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* Forgive me!' said Curtiss, grasping his hand.
■ Forgive me! I did not know that. When did
she die?’
‘The snn has risen and set’ (and he held up
his fingers to denote six >, 4 times sinoe her canoe
was launched upon the dark river.’
‘I am very sorry,’ interposed Mrs. Curtiss,
with all of a woman’s sympathy. 4 Why did you
not let ns know? She was a good woman, and
I would gladly have assisted at her burial.’
* The heart of the pale squaw is tender as that
of a dove,’ replied Buffalo-Hoof, to whom the
words were grateful, warrior and Indian though
he might be; and then, as if desirous of chang
ing the subject, he continued, addressing her
husband: ‘The red man promised to the pale
one a guide to the far mountains. His tongue
was not forked like the trail. He has kept his
word. He is here. ’
4 Where ? I see no one but yourself.
4 Here!’ and the Indian laid his hand upon
his breast, and rode forward without another
word.
Far too well acquainted with his character to
attempt further conversation until such a time
as the Indian would himself unbend from his
haughty demeanor, Curtiss followed, and soon
reaching a high point of land, found the Indian
waiting for his coming.
1 See!’ he said, as he pointed to where the
right hand fork of the road ran like a yellow
serpent far away. 4 See where the moccasin of
my white brother would have journeyed.’
4 Indeed, I should have gone very much out
of my way.’
4 And the little box,’ pointjpg to his instru
ment, 4 that whispers which way the north star
shines, would that have told him of it ?’
‘Not that I was going wrong. It is not quite
so much of a medicine as that,’ replied he, with
a smile. 4 But, Buffalo-Hoof, how far is it to a
camping-place? I do not wish to urge my
horses forward too fast, until they have become
somewhat seasoned by traveling.’
4 Can my brother see where a dark line crosses
the prairie, as if a heavy cloud was resting above
it?’
‘Yes, distinctly.’
4 There is wood, water and game. There will
Buffalo-Hoof wait your coming,’ and he struck
his heels into the sides of his half-trained
horse, and dashed rapidly away toward the
point he had indicated.
There was so much to admire in the perfect
figure and perfect control of the Indian over his
steed—he with his bronzed form, naked from
the waist upwards, and the prairie-born courser,
with a single thong fastened around his jaw for
bit and bridle, that an involuntary exclamation
of admiration burst from the lips of all. It was
the very beau-ideal of horsemanship—the in
carnation of freedom of action and strength.
At length the fearless rider became lost to their
eyes, and they followed on, though but little
realizing how soon their pleasure would change
to fear if a thousand such riders would come
sweeping around, with a deadly purpose in their
savage hearts.
A bright fire was burning when they reached
the little belt of timber that margined a stream,
and beside it lay a deer, ready dressed for the
cooking—telling that the time of the Indian had
not been lost in idleness. A dainty dish at all
times, but when given to a hungry man, luscious
with its undried juices, and hot from glowing
coals, it is the ultima thule of luxury. Oh, ye
who live in cities and eat the dry, bloodless
meat known as venison, how little do ye know
of its woodland flavor ! Well may ye disguise
it with spices and wines, for truly it needs
something to make it palatable. But let the
well-fatted buck be afoot with the dew of the
morning—bunt him hard, and run him far—let
him hang upon the tree beside your camp at
night, and then eat your fill from the crisping
embers, and you will learn to turn with disgust
away from the cuisine of fashionable life, and
envy the western hunter in his lonely bivouac.
With a woman’s skill and tenderness, Mrs.
Curtiss drew from the Indian guide, as they sat
by the camp fire, the story of his wife’s sickness
and death, thereby rendering him, if possible,
more firmly her friend. To none other would
he have been bo communicative, but she had
known the one who had been called from earth,
and on more than one occasion had befriended
her. And both she and her husband knew how
well the red man had loved her, and often won
dered if he could be tempted to leave her long
enough to go with them, until the land hunted
over by their nation was past But they had
never broached the subject—had never dared to
do so. Now, however, that link was broken,
and Curtiss asked him how far he would jour
ney with them.
4 To the end of the trail,’ was the firm answer.
4 Of what trail ?’
‘Of life! the snows of many winters have
fallen upon the head of Buffalo-Hoof. Like an
aged hemlock he stands alone in the forest.
Many branches have been lopped off. and it
matters not where the trunk falls. The pale
laces are becoming like the flowers of the prairie,
and the red man is vanishing like the dew.
There will bloodshed among them. The hand
of Buffalo-Hoof buried the tomahawk many
winters ago. He will not dig it up again. He
will go far towards the setting sun, and die in
peace.’
All felt that his words were sorrowfully true,
and silently the men sat smoking their pipes,
until suddenly the Indian laid his ear to the
ground, and listened long and earnestly.
4 What is it ? Is any one coming ?’ asked the
anxious mother in a whisper, reaching forward
and placing her youngest in his arms, as if for
protection.
4 The wolves are chasing some sick deer that
has been outrun by the herd,’ he answered, as
he replaced the child.
Since the day of the loss of Mattie he had
scarcely glanced at either of her other children.
They were no more to him than those of a per
fect stranger would have been. He had loved
one as is rarely the case for an Indian to love a
white child, and would never allow his affections
to become entangled again. Often and often the
fond mother had struggled to have it otherwise,
but without avail, andbright tear-drops gather
ed in her eyes as she hugged her child to her
heart—thought of the reason of his so doing, and
of that other little one who had gone ‘on before.’
4 You are thinking of Mattie,’ she said, with a
sigh. 4 Is it not so, Buffalo-Hoof?’
4 Yes,’ he replied, 4 and how she will welcome
the wife of the warrior.’
He, at least, believed that we shall know each
other after death; that—blessed thought!—we
shall not be strangers in the unknown land be-
J rond the grave. Yes, he was thinking of the
ong-lost child, thinking—
But when I shall hear the new song that she sings,
I shall know her again, notwithstanding her wings;
»y those eyes full of heaven, by the light on her hair—
And the smile she wore here, she will sorely wear there 1
And who shall dare say that he was not right?
Tell it to the mother who has lost her darling.
Say you that it is but the romance and poetry of
love? Then let us ever keep such ideal beliefr
in the shrine of an inner heart!
Other sounds, however, soon called the atten
tion of the watchful Indian away from his
thoughts. No one else could hear anything,
but he declared he could hear the sound of a
coming footstep.
4 It is all moonshine,’ said Curtiss, after they
had listened long and patiently. 4 Or more
likely if you do in reality hear a step, it is that
of some wild beast’
‘It is the foot of a man!’ was the oonfident
4 It is that of a pale-face.’
4 It can scarcely be possible that yon can dis
tinguish so ocourately. Buffalo-Hoof. But is
there more than one coming? If you are certain,
we had better be prepared. Who can tell wheth
er it may be friend or enemy ?’
4 Ho comes in peace,’ and the Indian laid aside
the rifle he had made ready for the firing, at the
first intimation of danger.
4 In the name of goodness, how can you tell
that ?’ demanded Curtiss, exoitedly. 4 How can
you tell whether his errand is a peaceful one or
not?’
4 He comes alone, and walks straight toward
the light of the fire. If he were an enemy he
would creep softly along, and keep in the shad
ow like a wolf. See !’ and he pointed to where
a form was now distinctly visible, and coming
rapidly toward them.
4 By heaven ! You are right Men, to your
guns!’
‘You will not need them,’ said the Indian,
with a quiet smile, as he coolly proceeded to
rub together the bark of the willow (the Kenni-
kenic of the prairie) and tobacco, preparatory
to refilling his pipe.
4 That remains to be seen. Who comes there?
Halt!’ and the rifles of Curtiss and his men
were cocked and drawn to their shoulders.
4 Ef yer want ter make a targit of a feller man,
and one with a white skin, why, jest blaze
away,’ was the fearless answer, followed by a
low laugh; and the stranger kept advancing.
4 Then you are a friend.’
4 Wal, I don’t know as you’ve got anythin’
agin me, or I agin you. Howsomever, put down
your weapons, and we’ll talk about it,’ and he
walked straight up to the camp-fire, notwith
standing their threatening attitude.
A very different man he appeared, as the light
flashed upon him, than one would have expected
to find wandering alone upon a far western
prairie, and having the challenge of three armed
men. He was rather under than over the usual
height, slightly built, spare in flesh, and yet
the sinews and cords that stood out like whip
cords, told of an immense amount of endurance
and strength. Tawny as a lion’s mane, his long
hair hung in wavy masses upon his shoulders,
and beard and moustaches of the same hue, al
most concealed the little of his face that was
left visible by a cap of wolf-skin, that was pulled
low down over the forehead. But that little of
his face was lighted by sharp gray eyes, and the
curl of the lip showed a rare love of fun, as well
as recklessness. His dress was a well-worn suit
of buck-skin, a hunting shirt and pants fringed
and beaded, but open so as to reveal the sinewy
throat.
4 Wal, thar !’ he exclaimed, as he threw him
self carelessly in front of the fire, and relieved
himself of the weight of a rifle, pistols, hatchet
and heavy bowie-knife— 4 wal, thar! this looks
like somethin’ of comfort, arter a long day’s
tramp. What, a woman here, too ? How do you
do marm ?’ and he touched his cap with a rude
effort at politness. 4 A woman and children !
Wal, the sight am good for sore eyes!’
‘Will you be kind enough to tell us who you
are?’ asked Curtiss, not over pleased with the
freedom of the stranger.
4 Sartinly ! my name is Joe Fisher. Ef yer
have ever been in the mountings, yer must have
heard of me.’
4 1 have not had that pleasure.’
4 Wal, thar hain’t no harm done. Hullo, red
skin!’
The Indian had arisen and drawn near as the
conversation was progressing, and been intently
looking at the face of Fisher. Then, as he ad
dressed him, their eyes met, there was a few
cabalistic movements of the fingers, and the
hand of each was extended and shaken warmly.
‘The pale-face is true as the arrow to the
mark,’ said Buffalo-Hoof to Curtiss, as he seated
himself by the stranger, and handed him his
pipe. 4 Let my white brother make him wel
come.’
Evidently there was some mystic bond of
union between them—some frontier masonry
that none of the others understood; but the
word of Buffalo-Hoof was a sufficient assurance
that he was a friend, and he was very soon stuff
ing himself with the best that the larder af
forded.
[to be continued.]
4 I too, pray God every day to take me from
this world. But before I die I wish to see you
in a foreign land out of reaoh of all your ene
mies.*
■Yes, Louise, we will meet again, but leave
immediately. For that you will have to ’
‘Listen,’ interrupted Louise.
Liardot listened and heard a noise at the door
like a dog were scratching it
‘I think it is Jacobin,’ ^aid Louise, 4 I will go
and open the door.’
‘Don’t you do it; the dog may not be alone.
Pass on the terrace; from there you can hear and
even see through the blinds.’
So saying Liardot went to open the door.
Jacobin—for it was him—entered with a joyous
barking—but behind him a man who was no oth
er than Pierre Maneheu.
•I thought you had left Paris,’ said Liardot,
standing before him to prevent him going far
ther.
4 You see that I am here yet; and I was hunt
ing you.’
4 Why ? ’
4 1 suppose you have some idea of it. 4
4 No. Unless you want me to help you go
back to Normandy.’
4 1 don’t need any help for that. I want my
wife! ’
Liardot expected that question and he coldly
answered:
4 You have not established me the guardian of
your wife.’
• No, you took it on yourself—my wife is here
and I want her. I shall not leave until you give
her back to me. Where is she ? ’
4 1 absolutely refuse to answer you, and I or
der you to leave these premises.’
4 Take care! Fleur de Bose.’
4 Your threatenings have no effect on me.’
4 Once more, where is Louise ? Let me go in
and find her.’
•No; begone ?’
4 Die, then ! ’ said Maneheu, taking a pistol
from under his coat and firing at Liardot.
Bullets travel fast, and there were only two
yards between Pierre’s pistol and Liardot’s
breast; still there was room enough for Louise
to throw herself in that deadly gap. Her heart,
already wounded by so much sufferings, re
ceived the bullet intended for the man she loved.
She wished to give her life in saving Liardot’s.
God had satisfied her wish.
Maneheu ran to the staircase, while Liardot
cried behind him:
4 Stop the murderer! ’
4 Halt! ’ cried a voice down stairs. 4 Don’t let
any one go out’
Maneheu came back towards the room. Liar
dot tried to arrest him, but a dagger stuck into
his arm made him loose his hold, and the mur
derer climbed the steps going to the top of the
house.
At the same time, Caillotte, leading six police
men emerged from down stairs.
4 Well, well! what’s the matter ? I heard some
shooting and I find you wounded.’
4 Gome, the murderer will escape, if you don’t
hurry up !’
‘What murderer?’
As Caillotte seemed not disposed to go any
farther, Liardot was to run by himself, but the
detective took him by the arm and said:
One thing at a time, if you please. I am
sent here by M. Fouche for a special mission,
which I regret, but I must follow orders. ’
4 Well! what have you come here for ? ’
4 To arrest your boarder, the woman chouan ! ’
•It is her you want!’ thundered Liardot,
4 then take her! ’ And pushing the door with
his foot, he pointed to Louise lying in a pool of
blood, with Jacobin by her side.
4 Who has done it ?.Uy*d. the detective.
4 The man to whom you now give a chance to
escape, the chouan who kept the Inn of Chant
du Cog.’
Four of you run after him,’ commanded Cail
lotte to his men, 4 and two go down stairs to
stop him if it is time yet.’
‘Good morning Sourdat; I heard yon had
called on me several times during my absence.
I don’t see what can be your business with me,
but if you wish to speak to me you must come
in the evening, to the garrison, quay d’Orsay. I
am with my sister now and could not listen to
you.’
‘What I have to tell you cannot be postponed
a moment,’ answered Liardot firmly. And he
added lowering his voice: 4 I can speak in the
presence of Mademoiselle.’
‘Speak quick then; what do you want?’
‘Excuse me. Major, but I must first address
Mademoiselle Robert.’ Then turning towards
Gabrielle: 4 I had the honor to receive you in
my house one night last year when you had es'
caped from a great danger. That night, a fii nd
of mine, very deir to me and very unfortunate,
had|8aved you from an awful death !’
4 At Tivoli ! yes—you say he is your friend ? ’
•Yes, Mademoiselle, and you are now his only
hope.’
4 He is alive, then; where is he? ’
He will be at the Conciergerie, in a few days
—may be to-morrow—unless he is pardoned—! ’
‘Condemned! he is condemned ! ’ exclaimed
Gabrielle. ‘ Ah! they had fooled me ! ’
4 This is too much,’ said Major Robert, taking
Liardot by the arm, ‘and you must explain what
all that means! ’
Major Robert was excited and almost trem
bling with anger. He could not understand j 6 c * oor '
Exercise common sense and remove the wet
stockings. If chilly, take a warm foot-bath,
ending with the cold dip and rubbing dry. If
in a judicious way people would wet their feet
oftener, clean up to their ears, it would be bet
ter for their health.
WHY IT TOOK A THOUSAND YEAES TO DOUBLE THE
POPULATION.
Dr. Draper thus desribes the unsanitary con
dition of Europe during the middle ages, giving
it as one of the reasons why the population re
mained nearly stationary for a thousand years.
He says :
In the lowlands and along the river courses,
were fevers, sometimes hundreds of miles in
extent, exhaling their pestiferous miasms, and
spreading agues far and wide.
In Paris and London, the houses were of wood,
daubed with clay, and thatched with straw or
reeds. They had no windows, and, until the
invention of the saw-mill, very few had wooden
floors. The luxury of a carpet was unknown;
some straw, scattered in the room, supplied its
place. There were no chimneys; the smoke of
the ill-led, cheerless fire, escaped through a hole
in the roof. In such habitations there was
scarcely any protection from the weather. No
attempt was made at drainage, but the putrify-
ing garbage and rubbish was simply thrown out
THE GHOST
—OF THE—
MALMAISON.
AN EPISODE OF FRENCH HISTORY
Translated from the French for the Sunny South
BY CHABLES GAILMABD.
[Most of the characters in this story are not fictitious,
bnt real personages who took conspicuous parts in
some of the most important events which occurred during
the rebellion of the West of France—called Chouannerie.]
d perhaps you oan tell whether his skill
white or red ?* wss the somewhat soomful
her
like
CHAPTER CXIV.
Fouche’s ultimatum to Liardot concerning
Louise had made the old chouan resolve to send
her to England.
‘Louise’ said he, as soon as he went home,
‘you must leave France. The trial of our friends
will commence on the 28th insb, and Fouche
has declared to me that you shall be tried with
them.’
‘Louise looked at him fixedly, but did not say
a word.
‘You do not answer me,’ insisted Liardot
Twill,’said Louise, ‘but I want first to tell
you that I have seen Pierre Maneheu !’
‘Your husband !’ exclaimed Liardot
•Yes. *
‘Where? when?’
‘Yesterday, near Saint-Eustache church.’
‘Did he see you ?’
‘No,’ answered Louise, casting down
eyes.
Liardot understood that Louise did not
to explain how she let her husband pass without
attempting to speak to him—perhaps even hid
ing from him. He did not insist on that deli
cate point
4 I don’t see why he did not leave Paris.’
4 I know why. He is seeking me.’
‘Should Pierre Maneheu come her9, he would
be lost and we with him.’
4 I know it, and for that reason will not wait for
him here.’
‘Then you consent to leave?’
4 Yes, because I believe he will not be captur
ed. Had he been arrested I should have follow
ed him on the bench of the accused; but he is
free and my presence in Paris could only injure
him. I shall leave France, and you will have
published in the papers that the woman chouan
has succeeded in reaching England. Maneheu
will read it and quit hunting me.*
T can immediately procure the means to go.’
4 I am ready.’
‘You know,’ said Liardot hesitatingly, ‘that as
for me, I stay.’
4 I had expected that*we would leave together.
The cause of the king is lost, why should you
remain here any longer ?’
4 I must try to save my friends; I might buy
some jailors or by some other means help to
their escape. Should I leave before their fate
is sealed, I would be a traitor.’
‘And then ?* tremblingly asked Louise.
Then I shall leave this oursed eity in whioh
the mob put the crown on a soldier's head, and
I shall emigrate to a free land.’
To England?’
‘Yes, to England, where I hope to die soon
for life is to me a burden.'
CHAPTER CXVII.
Caillotte and his men did not succeed in cap
turing Maneheu, and Liardot, more than ever in
the confidence of Fouche, was living alone with
Jacobin, who had remained with him.
The trial of his friends, the chouans com
menced on the 28th of May. Forty-two accused
appeared before the court; among them Moreau,
the glorious General of the Army of the Rhine
and Cadoudal, the hero of the insurrection of
the West. Liardot was every day present in
the court, and when on the 10th of June, the
judgment was rendered, Saint-Victor discovered
him among the crowd and exchanged with him
a sign of intelligence.
Georges Cadoudal, Jean-Baptiste-Coster de
Saint-Victor, Deville filias Tamerlan, Burban
alias Malabry and fifteen others were condemned
to be beheaded. The terrible sentence was lis
tened to by the chouans with a stoical indiffer
ence.
Georges looked at his men as a general looks
at his soldiers when a bombshell has burst among
them, and smiled with pride seeing that no one
gave the least sign of emotion. The judge gave
orders to carry them back to prison, and the
crowd were going out of the court-room, but
Liardot remained; it seemed that sorrow had
nailed him to his place. When Georges passed
him they exchanged a glance—the last one per
haps. Saint-Victor followed his general and
when near Liardot he slipped into his hand a
ring he had just pulled from his finger, saying
more with his eyes than with his tongue:
‘For her!’
The next day Liardot went to the Tuileries to
see Mile Robert He wanted to deliver his mes
sage and then go to see her brother and implore
him for Saint-Victor. Bnt at the Tuileries he
was told that Mile Robert was only recovering
from a serious illness and could not receive any
visit or even read any letter. At the garrison of
Quay d’Orsay, he learned that Major Robert
had left a month ago, jent to Italy by the First
Consul, and was not expected to be back for
some time yet.
The old chouan sadly went back to his house.
All his hopes seemed to have vanished.
Liardot passed twelve days of that miseraole
existence, calling every day at the Tuileries, al
most hopeless, but not discouraged, collecting
all the news he oould get. There was a rumor that
the Emperor was inclined to pardon, but noth
ing had been done yet. On the 23d of June,
Liardot learned that Major Robert had come
back and was immediately reoeived by the. Em-
S eror at the palace where he would remain all
ay. The old chouan immediately went to the
Tuileries, entered the garden and seated himself
on one of the settees, about twenty yards from
the Pavilion de Flore. He had taken with him
Saint-Victor's ring and put it on his finger so as
not to lose it It was a simple gold ring with
out any precious stone or ornament, and the
sight of it threw the old soldier in a sort of rev
erie for a whiie.
When he raised his head he saw, coming out
of Hie Pavilion, a young lady dressed in alack
and leaning on an officer’s arm. He at onoe
recognized Major Robert, and thought his com
panion was no other than his sister. He had
never seen her, but Saint-Victor had so often
spoken of her to him that he oould not make
any mistake.
Gabrielle was very pale, but as beautiful as
ever, walking slowly for she was going out for
the first time. Her brother seemed happy to ac
company her, and Liardot thought that Provi
dence was rendering him an unexpectedly favora-
able ehanoe whioh he resolved to take advantage
oL He rose walked straight to the oouple,
Gabrielle looked at him in amassment and the
Mqor frowned saying:
how an agent of Fouche was mixed in that Tivoli
affair; but he understood very well that he was
speaking of Saint Victor whose fate he had, thus
far. succeeded in concealing to his visitor. He
had, on the contrary, tried to make her believe
that the young Lieutenant tof Cadoudal had
died of the wounds he had received when cap
tured. In inflicting this sorrow upon his beloved
sister, he wished to save her more painful ones,
tor he knew Saint Victor would certainly be con
demned, and that Gabrielle would die if she
learned of his death. Francois Robert could
hardly keep his self-possession, while hearing a
man reveal to his sister the fate of Saint Victor.
But Liardot was not a man to be intimidated,
and he answered coldly:
4 1 deeply regret to excuse a sorrow to Made
moiselle Robert, by telling her a misfortune,
which I thought she knew; but(I now fulfill a sa
cred duty. M. de Saint Victor, my friend—my
brother—will die an infamous death, and to save
him I have no hope but in an act of clemency,
which I—’
4 Your friend! ’ echoed the Major, exasperated;
4 your friend ! a chouan, then you are a traitor! ’
4 1 have served in the Royalist army in Bre-
tagDe. I thought you knew it. And after all,
what matters it? I betray those I work for now,
you can have me punished; but save the man
who has saved you at Malmaison.’
Francois Robert sighed and muttered a few
words and Gabrielle exclaimed:
4 We shall save him! ’
4 1 depend on you, Major, to help me in that,
and I am sure I shall not be disappointed, for I
know you have a noble heart.’
• Is it your friend who sends you ? ’ asked Rob
ert, bitterly; 4 1 thought I had already paid my
debt to him.’
4 M. de Saint Victor does not know anything
of my undertaking. The only mission he gave
me was to bring Mile. Robert this ring,’ said Liar
dot, pulling it from his finger and presenting it
to the young lady, who took and kissed it.
4 What must we do ? Speak. I am ready to
do anything to save him from death—and my
brother will help me—’ she added, looking to
the Major who turned his eyes to hide his emo
tion.
4 You must ask the Emperor for his pardon,’
answered Liardot.
• I will ask it, and the Emperor will not refuse
me.’
(concluded next week.)
HEALTH DEPARTMENT.
By John Stainback Wilson, M. D„
Atlanta, Geobgia.
Indian Medicine—Cold Feet — Unsanitary-
Condition of Europe, Etc.—Breaking
Down,
SIOUX MEDICINE.
While coming down the Rosebud, through
the deserted Sioux villages, I noticed the re
mains ot a great many sweat or medicine tepees
or lodges, which shows that the Sioux must
have had a great many wounded in the Rose
bud and Little Horn battles. Their treatment
for sickness and wounds consists almost entire
ly of the sweating process, very much like our
modern Turkish baths. The sweating treat
ment is performed by placing the patient, no
matter what the disease may be, under a small
wicker-work frame covered almost air-tight
with skins. Hot stones taken from a fire near
at hand are then passed in to the patient, who
places them in a smatl hole in the ground in
the center of the sweat house or tepee. A pail
of water is then passed in and poured on the
almost red hot stones. From this, almost suffo
cating hot steam arises, which soon produces a
profuse perspiration. The patient is then taken
out and plunged in the cold running stream
near at hand, or in winter rolled in a snow
bank, the patient all the time being in a nude
condition.
A writer from the Indian country thus de
sribes the practice of the Siouxs in cases of
sickness. We give it for the benefit of our
readers, commending it to the favor of those
who place a high estimate on 44 the Indian prac
tice.” It is certainly preferable to the so-called
Indian medicines advertised in the papers and
sold on our streets by traveling quacks. But,
the writer is mistaken in saying that this In
dian bath is very much like our modern Turk
ish baths. The bath described by him is noth
ing but a steam bath, while the Turkish bath is
a hot-air bath, with no steam about it He is
also mistaken about the “profuse perspiration, ”
it being a physical impossibility to sweat to any
great extent in a steam bath, the air of the bath
being already surcharged with moisture, and
therefore incapable of receiving any additional
water from the body. Such a bath will heat
and soften the skin and put it in such a condi
tion that perspiration may occur after the bath,
but not in it
COLD FEET.
Cold feet usually result from unequal circula
tion. People of active minds will generally
find relief by wearing at times, during their
mental tasks, a linen or cotton skull-cap, fre
quently wrung out in cold water. The brain is
thus cooled, and the blood sent more naturally
to the extremities. A brilliant New York min
ister was compelled to write his sermons with
his feet in a hot bath. A prominent hydro-
E athist advised the wet head-cap, and it worked
ke a charm, enabling him to dispense with the
ineonvenient tub of water. The feet should be
washed in tepid water every day or two, but
not in water so hot as to make them tender.
Including the bath, dip them into quite oold
water, which closes the pores naturally, and
then wipe and rub them entirely dry and warm
them. No business at the desk, the oounter, the
bench—no domestic task or conventional cir
cumstance—is of so grave importance as to
warn one’s feet when they are cold. You can’t
afford the hazard to health incurred by indiffer
ence to the discomfort nature'is giving you as a
£ remonition of danger. Keep your feet dry.
t by aocident, you wet your feet, don’t be fool
ish and sit till death-damp steals your vitals.
Men, women and children, slept in the same
apartment; not unfrequently domestic animals
were their companions; in such a confusion of
the family, it was impossible that modesty or
morality could be maintained. The bed was
usually a bag of straw, and a wooden log served
as a pillow. Personal cleanliness was utterly
unknown. Great officers of state, even dignita
ries so high as the Archbishop of Canterberry,
swarmed with vermin; such, it is related was the
condition of Thomas A. Beoket, the antagonist
of an English King. To conceal personal im
purity, perfumes were necessarily and profusely
used. The citizen clothed himself in leather, a
garment which, with its ever-accumulating im
purity, might last for many years. He was con
sidered to be in circumstances of ease, if he
could procure fresh meat once a week for his
dinner. The streets had no sewers and were
without pavements or lamps.
After nightfall, the chamber shutters were
thrown open and the slops of the houses were
thrown into the streets. Of our Saxon ances
tors he gives, if possible, a more revolting de
scription, for they not only wallowed in filth,
but were sunk in the grossest sensuality, drink
ing to their heathen divinities from the skulls
of their enemies, etc. While hygienic knowl
edge is still in its infancy, we have great rea
son to rejoice at the progress it has made since
the Dark Ages; for it cannot be denied that the
increased longevity of the human family is due
more to a knowledge and observance of the laws
of hygiene, to better habits of life, than to any
other cause.
BREAKING DOWN.
Men often have their hands full, are over
crowded with business and drive hurriedly
along at it, but they may not be overworked.
A man does not always know himself any more
than he knows the strain on the mainspring of
his watch that will break it. But there comes a
time when it breaks—a click, a snap, and the
watch stops. Men break down in this way.
They go on, day after day; the pressure bear
ing harder each successive cay, until the vital
force gives out, and the machine stops. It is a
great pity that the indications of this state of
things cannot be seen beforehand, and if seen
regarded. It is one of the last things that men
will admit to themselves that it is only a little
weariness of the flesh, which will pass off with
a few hours’ rest, in fact, every nerve, power
and resource is exhausted, and the system is
driven to work by sheer force of the will. When
the oil on the shaft or in the oil box is exhaust
ed, every revolution of the wheel wears on the
revolving part, and soon will ruin it The same
is true of the human bedy.
MUSICAL NOTES.
SONG.
Stay, stay at ho ne, m- heart, and rest;
Home-keeping hearts are happiest,
For those that wander they know not where
Are full of trouble and full of care;
To stay at borne is best.
Weary and home-sick and distressed
They wander East, they wander West,
And are battled and beaten and blown about
Uy the wii ds of the wilderness of doubt;
To stay at home is best.
Then stay at home, my heart, and rest;
The bird is safest in its nest;
O’er all that flutter their wings and fly
A hawk is hovering in the sky;
To stay at home is best.
-//. W. Longfellow, in February Atlantic.
The pupils of Andrew Female College at Cuth-
bert Ga., had a musical festival on the 20th ult.
Mr. E. E. Rice is anxious to take his Evange
line Troup to New York in February.
Song of the Senators—“Silver Coins Among
the Gold.”
The church choir singer’s ditty—“We met by
chants.”—N. Y. Con. Adv.
The Stabat Mater, will be given soon by
Atlanta talent.
The people of the South buy more of the
cheapest grades of pianos than any section of the
country, this should not be said.
Over the door of Gustave Dore's house, near
Paris are six notes, Do, Mi, Si, La,Do, Re, mean
ing either “Domicile a Dore (Dore’s house or
44 Domicile adoree (beloved dwelling.)
Speaking of the last concert given by the Bee
thoven Society, a correspondent of the Thomas-
ton Herald says: 4 The music was of high order,
but nothing brought down the house with so
much applause as the rippling bird-like notes of
Atlanta’s favorite soprano, Mrs. P. H. Snook, in
that little ballad ‘Coming Through the Rye.”
4 We acknowledge the corn.’
A splendid new organ, as we learn from the
News, has reached Raleigh for the use of the First
Baptist Church. It was built by Jardine <fc
Sons, of New York, and is sixteen feet high,
twelve wide, and seven deep. Special alterations
have been made in the building to accomodate
so large an instrument.
4 Little Brook that Riffles] thro’ the Dell’ is
the title of a new song by J. T. Rutledge and
published by Phillips & Crew, Atlanta, Ga. It
is written in the author’s happiest style and
with a beautiful flowing melody and a pleasing
chorus just suited to the popular taste. It is
neatly gotten up and we predict a large sale for
the enterprising publishers.—Southern Musical
Journal.
A fashionably-dressed and distinguished-look
ing miss applied to a Broadway variety theatre
during the past week for the privilege of debut
ing as a ballad singer. She was referred to the
leader of the orchestra for trial. That gentle
man, awed by her gorgeous skirt and flaring
Gainsborough hat and feather, asked in a sub
dued tone, as he tuned his violin: 4 What do
you sing, Madame ?’ 4 Oh, anything,’ was haugh
tily responded. Somewhat puzzled to select
from such an extensive repertoire as is implied
in ‘anything,’ he mildly ventured: ‘Do you
know ' Eileen Alanna?’ ’ Looking at the man of
catgut contemptuously, the dashing mademois
elle replied with a sneer: ‘Know her ? I should
think I do. She can’t sing for a cent. You bet
you’ll say so after you hare heard mew' That
settled the matter.
Nothing maintains its bloom forever; age sue-
oeeds age.—Cicero.