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P \ [For,The Sunny South.] AT CLEARING. BY HENRY T. STAUNTON. Two ships weigh anchor in the cove; Two ships slide out the brine; And one white sail :s thine, my love, And one white sail is mine. A land of peace, hid in the grey Beyond our eyes define 1 Will thv ship find its quiet bay, Thy ship, my love or mine ? Thou, God, make Faith our steering star, Through clouds alway to shine, And bring within Thy harbor-bar My wife’s white ship and mine. cheerfully singing their hymn and wondered Ida and her sisters were taken often to ride, pictures, don’t you remember ? I’ll run and get why it was that every one could be happy but Paul and Carrie Spencer always going together; the book.” himself. and when the girls could not go, Messrs. Marks Ida signed to her not to go, for she thought The singing ceased and the sun went down and Kingsbury generally remained at home and she had good reason for not wishing Paul to see behind the pines. He heard the lonesome cry kept them company. I it then; but Lottie did not understand, and so of a far-off whip-poor-will, and the moon shone Reginald Marks, or “Regi ” as he was called the book was brought. out more brightly, and the wierd shadows of by his classmates, and ‘-Rex” by Paul, was | Paul turned the leaves of the herbarium slowly the shaggy trees crept longer and nearer up to handsome and very tall, and all agreed that the and thoughtfully; where else were there the him. At last suddenly becoming conscious of name suited him very well. He was often at ghosts of so many withered hopes—so many un- | the lateness of the hour, and concluding that he Ida’s side, conversing with her, and watching forgotten memories? did not care to remain there all night, he arose the graceful movements of her fingers, always Lottie stood by, ejaculating lively annotations, : and slowly returned to the house. busy with some pretty needlework. She was so which he did not hear. When Ida found leisure to think of her flowers quiet and unruffled always, and this easy, mo-| A folded paper dropped to the floor; he picked HEALTH DEPARTMENT. BY JXO. STAISBACK WILSON, M. D., The Processes and Essentials of Turkish Iiath. 1st. Hot air, not steam nor vapor. This air has free circulation and is not confined around the body by blankets, or boxes, or anything of the kind. It is applied to the whole external her learned their fate. ~ “Mother threw them out of the window,” A PlucfoT 1 /\-f* TJ or] "PlVllrO says Mrs. Lawson, “but it does not matter; I vALt&LCA U1 AwCLL A -IlIiAO* dare say Gracie has forgotten them.” I “ But they are mine. Paul gave them to me, by lea clifton. j and he would be so angry if he knew J” Ida re- [ monstrated. Paul Covington was an orphan and lived, j “ Ah, well, I am sorry, dear,” said her mother; when notattending college, with his aunt, Mrs. i “you might go and look under the window, if Lawson. She was very fond of the boy, and her you like. Paul hasn’t seen them—he has gone four girls each regarded him as a dear brother; off to town, I believe. He’s been gone some while to Ida—the eldest—especially, he was the j time.” _ surface including the head, and to the more ex grandma was asleep and the flowers missing, notonous work was so suitable, he thought; it | it up, and opening, saw, carefully pressed, a tensive inner membrane lining the bronchial She went in search of her mother, and from assisted, rather than interrupted, the flow of , cluster of red pinks, tied with a red and white tubes and air cells of the lungs. In any box or string! He turned toward Ida with a look of surprise, j Still greater was his surprise when he saw her at his side, and her hand laid upon the paper which he held. blanket arrangement the air or steam is kept in contact with the body, and being saturated with impurities the patient is literally steamed in his own filth. In a i well-constructed' Turkish Bath this filth is not so confined, but readily escapes pleasant interchange of thought. And while he talked and dreamed, Ida threaded the gay-col ored silks and wrought listlessly at the pattern that was all marked out for her. Paul still continued to ride out with Miss .Spencer; and, though often weary and unhappy j “Give it to me, Paul,” she said. She spoke ; through the flue which runs up from the heating enough, stubbornly persevered in the part he i with forced calmness, but her face was very pale, apparatus. In a Turkish Bath the warm, dry, was acting. They took their last ride together her eyes were cast down and her hand trembled, highly-electrified air is breathed into the lungs, on the last afternoon before he left home, and ! “Oh!” said Lottie lightly, “here are these which present a much larger surface for its ac- separated good friends—she, to smile as gaily on ] ugly pinks, always in the way. I have threat- j tion than the whole external skin. This action the next cavalier who came in her way; he, to ened to take them out more than once, and if I remember her only as a book or a pretty picture, j do, they shan't be found again so easily—” perfection of everything that is noble and manly, j So Ida hurried out, and found them half from which he had sought amusement in a tedi- | “ Oh, Lottie ! what have you done?” Ida ex Paul’s memory could not reach back to the buried in the sand; and brushing them lovingly, j ous hour. He knew that she was too much of a j claimed; and sinking into the nearest chair, she time when his cousin Ida had not been dearer to she carried her treasures into her room and set ; butterfly to be seriously impressed by the fas- covered her face with her hands and burst into him than any one else. But the knowledge that his love was more than that of a brother was a secret he had hitherto carefully kept from her, who had shared every other thoughts and sympathized in all his plans and aspirations, from childhood up to manhood. He had been sent to boarding school when at twelve years of age; from thence he went to col- ege, and afterwards to the ifflitary academy. He always passed his vacations at home, and each vacation, as it came, found Ida grown to his eyes more beautiful and dear than before. them back in a little vase on the mantel, where her grandmother would not be disturbed by them. Then she took her work and went and sat out on the piazza, and waited for Paul to come. And Paul came not. Her mother had said that he had gone to town; she did not think that he would have gone without a word to her, but after a while she concluded her mother was right. She worked on, not very contentedly, and with nearly every stitch glancing down the cedar walk and up the road, but no Paul was in He had two intimate friends among the cadets | sight. — “capital fellows,” he wrote his aunt—and j When it grew too dark to sew, she still sat when at last he was done with books and mas- j there and waited and watched the little hum- j down beside her kindly enough, for it had been, ters, he asked her consent to invite them to ; ming birds as they flitted about above the old ! all along, one great point with him to bear his cinations of a poor soldier, even though he be as handsome as Paul Covington; and so he was able to leave her without regret, or the con sciousness of having wronged her in the slight est degree. But had it been in his power to in- j duee her to “ fall in love ” with him, and die of despair at his failure to reciprocate her affection, with his present feelings toward Ida, he would have rejoiced at such a calamity, as he could then charge her with the whole of the evil. When he reached home on thart last evening, he found Ida sitting on the piazza steps, waiting for him, as she had done on that other evening, which seemed now an age ago. He now sat spend some time at home with him in the sum- | mimosa tree, sipping the nectar from the pink, mer. But no sooner had he gained their pro- feathery blossoms that filled the air with their raise to visit him than in one little corner of his j sweet, delicate fragrance heart there sprang up a jealous regret that he j “There must be a nest somewhere near,” she had given the invitation, and when he badejhis ■ thought, “but we can never find out where it friends adieu at the commencement of the boli- j is.” days, and they promised to meet him a week or j Then she remembered a nest Paul had found two later, he did not insist that they should i in that same old tree (ever so long ago), and had accompany him, but hurried home, resolved to ! - l — ;l — ± ~ — j ’ -> ■> be assured of his fate before their arrival. disappointment like a soldier, and make no sign; or, in other words, to display to her that he did not care so very much after all. And Ida, generously forgetting his past unkindness; talked to him of his prospects as only a loving and sympathizing sister can, and as she alone, who knew iiim best, could do. tears. Paul looked from one sister to the other, feel ing as though in a dream. But this was only for a moment. Mistaken he must have been all along; how, he knew not, but there could be no mistake now! To see was to recognize that withered boquet; and it brought to him a message of deeper meaning than the blooming flowers could have spoken ! It told of a love that had outlived summer hopes and summer flowers—a love that had out lived carelessness and neglect—a love that knew no death, not even the death of despair ! And now, overwhelmed by remorse, he felt that there was one act of kindness left for him, and this he would perform. He approached Ida’s chair. “I am going away now,” he whispered; “Heaven help you, Ida! Good-bye !” He stooped and kissed her cheek, then turned away. He was passing out of the room, when Reginald Marks, with lips as white and face as He was in no mood for conversation, but he stern as his own, called to him. His aunt lived at the old family mansion, which was on a pleasant little farm, about three miles from town. Paul was now just twenty-one—rather wild and careless, perhaps—but with a generous and affectionate heart. He was possessed of an in exhaustible fund of vivacity, united with teas ing propensities equally unlimited, which his unfailing good humor kept from being provok ing. ‘‘Bless the boy,” said his grandmother to her climbed up to it, and held up one of the tiny J listened, not unwillingly, to her soft, pleasing eggs for her to see, but it had crushed in his tight ! voice, as she spoke of the past and of the pres, grasp. So she mused pleasantly on, and the I ent, and formed plans for the coming summert twdlight deepened, the humming birds left off j when he should visit his friends again. Bu- their toil for food, and went to their hidden j Ida thought that when he came he should cer- houses; the mimosa shut up its leaves to sleep, | tainly take Carrie Spencer back with him; and and then, from amid its branches, the locust j so, behind all her cheerful words, there beat a and the katy-did began, each at the same mo- j saddened heart. ment, their evening song. At length, Ida was called to supper, and Paul had not yet appeared. He came in after they had all taken their seats with his curly brown hair rumpled up, and looking, altogether, as daughter as they heard him rattling away with savage as possible. His cousins could always his cousins, the next morning after his return tell by certain expressions of his eyes and home; “he always brings so much life along mouth—and especially his eyes—when he was with him ! he makes the old house seem like a ! not pleased; and Lizzie immediately called out: new place, and cheers us all up so much ! Ifhe “Why, Paulie, you look like you've been could only stay !” she added with a sigh, re- j fighting !” membering that in a few short weeks her boy j “Have you been to town, Paul?” asked his would be obliged to leave his home to take his ! aunt. place in the army, perhaps never to return again, j “Do I generally go off to town without ask-j _ _ _ His father had been a soldier, and it was his ■ ing if you have any orders?” he replied, rather j ularly with Ida; after he left home in the au dying wish that his little son should be educated ; shortly. j tumn, he discontinued writing to her entirely, to that life. i “No, Paulie, you don’t; you’re a good boy ! and an occasional letter to his aunt was all that A week had passed very swiftly by, his friends about that. But I didn't see you anywhere.” the family received, were expected daily, and Paul knew that he “I’ve been down in the orchard—nowhere Ida wrote to him a few weeks before the time ought to speak to Ida; but he was by no means else.” as brave as a soldier should be. j “Where’s my June-apple, Cousin Paulie?” One afternoon, when he and Ida were in the sang out little Grace, to whom the word orchard flower garden, they weib speaking of the lang- suddenly recalled Paul’s promise of the after- uage of flowers. Ida was telling him that some J noon. Paul sad no pleasant plans nor bright antici pations, but he imagined that he understood and appreciated her desire to reconcile him to his fate, as well as to assure him that she felt as kindly toward him as ever. And when, on the next morning, Ida stood at the gate with her sis ters, and bade him a tearful good-bye, they parted, each sad and dejected, and each still misunderstanding the other. In the Winter came a renewal of Mr. Mark’s offer of marriage; Ida then promised to be his wile, and their wedding day was fixed on the twentieth of April—her birthday. While at college, Paul had corresponded reg- of her acquaintances were quite adepts in the art of interpreting it; but she added that she did not know that it was of much value after all. Now all this was entirely new to Paul. It is “Oh, I forgot about it, Grace !” “Now, Cousin Paulie, you always forgets !” “No, Ido not always forget! I don't forget everything; whoever thinks so is very much mis- inlren ! appointed for her marriage; and this letter gave him the first intimation of Marks’ attachment for her. — . ^ “Dear Paulie,” she wrote, “I know you will be pleased, because Mr. Marks is your friend too. You remember, you used often to speak to me of him, before I had ever seen him, and had learned, myself, how good and noble he is.” true he had heard that some flowers have very j taken! pretty emblems connected with their names; but i He stole a glance at Ida as he spoke these last he had no idea that they have a language signi- ! words, but she was not looking at him; she sat ficant and all their own. He was delighted j quietly buttering her bread, and seeming so when Ida showed him in her Botany the list of j utterly unconscious as to make him still more Flora’s Revealings.” . j angry with her, if possible. “ W by, it is perfectly charming,” he exclaimed ! He trifled with his food, and when plied with with animation ‘‘How can you say it is of no questions by his aunt he muttered that he had j did not know it but the last sentence affected user It is the most poetical way of love- ; a headache, and pushing back his chair, rose “Dear Paulie, I want to see you so much, and so do we all. Y’ou must be sure and come—I shall expect you; and we will be happy together once more, as we were when we were children. I am going away very soon, far away, and who knows that we shall ever see each other again ?’’ There were tear-stains on this letter. Paul making. Ida smiled at his enthusiasm. “ Then, gather a wreath from the garden bowers, And tell of the wish of thy heart in flowers,” she repeated musingly, her eyes on the words she pronounced, but scarcely thinking of them. “ I’ll do it!” answered Paul, laughingly, “ and you shall read the message.” “ I will ” replied Ida, and taking the matter lightly soon forgot the circumstance. On the next afternoon, Paul stealthily took Lottie’s Botany, and seating himself under a tree in a distant corner of the yard, spent an hour in a very attentive study of the appendix. The flowers in the garden were not very plen- last ' tiful and he could find nothing that would suit his purpose but the red pinks. A few of the brightest of these he gathered; and taking from his pocket a piece of red and white twine that had bound a parcel of candy brought home to his cousins only that morning, he tied the stems as securely with it, as did the Philistines fasten Samson’s seven green withes. Little Gracie was standing near and childlike j watching his action with interest. “Here, Gracie,” he said, “I want you to carry these pinks to sister and I'll get you a June i apple.” “ Tell sister you sent ’em?” “ Yes.” ‘Well, I”ll do it, cousin Paulie,” and off she from the table and left the room. He wandered in the moonlight up and down and around the yard until the moon went down behind the pines. Returning to the house when he thought the family should be retired, and he would thus, for the present, escape further annoyance, he him as none of the rest had done, and decided him to go and see her once more. He had long since forgiven her for not being able to love him as he desired, and was willing for her to be happy in her own way. But, at tho same time, he felt and knew that she would never cease to be as dear to him as on that bright summer afternoon, when his first and last effort fj-r stum hled over Ida, who was sitting on i toward a nearer and dearer understanding was the door-step. j so rudely repulsed. ... Pa v , n1 ’, 8116 fUed.but he strode past her Jf hig ^appointment had been hard to bear, with head erect, without so much as a civil | it was not wi £ hout its uses . It had changed him ‘beg pardon for his carelessness i from the careless boy to the man of earnest 1 he next morning Paul was dressed and , thought, and led him higher in the steps of a ready to start to town immediately after break- nobl ° se lf-denying manhood. as 't> , , , . ... T . „ ] Paul reached home two days before the wed- Ja T? 1 S * m TA S S0I ? et ^’ I believe, di H e met Ida and her betrothed coming said Lizzie to Ida, as they stood together at the i dovv ? n the avenue fa dining-room window and watched their cousin , .. Id dear sister ... be exc i aime d, as he as he slowly walked down the long avenue of J ber bis accustomed kiss, and offered her cedars, and passed through the broad gate; “do £ is ri bt hand, at the same time extending the you know what it is? other to Mr. Marks. “And Rex, old friend, I " t a n 8 - ered sai ^ y ' • He sald be am glad to see you looking so well! I received was no we . your letter, Ida, and answered it,” he continued, I “and now you see me here. I was much sur prised, of course—and—well—I am glad you are happy, Ida—and Rex is a good fellow.” ran into the house, and into her sister’s room, which was her grandmother’s also. “Here, sister, fiere’s a bouquet Paulie sent you. He made it all hisself. Smell it; so sweet! He never put any pin in it this time.” “Yes, Gracie, it is very sweet.” Paul lingered near the window to hear what But she thought that if he were ill, he might at least stay at home; and, moreover, that a walk of three miles in the warm sun was not condu cive to the restoration of his health. Poor Ida had a good many unhappy thoughts that day’. Paul did not return home to dinner; and when late in the afternoon Ida saw him rid ing down the road with a lady at his side, she concluded that he had not meant for his flowers to tell her any secret, after all. Nearer and nearer they came, Carrie Spencer’s light curls streaming in the wind, and at last they reined up at the gate. The girls, of course, ran out to meet them—Ida with her sisters, as they had seen her in the piazza, and she did not wish to His cousins had all run out to meet him, and he received kisses and joyous words of welcome from all around; and then, followed by the merry troop, he hastened into the house to see his grandmother and aunt. A good many flowers were in bloom in the “ It’s the flowers—I did not know sister cared,” stammered Lottie, much troubled. “ You didn’t know that I cared,” said Paul, as though in reply to her, but looking at Mr. Marks. After a somewhat tedious explanation, in which each one took an embarrassed part, and some faint though friendly remonstrances from Paul, Mr. Marks said; “ No, dear Paul, it is I who must go, and not you.” So, that same evening, at Mr. Marks’ re quest, Paul ordered the buggy and accompanied his friend to town. Their ride was a silent one; but when the shrill whistle of the engine sound ed a warning that passengers must soon be gone and friends must soon part, Mr. Marks was aroused from his unpleasant revery, and hast ily diving into the recesses of his valise, drew from it the casket of pearls that he had pur chased for his bride. He gave it into Paul’s hand, insisting that he should accept them for Ida, as a token of his regard and friendship for them both; that they were intended for her, and it would be sacrilege to bestow them elsewhere. Ida, who had shed not a few tears during Paul’s absence, began weeping again as soon as he appeared; and Gracie, mistaking his unu sual seriousness for anger, ran up to him, and pulling his sleeve, exclaimed: “Cousin Paulie, you made sister Ida cry; now, I know you did ! Cousin Paulie, you shan’t make sister Ida cry no more /” But, strange to say, she only cried harder than before. And as tender words and entreaties failed to chase away the tears, Gracie was more confident than ever of the justness of her charge, and ran to her grandma with the information that, “ Paulie was all bad, and must not have any custard at tea-time!” Paul passed his fingers perplexedly through his curly hair; but he was relieved from the “dernier resort” of scolding by the return of Gracie, exultant with a message from grandma, that he and sister Ida were to “ come to her, immediate!” They found her in her favorite rocking-chair, in her favorite nook in the south piazza, and fighting the air with a large turkeytail fan. “Comehere, my children,” she said. “Ida, your mother has been telling me such a strange story. Is it true, my son, that some little flow ers that I threw away were of so much value to you?” “It is very true, grandma,” he answered gravely. The old lady was much affected. She ques- tiohed them and talked the affair over at length, concluding with the words: “Who would have thaught it!—who would have thought it! I must try and be more care ful in my old age—I really must!” “Don’t give it another thought, grandma,” said Paul; “it will never happen again.” “Do you think not?” she asked, earnestly. “ Well, I am glad. But I mast be more careful— I really must—live and learn—live and learn,” and they left her fanning herself and rocking vigorously. Most of Ida’s invited guests were surprised to find that there was to be another bridgroom; and some were disappointed at seeing only Paul instead of the handsome stranger whose namo was written on the wedding-cards. Paul considered some explanation necessary, as he was unwilling that his friend should be regarded in fault; and so, at his suggestion, af- Ida would say. He walked leisurely around the appear singular, nor to offend Paul, house and then back to the flower yard and “ Can’t you come and ride a little way with waited there awhile, thinking she would soon us, girls?” Miss Carrie asked, gaily. “I have make her appearance; bnt she did not. challenged Mr. Covington to a race, but he is This was one of grandma's “ bad days;” her afraid that Nimble will beat his slow pacer, and neuralgia was worse than usual, and as usual so won’t try.” she required a good deal of attention from her i “Thank you,” replied Ida and Lottie, “it is favorite grandchild. too late; and the horses are out, too. But you Ida hastily set the precious bouquet into might stop and get some fruit,” Ida added, the medicine cup on the stand near the bed, and Miss Carrie very prettily appealed to Paul, ran out into the kitchen to prepare some herb and then concluded that they “had not time to yard, and everywhere was the flourishing green of spring. Paul involuntarily glanced towards the neat rows of pinks that bordered the paral lelogram beds as he passed them. Their blue- green leaves looked fresh and pleasant, but there were no blossoms yet. “It is better so, he thought; “the sight of them now might make Irv rvith TA& ” h« Aid nnt wi*h tn he ! klssed Ida affectionately when it had concluded, giving Paul her hand, and also a merry look, which convinced him and his smiling bride that she understood the story even better than the ter the guests had re-assembled in the parlor after supper, grandma told the story of her carelessness, and what came of it. Carrie Spencer, whom Ida had invited to be one of her bridesmaids, thinking thus to please Paul, sat beside her friend and held her hand sympathetically during the narrative. She tea, grandma’s cure-all. Alter awhile Paul passed under grandma’s window again, walking along slowly and won dering what Ida would say—although he was pretty certain what it would be—when, what should he see lying on the ground just before him, but a bunch of pinks very much resem bling those he had given to Gracie just a few moments before. He stood still and looked at them in bewilderment then picked them up, and seeing the string, knew them to be the same. He threw them from him with disgust, and wandered off, saying to himself that he did not care where he went or what became of him. At length he reached the orchard, and threw himself down under a large pear tree. His me ditations for the next two hours were neither enviable nor pleasant. A grateful breeze fanned his temples, bnt it could not waft away their throbbing pain. He lay there, angry and disppointed until the pale crescent moon was outlined in the summer sky, and the sky grew brighter, and purple, and golden, as the time wore on. PP He heard the hands in a neighboring field j stop. “Then come to-morrow, and we will save you some peaches.” Eariy the next afternoon Paul was off again, this time taking his horse, and returning with Miss Spencer, who was very charming, and par took with zest of the delicious watermelon and fruits that were set before her. “Everything seems so much nicer than what we get in town," she said, appreciutingly, “and the air is so cool and pleasant out here. Ida, I don’t wonder you stay at home so much. It is such a delightful place.” Carrie Spencer had been one of Ida’s school mates, but they had never visited; and now Ida, putting aside her unhappy thoughts for Paul’s sake, treated her guest with as much affection ate kindness as if she were the dearest friend in the world—as she would be some day, she thought to herself, when she was Paul’s wife. And so she gained Miss Spencer s promise to visit them again; and fancied she would learn after awhile to feel as a sister toward the gay girl. When Paul’s friends arrived a week after this, j angry with her again. The next afternoon he and Mr. Marks, with Ida and Lottie, were in the parlor; and Paul had been questioning his cousins as to how they had passed their time in his absence. Ida could give no account of herself. Lottie showed him the new songs that she had learned, and sang and played them for him. The tide of conversation ebbed lower and lower, until at length they werejleft high-dry on the beach of silence. others. Just then Mr. Kingsbury, who all the evening had been very attentive to Miss Spencer, and into whose dull brain perhaps a new light had penetrated, started to his feet, and exclaimed merrily: I move that we all follow Miss Spencer’s ex- on the internal structure of the lungs adds greatly to the efficacy of the Turkish Bath, exert ing a healing and soothing influence on the muc ous membrane lining them, very much like a warm poultice to an inflamed surface. The air thus inhaled by its soothing and electrical ac tion on the extensive membrane with which it comes in contact makes the Turkish Bath sup erior to any other. Of course all the benefits deriving from the action of the warm air on the lungs are lost in a box, blanket or curtain ar rangement with the head out. 2. The Turkish Bath has not less than three, usually four large rooms of different temperatures. The bather comes first into a room of moderate heat, say from HO'’ to 120°, and remains in this until there is a general moisture on the skin and an equalization of the circulation. He is then prepared to enter the next room, which is heated to 140° to 201W; and having been thus prepared in the first room, there is no undue determina tion to the head nor any other part, no excite ment, no unpleasant sensation, but a positive enjoyment which is indescribable and which is followed by themost delightful repose of mind, ease of body, and invigoration of the whole system. This hot room is also necessary for the shamp ooing, which is a most important part of the Turkish Bath and one that cannot be performed to any advantage, except in a room in which the air is raised to a high temperature. In such a room the shampooing is done while the pores are all open and the impurities that have accu mulated in the seven millions of pores are ALL AFLOAT. Again, the shampooing being thus done at a high heat, in a room especially adapted to the purpose; it not only cleanses the body as no other bath will do, but the whole system is elec trified and wonderfully invigorated by the com bined action of the high heat and the friction of the shampooing. 3. Besides the preparatory and hot room des cribed the Turkish Bath has a icash room which has generally a temperature of not less than 90^ to 100°, where the bather has first warm water to wash off, and this is very gradually changed to cold water. This room thus heated is necessary to avoid the very disagreeable sensation and the undue shock that would arise from going out of a room heated to 160° into one not more than 60° or 70°. 4. And the Turkish Bath has still another room equally necessary with those described. This is the cooling room. Here the temperature is rather warmer than that of a room not heated by fire, but still approaching the temperature of the outside air, so that the bather can cool off sufficiently but gradually, and thus be prepared to go out without the least risk. The above brief description of the essential parts and the different processes of the Turkish Bath is given because there is much interest just at this time in the subject, and because it is desirable that people should know what is ne cessary to constitute a real Turkish Bath, so that they may enjoy and properly appreciate this, the greatest luxury and curative that the world has ever known. Except the question “What is a Turkish Bath ?” there is perhaps none asked oftener than the following, which is satisfactorily answered by a regular physician. DOES THE TURKISH BATH WEAKEN ? Dr. Erasmus Wilson, of London, says: “Non bathers often express the opinion that the Turk ish Bath must be weakening. But the Bath strengthens; it never weakens. (Some corpu lent people whose experience is confined to one trial or at long intervals, do claim that it has relaxed their systems and they feel exhausted, but even this is not common.) The idea of weakening is suggested by the loss of fluids by perspiration; but this loss is, as we have endeav ored to show, a gain and not a loss. The expul sion of fluids from the economy is a natural process, necessary to our very existence, and without it we should die. It would be very un reasonable to regard the watery fluids expelled by the lungs, by the kidneys, and other emnnc- tory organs, as a loss of material necessary to the economy, or a loss which could in any way effect the nervous and muscular powers of the individual, otherwise than beneficially. Is it not one of the conditions of our healthful exist ence, that we shoul earn our bread by the sweat of our brow? and writhe as we may under the verdict, we must do so, or suffer the evil conse quences of a breach of heaven’s law.” But one fact is worth a thousand arguments. Many instances could be given to prove that the Bath is not weakening, but on the contrary a source of strength. One case in particular we will relate, that of Mr. Bartholomew and wife, of the Bristol Turkish Bath. At one epoch in his life he was so weak and delicate as to be un able to attend to business, or to walk half a mile without being compelled to go to bed for an hour or two afterwards. In this state of health he entered upon his duties in the Turkish Bath, in which he spent twelve hours daily for seven years. At the end of this period he was pub licly examined in the lecture Hall of the Bristol Atliemeu in before a large audience of medical men and the general public. Then and there he challenged all Bristol and Clifton, with their one hundred thousand inhabitants, to produce a better specimen of muscular development than himself, flaking up two very large dumb bells, weighing a hundred and twelve pounds, he swung them easily over his head by sheer strength and force of muscle. The High Sher- Then Paul became possessed of a spirit of restlessness. He moved about from table to ; himself, and unanimously carried out. what-not, opening and shutting the old da- they all went home satisfied, at last. Mr. and Mrs. Covington. And the motion was immediately seconded by And so guerreotype cases, heir-looms of the family, and brushing the dust from his favorite books— books which he and Ida had loved to read to gether, and which she never opened now. “Ida!” he exclaimed, at length, “where is your herbarium? I don’t see it here in its old place ?” “I left it up stairs, I think,” said Ida, qui etly. “Have you added anything new or pretty to it?” he asked. “No, Paul.” she answered, rather sadly and without looking up from her embroidery, “I have not done much. You always helped me, you know, and I never could arrange the flow ers neatly.” “Oh, yes, Ida,” exclaimed Lottie, anxious for her sister’s share in the work to be appreciated; “yes you have ! You have made some beautiful | ample, and offer our renewed congratulations to | iff of Bristol, after watching the feat for a few minutes, declared: “Bartholomew, von have forever settled the question in my mind that the Turkish Bath is not weakening, but a powerful means of acquiring strength.” Again. Mrs. Bartholomew was prostrated by indigestion and nervous debility so as to be un able to attend to domestic duties, and had no children. Eighteen months alter commencing to attend to the ladies in the Turkish Bath she was the healthiest and strongest woman in Bris tol, in evidence of which fact she gave birth to three beautiful children without attendant or after pains. This was her first birth, and she had passed her thirtieth year. The smallest of these children, a boy, was declared by the doc tor to have organs so weak that nothing could save his life. His father took him into the Bath when fourteen days old, continued to give him a bath daily, and at the meeting already referred to challenged the whole city to produce his equal among single birth children of the same age, whether as regards sharpness of mental fac- j ulties, strength of body, or beauty of form. Reginald Marks was unhappy for a long time; but he came back in the fall and walked under the cedars with Lottie, and one pleasant morn ing they walked into the church together, and thence went forth on the journey of life. The cluster of dried pinks, with the aid of a little paint and gum, Paul made into a pretty picture, which occupies a place of honor in their home; and, like the enduring, earnest love which they symbolize, they bloom brightly through wintry ana summer weather, on cloudy as well as sunny days. Fashion now demands that the hair be Cardinal red, and red-headed girls are at a premium. A Western paper ays: “We are rejoiced to learn that Julius Caesar, Lucile Western and a company of minstrels are coming to our town.”