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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.