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ATLANTA. GA., SATURDAY. MAY 29, 1875. MARY E. BRYAN, Editress. Flowers, Bright Flowers! Our balcony is a charming place—far removed from dust and beat, shaded by a grand oak, in whose branches the mocking-birds sing, and on whose multitudinous leaves the dews glitter, and the sun and shade dance changefully, and the light-fingered winds play tunes of summer glad ness. It is a lovely place in which to sit at sun set or moonrise; but there was something want ing to make it perfect—the grace and sweetness of flowers. There stood not a flower on its broad ledge to tempt the bee and butterfly, or to brighten one’s fancies when dulled by care. “ A flower do but place at your window glass, And through it no image of evil can pass.” We repeated this poetical bit of German super stition and sighed wistfully at thought of the windows and balconies and pretty rustic stands full of flowers in bloom, which w r e had just seen in a drive through the picturesque environs of Atlanta. Did some kind spirit in the air waft the wish to Mr. Cole’s flower store on Broad street, and suggest to him the graceful kindness of sending some of his fragrant favorites to shed their sweetness in an author’s sanctum? No matter whence came the suggestion, here are the flowers, sent “from Cole A’ Co.,” all ranged upon our balcony twenty-eight pots in all, filled with the daintiest favorites among the house- flowers — geraniums, heliotropes, mignonette, fuschias, phlox, and many others — some with brilliant, variegated foliage, quite new to us. Every time a new blossom unfolds, we shall feel freshly grateful to Mr. Cole, and breathe a wish that his beautiful nursery, just outside the dust of the city, may flourish like the gardens of Gul. Beautiliil Women An Answer to “Horatio.” A correspondent, signing himself “Horatio,” j asks The Sunny South to give a “ pen-and-ink” i description of a perfectly beautiful woman. We : couldn’t venture upon it, “Horatio.” If we should sketch you a classic model, such as the father of ! amatory poetry furnished to “ The best of painters, v Prince of the llhodiau art,” you would compare it disparagingly with some | modern marvel of perfection photographed on a will rave about a Juno form, an eye of intellect ual light, and a brow that is “a dome of thought;” and then, when he is a staid bachelor with side- whiskers, will marry some pretty wax doll with two ideas in her curly head and a petite figure, which he adoringly declares “Is just an armful of heaven to enfold.” We have a theory that every woman has some thing about her peculiarly attractive to someone man—a theory by no means original, since it is as old as the rhyme that begins,— “ There never was a goose so gray.” There are very ugly women who are personally attractive to their admirers by reason of some peculiarity that would never be observed by those who were not these damsels’ “affinities”— some look, or tone, or smile, some droop of the eyelid, or swell of the throat, or dimple in the cheek, or cadence in the laugh, that would mean nothing to most men and yet touches a vibrant chord of admiration in the breasts of certain others, and throws over the ugly woman the transfiguring light of love. So you see, “ Horatio,” there is no infallible standard of beauty. The Chinese belle is a shapeless mountain of fat with a small head and feet so infinitesimal that they support the limbs in a tottery manner, which is there accounted exceedingly graceful. The poets of the Flowery Land celebrate their beauties in the following style: “ The fair Yang cha Loo,— She is more beautiful than the sun, moon and stars. Her eyes are lost in the puffed-out fat of her cheeks; Double rolls of shining fat lie under her chin. When she walks, hergait is that of a drunken elephant.” The Hottentot belle is a hideous creature, with tattooed cheeks, a nose like a mashed toad and a mouth like a double link of Bologna sausage. Contrast her with a beauty of our own race,—a figure of slender and supple elegance, hair-crown of golden brown with stray ringlets escaping; cheek, where the color comes and goes in a breath; mouth like a cleft strawberry, and rich, violet eyes full of sweet meanings and shadowy with tender dreams. Contrast this fair picture (of which there are legions of originals in our “ Sunny South”) with the Hottentot nightmare, and you will cease to wonder that the monkey is regarded as a link in humanity. And yet a Senegambia youth, fresh from a dance around the roasting bones of his enemies, would declare in favor of the sausage-lipped damsel, and pronounce the other one poor ma terial for a bride and hardly fit to furnish a de cent stew. ing up to him a political career through means of money and influence secretly bestowed to for ward his election. She also uses active means to trace out a mystery which she hopes will re sult in good fortune to him. At last, she finds that instead of benefiting, she has injured him— that the secret she has brought to light is one of shame. Overwhelmed with pity and remorse, she bursts out with her own unsuspected secret of love. The passage is at once highly wrought and natural. “I thought to have made you a hero, restored to his rights and master of a splendid career. I tell von now that you have no rights—that you are a pauper—a very outcast; that you have not a penny in the world; that your only hope here is gone*, unless you care to accept the alms flung to a ruined claimant—to a misguided, poor re lation.” “I have long thought it,” he said in a low, gloomy tone; “ long thought it. Little skill as I have in guessing, yet I have been able this sometime back to guess so much. I am not blind. But why do you tell me this ? Why speak of it? Do you exult in my ruin?” “I do.” She spoke the words with the utmost calm ness. He sprang to his feet and looked wildly at her. “I do, Paul. Yes, it is true; I do rejoice in what you call your ruin. I exult in your being poor, nameless, hopeless. I do, as surely as Heaven hears me; and you know why.” Paul sat down again and covered his face with his hands. “Yes; you understand me now. I have had to speak out at last. I am glad of your poverty, because I am rich; of your doubtful name, be cause, since it is doubtful, I may otter to bear and share it, Paul, Paul, I love you, and you know it. See how I unfold my whole heart, aye, and abase myself before you.” She knelt by his side, took his hand and kissed it passionately. “Never should you have known of this, in words at least, had that which I imagined for you come true. But it did not, it cannot, and now that you are poor and outcast, I may tell j’ou how much I love j*ou; max’ I not, Paul?” She smiled a wan and wild smile, and tried to draw away his hand and catch an answering gleam of love from his ej’es. New Books. Paul Massif.—A Romance. By Justin McCarthy. Shel don & Co., Publishers. For sale by Phillips & Crew, Atlanta, Georgia. Justin McCarthy could not write a dull book were he to try; though we are not prepared to saj’ that his novels are equal in brilliancy to Character Shown in Ankles anil Skirt-Lifting. Our modern adepts in the science of biologj’ profess to discern indications of character not only in the face, but in the foot, the hand, the voice, the handwriting, etc. Dr. Holmes de clares that if you will show him a bit of the human skin no larger than a sixpence, he will describe to you the kind of man or woman to whom it belonged. And now Justin McCarthy tells us that female character is best indicated by the ankle and by the manner in which ladies 1 Had entwined bis arms around her, and the fatal web was spun. Soon her reason he defeated, Her of virtue then he cheated— Sunk her ’neatli the deep-mouthed billows and his fiendish work was done. [For The Sunny South.] LOST BUT XOT DEAD. BY WM. B. HAXLEITEB. Once I loved a gentle woman, Yet, alas! she was but human— Made of roses, pearls, and gilted—nought, at best, but flesh and bone; Still I loved her—loved her dearly, As I viewed her monthly, yearly— Viewed her ’mid the human billows—viewed her when she was alone. And I've sat beside her often. Till her diamond eyes would soften— Till her waxen lips had melted and her pearly teeth were shown; And her sweetest breath would whisper, Like an angel-wafted zephyr, Of her darling, sainted mother, who to spirit lands had flown. At such times I've tried to gather All about her absent father; Yet I learned but this thing only,—that to other climes he’d gone; That in early years he’d left her, Without brother, without sister; Scarcely knowing good from evil, she had been thus left alone. Thrown upon the human ocean, With its pitiless commotion— With its selfish, tightened fingers, and its myriad hearts of stone— She had scarcely found a resting, While the waves and tempests breasting. But had floated safely thus far, by some unseen hand upborne. Low I tent my ear and listen’d, And my cheeks with teardrops glisten'd, And my very soul was hushed up as I hung upon her tone; Then my heart advanced, retreating, And I heard it thunder-beating, As I kissed her velvet forehead and her hand was in mine own. Then, as if by inspiration, With a trembling intonation, With my heart and knees low-bended and my arm around her thrown,— I upheaved my soul and told her, That above the waves I’d hold her— Hold her ’bove the rocks and breakers, guide her safely through the foam; That I’d be to her a brother, . Till her hand she gave another— Till she needed me no longer—till her maiden life was done; For I felt that self-same hour, That so kind, so fair a flower Would be sought by hungry fingers—from my grasp would soon be torn. But, O God! I thought no evil Till the form of man—but devil— [For The Sunny South.] MASCULINE INCONSISTENCY. lift their skirts. He saj’s: “Show me the ankle, and*1 will show j’ou the woman. A ladj’ once remarked that she did not like an unmeaning look about the heel. Sarah Massie would not have incurred this censure. Her ankle indicated health, clearness, rtjprgy and self-reliance. It is not nonsense to tlffk of a woman's ankle indicating all this. There are women who show their character in the verj’ ten, and in their delineation of character, their c arte-de-visite and carried next j*our heart, or management of ^dramatic situations, and their perhaps with your mental picture of the face that leaned over the rose vines of the paling j’es- terday evening, and blushed, smiled and dim pled for a stolen half-hour, while the twilight melted in star-blossoming space and the good house-mother lit the candles and wondered “where Nellie could be.” Sir Joshua Reynolds, the great portrait painter, declared there never was a perfectly beautiful woman. There are thousands of young gentle men in this country of “Horatio’s” wise and dis passionate age (just twenty) who are ready to contradict the painter flatly. We have just had a peep into The Sunny South’s correspondence box, and we find there no less than seventeen young gentlemen under twentj’, who, in con sulting The Sunny South concerning their affairs of the heart, begin with the confession that they are deeply in love with a most perfectly beautiful and amiable young lady. Seen through the glamour of love, a snub nose is a Grecian, and eyes as dull as boiled gooseberries shine like the kohinor. Marriage is usually the “spectacles” which disenchants the picture and robs these mundane angels of their wings. But sometimes the illu sion is kept up after marriage. We all remem ber reading how Dr. Johnson praised and petted his coarse, red-faced and ugly-featured wife, calling her the “pretty’ dear” and the 4 ‘sweet creature.” The one comic gleam in Sue’s ghastly novel of Paris crime and misery is the solemn old Frenchman who is alwaj’s fancying that some man lias designs upon his “ Anasta sia,” a gaunt, bony female of fifty’. Similar in stances are to be found every day in real life. I remember one most vividly. The wagon of a “mover,” bound for Texas, had stopped for the team to rest under the shade of a great Louisi ana pecan tree, where a party who had been nut ting were sitting on the grass, counting their pecans and playing “hull-gull.” The woman seated in the wagon, throned on a pile of pots, chairs, chests and mattresses, was surely the ug liest female in the world, a hooked-nose, red headed specimen with buck teeth and freckled visage. The good-looking driver proved socia ble. and opened conversation by inquiring how “fur it was to the Sabine river," and volunteer ing the information that he came “all the way from Alabam—the best State in the Union. “Why did you leave it then?" was asked. “Well, I had a small difficulty with a fellow out there—broke two of his ribs and smashed his nose. I reckon he won't feel like hankering after other folks’ wives pretty soon. A man can't have a good-looking wife in Choctaw county without some fellow's en-ry-in’ him.” He nodded his head at the woman throned upon the pots and mattresses, and she grinned complacently and felt herself as irresistible as though she had been Helen or Messalina. It is a noticeable fact that young men rarely ever marry their “ideals.” A young gentleman who insists upon a “classic nose” may be cal culated upon to wed a piquant pug, and one who writes sonnets in exclusive praise of “ brown eyes ” is apt to succumb to a pair as green as Beckv Sharp’s. A youth who reads Swinburne aters his frail mustache with patchouly, , ■ t i ,, wav' in which thev manage their skirts. One his essays, yet they arte exceedingly well writ- w V man ftllows hVr clothes to drAggle along the streets and lick the dust or mud; another, if she has but to step over the least perilous of cross ings, suddenly and convulsively gathers? her petticoats above her ankles,Idisplaj’ing flannels and fixings not meant for the public gaze, and then, perhaps affrighted, lets them drop at one side, while tliej’ remain uphoisted on the other. Sarah Massie was never negligent and never affrighted. Her skirts were always raised to just the proper height, and the beholder could there fore appreciate the character expressed in her graceful walk and firm ankle.” And now we understand (and appreciate) the motives of those “ nice ” young men who, on windy or muddy afternoons, lounge at windows and balconies that overlook the street, with their rouping of incidents, evince careful study, nice judgment, and considerable artistic insight. The book before us is a sensational romance. This is pointedly told us in a three-paged “Pro logue” which introduces the story, and which had far better have been omitted, since its inser tion subserves no purpose and detracts from the interest of the book,—first, by exciting expecta tion of a higher degree of romance and mystery than the story actually realizes; and second, by throwing too much light upon the mystery, which is the ground-work of the plot. The author, pre supposing great dullness in his readers, tells us heels elevated to a right angle with their noses, that the prologue is “a torch held up to illu mine a group in the far back-ground of the pic ture.” He had far better have left the back-ground in the shadow until it was lighted up by the grad ual dawning of the mystery upon our under standing, as the story progressed. He could j have moved and grouped his figures with finer effect against this dark back-ground. His torch reveals too much; we see to the end of the laby rinth. Wilkie Collins would have shed no such light upon it,—would have let no star even glim mer over his “glioul-haunted region of Weir”— only a will-o’-the-wisp that would bewilder rather than illume. We should have groped after the clue to the mystery, and followed it step by step, through doubt and darkness, with the eager, shuddering delight of travelers exploring the labyrinthine windings of an Egyptian pyramid or a Roman catacomb. Mystery is not Mr. McCarthy’s forte, but not the less is he a brilliant and graphic story-teller. His romance of Paul Massie is interesting throughout. The characters are ably drawn and made more striking by contrast. For instance, Paul Massie—the brave, active, unconventual and rather reckless Bohemian, with his brown cheek and Mexican mustache, overshadowed by an in souciant wide-a-wake— is put in juxtaposition to his cold, calm, clerical cousin. Eustace, side- whiskered and carefully combed, with well-regu lated heart-beats and well-defined ideas of duty’ and praiseworthy desire to trim down every body's idiosyncracies to his commonplace pat tern. Then again, the weak, timid, selfish Mrs. Massie is well contrasted with generous, brave, large-hearted and quick-witted Salome De Luca. Madam De Luca is the finest character in the book. She resembles Disraeli's “ divine Theo dora," only she lias more femininity and less he roic earnestness of pui’pose. She had entered into foreign politics for amusement and distrac tion. She had become the counsellor and confi dant of political exiles and intriguants by reason of her largely sympathetic nature, her active mind and liberty-loving impulses. Her parlors were the rendezvous of all men of note, of wit, genius and courage. She was the fascinating and brilliant hostess, dispensing smiles and encour aging words, it seemed to all alike; yet “To say that Salome De Luca had no favorites would be to say that she was no woman, and she was every inch a woman.” She proves that by falling in love-—in spite of herself — with the handsome Paul, so much younger than she is. She seeks to become his unknown protectress and benefactress by open a stump of cigar between their lips, and their eyes (with perhaps an opera-glass attached) fixed upon the side-walk. We had supposed that these j’oung gentlemen belonged to the genus “loafer,” and possessed a well-developed talent for impertinence and cu riosity. Behold our mistake! They are stu dents of human nature—pupils of the interesting science of biology—studying character-indica tions from the ankles and skirt-lifting of the fair passers-bj’. Well, we live to learn. Thus the demon did enslave her; No extended arm could save her But the One—the great Immortal—He upon the heavenly throne. V»w my eye-', are ever prying, And my heart is ever crying, Yearning, seeking for the lost one, though my hope is near o’erthrown. Had she died before he stained her— Ere his horrid vice enchained her— Then I’d weep, but oh! so sweetly!—then I would not feel forlorn; For again I’d hope to meet her, And with bounding joy I’d greet her,— Greet her where there is no parting—greet her where the soul is born. Then I’d feel that she was near me, And I'd pray that she might hear me,— Bid her wait this form's decaying—bid her watch till I could come; And I would not, as now, linger, Waiting for Fate’s pointing finger, Trembling lest indeed I find her on this side the spirit home. [For The Sunny South.] THE WORK OF A BABY’S LIFE. BY HULDAH HILL. She was only a baby when she died. Do you ask what work our baby did ? She made a new woman of me. I had boasted of my dislike for children, but when that little bundle of flannel, warm and full of life, was placed in my arms, and the new-made mother looked up and said, “Youare an auntie now,” my heart bounded and I felt indescribably responsible. An “auntie!” What were the duties of the new relation ? Very soon I found them out, for it fell to my lot to nurse that little one through mimya night of suffering. My woman's heart went out with a feeling that I shall ever deem akin to maternity’, and my song, my arms, were as soothing as the mother's breast. How happy was I on beholding the first smile— on discovering the first tooth ! Auntie was the first word she spoke. At my- knee she learned to trust her little feet. ’Twas auntie who held her when the holy waters of baptism were poured on her infant head. For only a few happy years did we dare call the little one ours; she had done her work; she was taken home. Oh ! the grief that rent my heart when she could no longer call me “auntie!” Oh ! the agony of the moment in which her eyes were closed by Death ! We laid her in the cem etery, wreathed her grave with mocking gar lands and came to our desolate home ! Four years of labor and love for a baby ! Could I again spurn a child or scorn to caress one ? No ! with that little one treasured above, my sympathies are ever awake for children, my love for them unbounded and my labor love, when bestowed on one of these little ones. Whatever work beside our baby may have accomplished. I shall ever be thankful for the light she shed on my life; for the better thoughts I've known, the better deeds I've done, through baby's teaching. Sometimes I grow weary and would lay down the burden of life, asking. Wherefore?—what good am I doing ? But the memory of the work baby did in her short stay with us fills me with hope again, and my task seems light; tor though we may not see now. after awhile the reward will come; it may be in the knowledge of having cheered a fellow-creature or made the road less rugged to some way-worn traveler like our selves. [For The Sunny South.] “THE BRAVEST ARE THE TENDEREST.” BY MRS. M. LOUISE CBOSSLEY. It is a singular but interesting study—the ex quisite affinity which some emotions of our nature have with others of equal nobleness and purity. The commingling of the most delicate chemicals cannot surpass the synthetical combi nation of these priceless but immaterial sub- 1 stances of the soul. While I do not think that any effort of emotional synthesis could unite : cowardice and tenderness into one indissoluble body, I have never known a man who was truly brave, in the best sense of the word, but his nature was tender and sympathetic. When our beloved and immortal Lee—God bless him ! —walked over the battle-ground at Malvern Hill, it was told me by one of his men, who lav wounded himself upon that bloody field, that he never saw more sympathy manifested by a woman than was shown by his idolized chief towards the men who had fallen under his leader ship that day, and now lay before him, wounded, dead, or dying. The great Southern champion, just from the flush of victory over the defeated foe, without one thought of the fresh laurels about his brow, left his suite, and, alone, went about among his fellow-men, to cheer and relieve them wherever he could. With the tears stream ing from his eyes, he here bends over a poor wounded private in rags and tatters, and lifting his head tenderly, puts the cup of water to his lips; and while endeavoring to staunch the blood of an ugly’ wound, speaks words of hope and comfort to the sufferer, moaning so touchingly in his pain. Over there, he bows by some dead hero, fallen “with his face to the foe,” and smoothing back the matted and gory’ locks from the pallid face, reverently folds the iev hands upon the pulseless breast and straightens the stiffening limbs in the cold embrace of death; then sadly passing on, now kneels beside one who fell in a close encounter with his last enemy. The soldier lifts his eyes to the pitying face of his beloved General, who, with the tears still drop ping down his bearded cheeks, tenderly presses the clammy hand in his. and says in a low, quiv ering voice: “ My friend, this is one of the heart rending but inevitable results of war. You have done your duty nobly and bravely; lift your heart now to Him who can save, and He will soon receive your spirit where there is no more conflict and death." ••’Tis love, love, that mates the world go round.” Though the earth is sadder for the loss of Rob ert E. Lee. I thank God that we have known and loved him. and that his life with us is a precious and eternal memory ! Though we may never look upon his like again, it is a sweet joy to know that he is now safe where “No wiDds of war will ever blow;” that his “tender, crowned soul” is with God, who is love—where no’envions enmity can ever again vent its cruelty and malice against him. and no Lost Cause break his great, loving heart. BY H. R. R. We have all heard of feminine inconsistency— heard of it until we know it by heart; but we have a word or two to say about masculine incon sistency. “Masculine inconsistency?” scornfully exclaims some lord of creation. “My dear madame, you are dreaming ! A more unheard-of thing ” Dear sirs, have patience, and we will produce our proofs. The inconsistency with which we intend to deal at present relateth to the matter of dress—woman's dress,—what man ever found fault with his own dress? Our lord beginneth to quail now; and well he may, for we have him here, and he knows it! But to the charge. A few years ago crinoline came in fashion, and oh ! what a cry was raised in the masculine world. Every man who could wail, wailed and bewailed, and that most dis mally. “Shocking!” “Indecent!” -‘Ungrace ful!” “Unhealthy!” Oh! how they rang the changes on the adjective. Papers and pictorials ; and illustrations were full of caricatures and ludicrous allusions to the new fashion. But having found a comfortable fashion for once in her life, woman was not to be laughed out of it, and she held on to her crinoline until within a year or two, when they have been gradually abandoned. And now what is the cry ? Is my lord pleased? Not at all. “Women look like , May-poles !” They “look as straight and stiff 1 as a pike-staff'!” Ungracefully slim!” “Their dresses are so tight they can scarcely take a j step !” etc. So much for inconsistency the first. Trails came in fashion; but there was such a ■ wail from all masculinedom, that woman went into short dresses forthwith, in the firm belief | that she had one fashion which the males would | approve. But lo! she was doomed to disap pointment. The short dresses were “Horrid!” “Frightful!” “Shameful!” Husbands hoped i never to see their wives appear in such a dress. | Brothers vowed to put their sisters in straight- jackets if they were ever seen on the streets in dresses above their shoe-tops ! “ There used to be some enchantment about a lady’s foot, but the short dresses had disenchanted it,” etc. The Dolly Varden was introduced. Then every man in the country sang “Poor old Dolly Var den ” until their luckless wearers gladly dis- I carded them, and rushed into redingotes and bouffant styles, when lo! all newspaperdom rang with woman’s folly and woman’s extravagance. “When will women learn to dress sensibly?” is the sigh of the masculine heart. When men learn to be sensible!—when they pay’ as much i attention to a sensibly dressed girl as to a fash ionably dressed one. But does not every woman know that such a time will never come? Does she not know that not one of her accusers would be seen on the street with a sensibly dressed woman ? Not they, indeed ! Have we not heard them, in the same breath in which they con demned fashion, extol some fashionably’ dressed woman ! “Any sensible man will prefer a sen sibly’dressed woman.” Aj’e! any sensible man, doubtless; but where is the said sensible man to be found ? He is quite as scarce as Solomon’s model woman, whose price was “far above ru bies.” The fact is, he has not been made yet, nor is he likely’ to be—for ayes, at least. A sen sible man ! What a wonder such a phenomenon would create in the feminine world! Would not woman conclude that the millenium had come ? We are not an advocate, nor have weever been, for extravagance in dress, but we do think that consistency is a jewel. And as for sensible dress ing, why don’t they set us the example? Was there ever anything more ridiculous than a swal low-tail coat? Yet every man, big and little, must wear one for a dress-coat. We want no better opportunity for laughing than to see a dapper little man in a swallow-tail coat and a stove-pipe hat almost as tall as himself. What is there sensible about a hat three times as tall as necessary’, and stiff enough to make one die of the headache? Sensible (!) isn't it? Yet the wearers of these same hats are so fond of seeing a sensibly’ dressed woman ! We remember an instance of this same lauda ble desire. A friend of ours, who sported a stove- ' pipe, had been condemning the folly of our sex in most unqualified terms. We felt rather badly’, but took the matter quietly, as it is against our creed to argue with the lords of creation. A few days afterwards he came hnrrj’ing in, conjuring us to “dress up,” “look our best,” etc., as he had a friend to whom he wished to introduce us. Sure of the fact that we were dressed “sensi bly,” we announced our readiness to receive any and all visitors to whom he might wish to present us. He moved his chair restlessly, with an uncomfortable, dissatisfied look. Evidently something was wrong. “What is the matter?” we asked innocently. “Does'nt this dress suit you?” “Oh! yes, I suppose it will answer; but—I thought you had something better—something a little more fashionable." We saw our blunder, and hastened to correct it. We mentioned a dress made in the aforesaid condemned style. “Oh! that will do admirably,” he said, with a look of immense relief. Again conjuring us to dress stylishly, he bade us adieu; and leaning back in our chair with a feeing of wonder and amazement, we sighed audibly: “O, inconsistency! thy name is—Tom, Dick, and Harry!” Jennie Collins, in commenting on some state ments of a half informed doctor, says: “We have not one woman too many’ in Massachusetts; in the next place, they are more healthy’ than men, and both facts can be proved by the report of the city hospital, which received two thous and and eighty-eight men, and in the same period only one thousand one hundred and thirteen women, although they are double in number with half the pay. The next error of Dr. Ames is the statement that manufacturing and other kindred trade crafts are injurious to health and morals in a greater degree than other modes of life. This is contradicted by the records at the State House, that will bear testi mony that out of a hundred and fifty’ thousand women, only one in seventy-five chargeable to the State for support in sickness or old age is from factories or shops. As for their morals, another record will show that out of the appall ing number of poor girls who are led away from rectitude and seek redress from the State, very rarely one comes from the factory or workshop. A significant fact for themselves and their sur roundings. Mrs. Theodore Ouilette, of the Parish of St. • Francis, N. B., died recently at the age of forty, “ leaving a husband and twenty-two children to mourn her loss.” It must have been very hard for the poor woman to leave her little flock at her age, but what an imm nse saving of sooth ing syrup it would have been if she had left her husband twenty years ago ! Why call him the “ groom ” as eight out of ten people do ? A groom’s business is to look after horseF. A bridegroom's business is to look after his wife's mother. When Solomon said that the “ glory of woman was her hair,” we wonder if he suspected how much “ glory ” would be bought for ten dollars ■ in our times !