was exceed
ingly agreeable, Her examination of my
case was so slight, the questions she
asked so few, yet her comprehension of
my condition so complete, that I
strongly suspected the lady of being a
clairvoyant. She lays no elaim to any
snoh gift; was born with the genius for
bone-setting, which she is continually
exercising, uses the simplest possible
remedies, and in all eases performs her
operations without giving any pain
whatever. I had proof enough of her
marvelous skill. In the hall I saw a
heap of crutches, braces and straps,
iron stilts, and ether horrible aids suoh
as eripples are forced to 6eek. These
were left at the villa by sufferers who
had found complete relief under her
roof, and many of them bore touch
ing inscriptions in token of gratitude
and affeotion and as voluntary testimo
nials to her skill. The place looked like
the shrine of some saint with its multi
tude of votive offerings. There was one
steel shoo with a sole at least a foot in
thickness. Knowing me to be an Ameri
can, she called my attention to the in
scription on it. I found that a gentle
man of New York city had left it. certi
fying that he had been “ cured of a dis
location of the hip of seventeen years’
standing, instantly and without pain.”
It is her custom to ask no fee for her
services. You pay according to your
means. Those who deBire it, and for
whom it is necessary, lodge in the house
and receive her constant attention. She
says at once whether she will or not at
tempt a cure. The good woman, after
muon persuasion, consented to give me
her autograph. My conscience smoted
me for urging her when I saw the great
beads of sweat starting out on her fore
head as she bowed over my pocket al
bum and wrestled with her pen. Her
signature is as unhandsome as possible,
and under the circumstances I don’t
wonder that she has never attempted to
write anything else. When it was time
for me to leave her I hated to go; her
atmosphere is wholesome and strength
ening ; her home beautiful aud full of
peace.
The Home of Thomas Jefferson.
Monticello, the once beaurifnl home
of J* fferson, is situated on the toD of a
mountain n it)W mites from Charlottes
ville,'and commands the most extensive
view I have ever seen from a private
house—on one side one hundred and
fifty mileo of the Bind Ridge, on the
other a landscape so broad and far-
stretching that the eye can scarcely fake
it in. The old mansion is large, with
wings, piazza, dome and some singular
half-underground passages and offices
on each side. It is empty and deserted
now, save by squatters, who “show the
house for a quarter.”
Nothing is left in the poor, lonely
mansion save a mirror, the* top of the
horse-chair or gig in which Jefferson
drove around the grounds during the
last years of his life, the old antique
plaster moldings over the doors, and
the large square clock in the hall whose
balls swung down and marked the days
of the week set in panels in the wall.
There is a light ladder in the hall whioh
Jefferson made with his own bunds, and
used for the purpose of winding this
clock, which is placed high up over the
front door, with a dial on the ontside of
the house as well as within. The bed
rooms are all made with recesses in the
old French style, where the frame of
the bed is built into the wall and forms
part of the woodwork of the house.
To Monticello, during the owner’s life
time, came distinguished visitors from
all lands, among them Lafayette.
Jefferson was then old and infirm, un
able to walk, but he was driven to the
edge of the plateau where the road be
gins to descend, and there he waited
for Lafayette’s carriage, which was
coming up the mountain. A number
of people had assembled to witness the
meeting. The two old men were as
sisted from their carriages and went to
meet each other. With the single word,
“Jefferson!” “Lafayette !” they clasped
hands, and all saw the tears in their
eyes.
The view from Monticello resembles
'in many respects that from Lookout
Mountain. A short distance below the
house is the burial ground; here the
author of the Declaration of Independ
ence lies at rest, surrounded by his
family. But the gates have been
broken down, the horizontal slabs over
the graves of his wife and daughter are
gone, and the small obelisk to Jefferson
himself is so defaced and broken that it
is but a shapeless block, where even
the name can no longer be traced.
Originally the inscription was as fol
lows: “Here lies bnried Thomas
Jefferson, Author of the Declaration of
Independence, of the 1 Statute of Vir
ginia for religious freedom, and father
of the university of Virginia.” The
family burial-ground had its origin ip a
boyish promise. Jefferson and his
friend Dabney Oarr, who afterward
married Jefferson’s sister, were in the
habit as boys of climbing up a particu
lar tree on the side hill, and sitting
there together for hours; they agreed
to be bnried nnder that tree, and ex
changed a promise that in ease of death
the survivor should carry out the wish.
While Jefferson was in France, Dabney
Garr died, but on his return, finding
that his friend had been interred in an
other place, he ordered the body ex
humed, and buried it nnder the hillside
tree, near whioh his own tomb also was
afterward made. In these centennial
days, would it not be well for the nation
to put in order this little mountain
burial-place of Thomas Jefferson?—
Correspondence Cleveland Herald,
Hadn’t Time.—A citizen of Vicks
burg who wanted a lew hours’ work
done abont his yard the other day, ac
costed a colored man inquired if he
would like the job.
“ I’d like to do it, bnt I haven’t time,”
was the answer.
“ Why, you don’t seem to be doing
anything.”
“ I don’t, eh ! Well, now, I gwine a
a fishin’ to-day. To-morrow I’ze gwine
over de river. Next day I’zs gwine a
huntin.’ Next day I’ze got to get my
bntes fixed. Next day I’ze gwine to
mend de table, and the Lawd only knows
how I’ze gwine to get frew de week
onloss I hire a man to help me.”— Vicks
burg Herald,