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A LETTER OF ADVICE.
To Araminta, in Augusta, from her Friend
in Charleston.
BY 8. A. D.
So. you're Baft in Augusta, my darling,
Where beaux can be counted by dozens,
With numerous friends of both sexes,
And can claim three real, live male cousins ?
Be sure von accept each invite
To walk, dance, or drive with a bean;
But if asked to be third in a party,
ny dear Araminta, say No.
The ‘Club 1 ’ you will surely attend;
(Debating, the mind saves from rust,)
Do writeme what subjects you choose.
And if people, or things are discussed.
Of course such a ••Club” admits men
(To keep all in order, you know,)
If they hint at a petticoat party,
My dear Araminta, say No.
1 know there are some—you’ll discover
Ere long—of the “genus homo,”
Who are cut out by Fate for a lover;
Whose smile can bring pleasure or woe;
Be sure, if one asks yon to meet him
“By moonlight alone,” you don’t go,
Though the next Congress promise to seat him—
My dear Araminta, say No.
For the soil of Augusta produces
Deficient specimens from your own State;
Fast women, f«et men. and fast manners,
And other things at the same rate;
So, a novice like you. may believe
“AH that glitters is gold”—not mere show;
Love from such, if you’re asked to receive,
My dear Araminta, say No.
I hear there is some one who dances
The “German” delightfully ; still
His heels have not been educated
At thu cost of his head. He can fill
The Professor’s or President’s chair—
His language always comme il fant;
But If he be named “Jones” or “Smith,”
My dear Araminta, say No.
Will he take you to Paris this year;
Can you find in his jewels a flaw;
Does he bore you with Russians and Turks;
Will he give you a Mother-in-law f
W’ill he throw awsy pipes or cigars,
If you plead in a voice sweet and low ?
Yet dares to belong to a “Lodge, ”
Tht n, dear Araminta, say No.
If he reads not the whole of the papers,
If he ever gets sick when at sea;
If he dares have the blues or the vapors;
If he’s cross or impatient for tea;
If he parteth his hair in the middle—
Says the “(Quadrille” and “Glide” are “no go;”
If he loves not the sound of a fiddle,
My dear Araminta, say No.
If he talks of his travels for hours;
If he does not look grand as he talks;
If he dotes not on music and flowers,
Nor like a young demi-god walks;
If he thinks Hampton only a mortal.
And Gordon “a little too slow,”
Taough he enters society’s portal,
My dear Araminta, say No.
If he mentions the taxes before yon;
If he likes not the style of your dress;
If he swears not he’ll ever adore you,
And when in the wrong will confess;
If ever his converse seems flat;
If his forehead or stature is low;
If he is not a staunch Democrat,
My dear Araminta, say No.
TAKE CARE WHOM
YOU TRUST.
BY COMPTON READE.
CHAPTER XXIII.
‘Chase away foul melancholy,’ rang the merry
tones of yoang Ralph, as he tried to cheer np
his downcast friends of the dreary Portobello
Park lodgings. ‘ There is a trner wisdom in the
maxims of the old madrigal writers than mel
ody.’
‘ Very good advice,’ said Mr. Lovett; ‘ let ns
adopt it. Adine.’
Whereupon, without further ado, Mr. Ralph
offered them seats in a box at the Opera that
very evening. Mdlle. Neillson was to sing in
‘La Traviata.’
• Delightful!’ exclaimed Adine, at once emerg
ing from her cloud. ‘Truly delightful. How
kind of you. Whose box is it ? ’
‘ My friend, Lady Montresor’s,’ responded
Raiph timorously, not without a tell-tale blush,
much observed of Adine.
‘But I haven’t a dress fit for the Opera, Dore.’
And a little sigh escaped the fair breast.
‘ I shan’t be ashamed of you.’ smiled her hus
band.
But Adine was not reassured; she would go
and think over her wardrobe, to ascertain if the
proposed relaxation was compatible with her
toilette.
In a few minutes she returned very much bet
ter. Art had hit upon a combination of vest
ments which would render the Opera a possi
bility and a pleasure.
Accordingly a brougham was ordered, a fan
purchased, with two pairs of gloves, and sundry
other essentials, all of which cost money, and
in due time they found themselves ushered into
a box on the grand tier, for the first time in
their lives.
Rosa Montresor, when they were introduced
by Ralph, was looking very lovely. Placed by
the side of Adine, the contrast was, perhaps,
rather betwten art and nature. Both were very
beautiful; for Adine under all circumstances
never lost one iota of her natural charms, and
Rosa’s art, occasioned by reason of her varying
health, was so artistic as simply to restore to her
the brilliancy, which not long since, had been
hers. Perhaps by the glaring gaslight art show
ed to the best advantage—through an opera
glass.
Of coure the country people, gentle though
they were, displayed the least little amount of
mauvaise honte, not to say shyness. A title to
some people acts as a repellant. Rosa, quick of
perception, tried to form an estimate of them.
‘ Not a bad sort of fellow,’ she thought, as she
watched Theodore Lovett. ‘He is engrossed in
the music, and that covers a multitude of Bins.
Besides, he is the friend of my friend.’ Alto-
'gether she thoroughly approved of the man. Of
the lady her ideas were rather different: ‘ Very
pretty indeed; knows how to blush; has known
now to dress, but is rather deteriorated; over at
tentive to my friend Ralph; he, too, looks as if
those great blue eyes had their influence. Bah !
men are false, especially young men.’ And,
Lady Montresor, finding that Mr. Lovett would
not flirt, and that Ralph paid Mrs. Lovett equal
attention to herself, fell oat of temper—genteel
ly of coarse.
She coaid not realise her lover’s friendship
for Adine. Jealousy positively caused her to
imagine that her ideal man would be guilty of
the gross baseness of making love to the wife of
his greatest benefactor; and all because he wish
ed to make a pleasant evening as pleasant as pos
sible. Such is woman.
‘ What a magnificent representation,’ cried
enthusiastic Mr. Lovett, as he joined the thous
and hands, who were testifying their warm ap
proval of the exquisite Swedish vocalist.
* Yes,’ answered Adine, ‘but I don’t quite
like ’
‘The morality,' langhed Lady Montresor,with
• perceptible tinge of sarcasm.
‘1—I didn’t quite mean that,’ apologised
AdiBe, blushing.
‘But it is bad morality,’ said Lady Montresor,
raising her eyebrows defiantly.
‘And lovely melody,’ added Ralph.
Wherenpon the Lovetts, alter the fashion of
deputations to Cabinet ministers, thanked Lady
Montresor ior her eonrtesy, and withdrew.
* Do you like her ? ’ asked Adine as the broug
ham rattled them homewards.
* 8o so,’ replied her husband. ' She seems
musical.’
* Shall I tell you a secret, Doee ? ’
‘Eh?’
‘ She is in love with Ralph, aud Ralph is in
love with her.’
‘ Nonsense, Adine; what an absurd suspicion.
I’m sure Ralph is much too high-principled
to ’
ButAdine’s laugh rather rebuffed this very
feeble philosophy of his before it could well gain
utterance.
‘ People don’t fall in love on principle,’ she
said.
Was she right?
Lady Montresor drove Ralph back with her to
Westbourne Terrace. There they found poor
Miss Poodle in a state of yawn, but striving nev
ertheless with praiseworthy zeal to exhibit her
normal blandness.
‘ Poodle,’said her mistress sternly, ‘yon are
tired and sleepy; drink three glasses of Moselle,
and go to bed at once.’
‘Indeed, dearest Rosa,’ was the patient re
joinder, ‘ indeed I am not at all ’—a yawn—‘ not
at all sleepy. ’ To tell the truth. Miss. Poodle
was beginning to grow alarmed at Ralph’s influ
ence with her ladyship. Consequently she in
variably did her small best to render a tete-a-tete
either impossible or brief.
But Lady Montresor had a will of her own.
Poodle, in spite of all remonstrances, did go to
bed, in a very indifferent temper too; leaving
Ralph to share with his lady-love lobster mayo-
naise, and other gastronomic indigestibles dilu
ted by vins mousseux, and ‘settled ’ by b. and s.,
with cigarettes of some mysterious compound
that rendered back the thousand and one sweet
odors of Eden.
* You admire Mrs. Lovett ? ’
* She is indisputably pretty,’ he answered, in
his innocence of woman’s nature, hardly appre
ciating the drift of her words.
Rosa Montresor sighed. She was reclining
pensively enough on a sofa, which she was wont
to compare to angel’s wings, it so completely
supported a frame recumbent thereon.
‘And nice as she is pretty,’ continued Ralph,
unheeding a sigh, which, to tell the truth, came
from the depth.
1 Ah !’ broke forth Lady Montresor, ‘ how I
wish I was indisputably pretty, and equally nice.
Poor me! I languish here, the light of other
days!’
And then Ralph began to perceive that he had
committed a gaucherie. She was not offended :
but there was a strange sadness in her tone. At
once a brilliant flush rose to his cheek, and his
tongue, which hitherto had failed to say aught
but soft things, seemed nerved with a desire
that be should quit himself like a man.
* You are the light of my to-day,’ he exclaim
ed, ‘ dear lady mine; ’ and flinging his cigarette
from him he threw himself by her on the sofa,
and seized her hand.
She did not withdraw it. Nay, now he thought
that he caught a strange look of pleasure in her
softening eye, but the lids fell so as to hide her
meaning as she murmured: ‘ I am not as ste is;
I have no health on my face; I have no natural
charms. You cannot feign admiration for mere
patchwork.’
He was bending over her tenderly, and had
pressed her unresisting hand to his lips and
heart, when a strange thought flitted aero ss his
brain. Could it be that this woman was p laying
with him? He was practiced in the art of pleas
ing. It was but a passing thought, aud he cast
it forth from his brain as an evil.
‘I cannot feign,’he murmured, ‘fori know
not how. I hare never loved before, and I shall
never love again!’ True words.
The noble eyes rose to ask his once and for
ever if his lips spoke the language of his heart,
and they read in one long glance that so it was.
Then the great soul of Rosa Montresor carried
her away. In a trice she had locked her boy-
lover in her own white arms, with a vehemence
which seemed to him as Elysium. She address
ed him by a hundred endearing epithets, whilst
the pent up stream of her mighty love, having
burst its floodgates, welled forth with wondrous
rapture. She called him her seraph—a punning
pet name she had thought out of his initials
and surname combined—and her little lord,
and own treasure: and then somehow she seem
ed to seek her rest on his bosom, for she lay
there quiet, all except the breast which up-
heaved quickly at first, then slower, slower,
slower still, until suddenly she fell helpless,
and be knew that her emotion had ended in a
dead faint.
His first impulse was to summon her maid.
But no, that course might betray her. So he
laid her tenderly on the sofa, and bathed her
temples with iced water, and loosened her
dress, though with fingers that trembled he
knew not why, and just as despair began to
whisper that Rosa Montresor had passed from
him to the other world, and he cried to her to
return, she awoke from her trance, smiling
through her pain.
‘Ah, heart! traitor, false heart!’ she gasped,
apostrophising the cause of her weakness.
‘Dearest, jou must leave me, or this great joy
will prove too much for my weak life. To
morrow, perhaps, to-morrow I may be calmer.
You told your tale, Seraph darling, too sudden
ly—and strange, I knew it before you spoke—
but it was so delicious. Ah, love! We must
count our love by hours, as others do by years.’
‘By many, many Hours, I pray,’ he answered
her.
And so these two started on the strangest
journey. Neither ventured to estimate what
each could be to each. In the delirium of the
moment they placed all their hopes for the fu
ture, if indeed they thought of any future be
yond to-morrow, which seemed to be gilded
with a fascination so marvellous that it was as
if earth had suddenly been transformed into a
paradise more vivid than even oriental imagi
nation could paint for those brains to whom
piety is love.
CHAPTER XXIV.
Qa the morrow Ralph awoke early; dressed
himself with the care and neatness which he
had learned from his sojourn in London to be
essential to civilization, and, we regret to add,
having displayed much moral obliouity by
writing to put off five pupils on the ground of
severe headache, sallied forth to purchase some
thing pretty in one of the various flower shops
which are to be found in the neighborhood of
Westbourne Grove.
Having invested in about half a guinea’s
worth of stephanotis—no very great quantity
by the way—be walked slowly towards West-
bourne Terrace.
* Lady Montresor was ill—too ill to see any
one to-day,’ said the servant
‘Send np my card,’ replied Ralph, authorita
tively.
' Beg your pardon, sir,’was the reply, ‘Sir
Joseph Toadie just been here, sir—commanded
pnffect repose.'
' Could I see Miss Smith ?’
* She is not at home,’ answered the domestic,
stolidly.
There was nothing for him but to retreat He
h :(1 lost five lessons, representing very nearly
three pounds in hard cash; he was disappoint
ed in not obtaining admission to his love; and
was very anxious about her health. Still
there was nothing for it but patience. He re
solved to employ the time before he could in
decency call again by visiting the Lovetts.
At the end of Westbourne Grove he encount
ered Mr. Barwyn.
'Ha!' said that individual, 'here so early?
Pray where do you hail from? Flowers, too!
This is mysterious.’
‘I’ve been to call on Lady Montresor,’ he
simply said.
Whereupon Barwyn burst into a hoarse laugh.
‘Sly dog!’ he oried. ‘There is no fathoming the
depth of yon young men from the country. Se
riously, however, Ralph, you must take care,
you know.’
‘Why? enquired Ralph, amazed.
' Because our vicar and curates are devilish
ly sharp. Rosa Montresor is good game; in
fact I had my own little affair with her, and
very agreeable it was’—here Barwyn winked in
vulgar style; ‘but these things are apt 'toi get
round, *o prudence intervened, and I gave it
up.’
‘ Wha—hat the devil do you mean ?’ almost
shouted Ralph, advancing in his wrath, as if to
annihilate the man who dared asperse his love’s
fair fame in this unmanly fashion.
Barwyn paled. He was coward to the back
bone. But his stock of inborn low cunning
never deserted him.
‘ My dear fellow,’ he replied, retreating a step
by way of caution, ‘ I don’t mean to hurt your
feelings. Far from it. I had no idea you were
so much in earnest. Bless the boy! why you’re
never going to commit an assault in the street?’
‘ You must unsay that insinuation of yours
against Lady Montresor,’ he said sternly, hold
ing Barwyn by the collar of his coat.
Barwyn was silent, but loosed right and left
for aid.
‘ You have lied,’continued Ralph. ‘I know
all about your infamous conduct. Lady Mon
tresor herself has narrated the story, and if I
catch you again spreading such a false report
about the purest and best lady who ever conde
scended to utter to a rascal like you, I’ll break
every bone in your skin, Mr. Barwyn, and tell
your wife into the bargain.’
A knock-down blow this last, for Barwyn the
worthless and dissipated was mainly dependent
on his wife’s relations for his daily bread.
‘ If I could see a policeman ’ began Mr.
Barwm, livid with rage.
‘ You’d give me in charge? No, you wouldn’t,
unless I were to strike you, and then perhaps
you might—onto! cowardice.’
With which he turned on his heel, leaving the
man he had thus thoroughly insulted to devise
vendetta with all the acumen of a mean, white -
livered and diabolical nature.
Mr. Barwyn’s brain traveled very fast indeed.
Ere Ralph was out of sight he had bit upon an
idea, which he was not slow at putting into ex-
ecutton.
Turning down Westbourne Terrace he march
ed straight to Lftdv Montresor’s house, and in
quired for Miss Smith. To him that lady was
at home, and she seemed, too, poor fool, very
delighted to see his not very veracious face.
His greeting, when they were alone, was some
what demonstrative for a married man, for he
kissed her very warmly indeed, and to judge
by the expression of her face she seemed in no
wise displeased, or annoyed, or surprised. Mr.
Barwyn’s lips were something short of stran
gers to hers.
This poodle—retriever would have been a
better sobriquet—of Lady Montresor’s hiring,
was certainly pretty. Perhaps, strictly speak
ing, she was prettier than her mistress, bat she
lackod the spirituel grace which is the very es
sence of real beauty. She looked lovely enough
as she accepted the caresses of Mr. Barwyn; a
bright, irregular-featured, ignoble, but fascina
ting thing, without one jot of moral principle,
selfish and greedy, yet to her lover prepared
for the very bathos of self-sacrifice.
‘How is Rosa?' he inquired.
‘ What do you want to know for?’ she replied,
snappishly, ‘.Sd’^'tfhole form of- her face chang
ing in a moment.
‘My pet,’ said he, playfully chucking her
under a very pimpled chin, ‘ must not be silly.
What do I care for Rosa Montresor? Didn’t
I tell you that my only motive in making love to
her was exactly the same as yours in being
friends with her—a cheque?’
‘ I can hardly believe you,’ she murmured,
gazing at him dubiously, ‘Rosa is far better
style than poor I.’
How strange it is that women imagine that a
rake of a fellow like this Barwyn, who had al
ways a dozen or so ot amours on hand, must
perforce be in love with one woman, and with
one woman only ! Barwyn was quite as much
in love with Miss Poodle as with Lady Montre
sor, and quite as much with Lady Mcntresor
as with Miss Poodle.
A little fondling by a practiced hand soon put
the girl in a good temper with herself and her
lover. Then he came to the point.
‘ Is that ill-mannered clown, Ralph, perpetu
ally about her still ?’
‘ He is,’ she Answered. ‘ But I’ve put a stop
per on it for the present. Rosa came home with
him from the opera last night. He got her to
give seats to some country friends of his, a
minor canon of Blankton and his wife ’
‘ What, never Lovett ?’ cried Barwyn. ‘Why
he married the prettiest girl in Blankshire. I
remember her as Miss Sinclair; such a foot and
ankle; such a ’
‘ There, there !’ interrupted his fair hearer,
not over-pleased at this laudation of Adine.
‘ Well, as I was going to say, Rosa brought this
fellow home, and I was de trop, and told so, too,
to my face.’
‘ What impudence!’
‘ And, would you believe it, my lady had a fit,
aud when the maid came to help her to bed she
was found partially undressed. Wasn't it hor
rid of her ?’
‘Whew!’whistled Mr. Barwyn. ‘Really the
morals of this generation must be attended to.
I wonder now that such a good, pious, straight-
laced clergyman as Lovett doesn’t remonstrate
with this erring brother. Perhaps he is not
aware of the depths of degradation, etc. Ha !
ha! Well, I think I’ll give the Reverend Lov
ett a hint.' And Mr. Barwyn seemed very much
tickled indeediat his own sinister waggery.
‘ You haven’t heard the whole story, ’ she con
tinued. ‘ My lady is actually ill this morning,
so I sent for Sir Joseph Toadie, who came direct
from the presence of royalty, and at my sugges
tion prescribed absolute rest. Consequently’—
and naughty Poodle quite lost herself in laugh
ter over the notion—‘when the elegant Mr.
Ralph ventured to call this morning, at the
rather early hour of 10 A. m., Lady Montresor
wasn’t at home, and she won’t be for some
time.’
‘But he will write.’
‘ And I shall read and retain—all. mind you,
under the doctor’s orders, and for dear Rosa’s
good.’ And sne looked so deliciously serio
comic, that Barwyn, in an ecstacy of enjoyment,
began to waltz with her round the room, tread
ing on her corns till he caused her exquisite
suffering.
1 You’re a very good girl,’ he said, ‘ and with
your aid we will eliminate Mr. Ralph from the
visiting list of Rosa Lady Montresor.’
• You’re not going—yet,’ Bhe faltered, crest
fallen at seeing him take up his hat.
' * Business, deary, calls, clamors. I’ve a
dowager of fifty waiting impatiently to be ogled,
and a miss of sixteen, her lovely daughter, to
be saluted chastely over the piano.’
‘You naughty man,* muttered Poodle, naif
vexed. Poor soul, her love for this creature was
such fatal earnest
He Bhrugged his shoulders complacently.
• When are you to have your holiday, sweet ?’ he
asked with much tendresse.
‘ When she is well.’
• And then you are to go to your respectable
parents in the north, eh? And if it should so
happen that I should, ttiaver«ith you, and we
stopped en route together at some pretty place
for a week or so, should we be happy ?’
She squeezed his hand assentingly. Yet why
did she shudder as be returned her squeeze ?
Idiot! She had already put one foot over the
brink of an awful precipice. That lover of hers,
so accomplished in his acting, meant to effect
her total ruin; and only pour s^amuser—vogue la
galere !
Whilst these two amiable personages were
plotting together against Ralph’s happiness he
had arrived at the Lovetts’ unpretending lodg
ing in Portobello Park, where he found Adine
alone, and rather full of their many difficulties.
To her he presented the blossoms of stephan
otis intended originally for Rosa Montresor.
Noblesse oblige. They were in his hand, and he
could not confess that he had purchased them
as the first love-offering for his love.
Adine was charmed. * What a pretty woman
your friend Lady Montreser is,’ she remarked,
concealing a certain amount of shyness by bury
ing her features in the stephanotis blossoms.
He was delighted. ‘She is lovely,’ he said,
‘perfect, angelic. I hope you will know her,
and like her; I’m sure she will like you. And I
must tell you, too, that she is very hospitable,
and her parties are the most jolly affairs you
could conceive. She is to have one the day
after to-morrow, and I will get you an invita
tion. Stop though, I was forgetting—she mayn’t
be well enough.’
Adine opened her eyes. ‘Why?’ asked she.
‘Is Lady Montresor ill? She seemed well
enough last night.’
Ralph looked foolish. ‘The fact is,’ he stam
mered, ‘I called there this morning, and—and
she isn’t well; in fact, Sir Joseph Toadie has or
dered her to be kept quiet. ’
Adine opened her eyes wider still—very much
wider. ‘ You seem on very intimate terms with
her ladyship,’ and a mischievous smile played
round the corners of her mouth.
‘Ye—es. That is to say, we are very good
friends, you know.’
‘ How sweet this stephanotis is. I don’t think
there is such a fragrance to be found in any
other flower. But it is expensive. I’m afraid
it cost you a great deal of money.’
‘You musn’t ask,’ he replied, blushing fool
ishly.
YVhereat Adine laughed very knowingly in
deed, causing his blushes to double.
‘What is the joke?’ he asked, biting his lips,
for Adine continued her merriment.
‘ Why, you naughty boy, you never purchased
these beautiful exotics for poor me. Y r ou know
you didn’t. Not that I am less grateful for
them; under anv circumstances they are accept
able. But they were intended as an offering to
Lady Montresor. Confess now.’
‘ I am very fond or her,’ he said awkwardly,
‘and I thiau, indeed I’m sure, she likes me.’
‘Butshe’s married,’ rejoined Adine, a trifle
more seriously.
‘Yes, if you consider a confirmed lunatic a
human being and a husband. She doesn’t, and
I don’t.’
‘ Oh, but that isn’t right. She at all events
enjoys the poor lunatic’s fortune.’
‘Just so. It was settled before her marriage
on her after his death, and he is dead, to all in
tents and purposes.’
‘ Fie, fie, Raiph ! I’m afraid this charming
lady has bewitched you.’
‘She most certainly has, and I’m proud of it.
Where is there such a heart as hers ? Where
could I meet with one so kind, so good, so lov
ing ?’
• Hush, hush, I don’t mind your rhapsodies,
but you know that many people, Dore for in
stance, would call you both downright wicked.’
‘Well,’ said he, ‘if to love Rosa Montresor be
wicked, all I can say is, I’d rather be wicked
than good.’ He was beginning to fume at oppo
sition.
‘ Oh, that’s shocking !’ she exclaimed. ‘That’s
very wrong-headed reasoning, I’m sure. Dore
takes such a warm interest in you that he would
be grieved to hear of such an entanglement.’
At this last word the countenance of the young
man changed. It was in a curious constrained
tone that he said: ‘ I should not wish to hurt
Mr. Lovett’s feelings—nay, more, I’m so fully
sensible of my obligations to him that I would
strain a point to please him. But in a matter
of this sort I can but consider myself and her.
I must live my own life.’
‘Yes. But you are young, inexperienced, im
pulsive. You surely would not wish, by placing
yoursolf in a false position, to cut yourself off
irretrievably from our friendship.’ Adine was
quite in earnest now.
‘For all the world I never could give her up,’
he cried, starting to his legs. His was the fer
vour of a first and a wondrous passion. You
could see the hold it had on every fibre in the
nervous energy of his manner, and the too bril
liant flush on his cheeks, which seemed to tell
its own tale of that disease which was luiking
in his constitution.
As for Adine she began to feel offence at his
abrupt and excitable manner. ‘ Don’t you value
my husband's friendship then ? she asked, in a
dry, half-sarcastic tone.
‘ I do, I do,’ he rejoined, ‘ thoroughly. In
deed, Mrs. Lovett, I quite hoped that Rosa—
Lady Montresor I mean—would have helped
you in your money-difficulties, for my sake,
but ’
‘ Quite so. You know that we could not ac
cept assistance on such terms. It would be
wrong. ’
‘Then good morning,’ said he angrily. ‘I
hope yon will think better of it for my sake, if
not for your own.’ And with these words he
left her.
‘One more drop of bitterness in my cup,’
aigbed Theodore Lovett as he listened to this
recital. ‘Adine dear, we have but ourselves to
live for, and the little soul whom God has given
us.’
(TO BE CONTINUED.)
Jewish Mode of Slaughtering
Animals.
In our lecture on “Thelock” we had an occa
sion to illustrate the enomalous character of a
crnel Jew, by the mode in which we have the
animals killed, showing how much study and
hard work the Jew imposses npon himself cen
turies ago already, in order to spare the slaugh
tered beast, unnecessary pains. Here is an ar
ticle on the same subject, from the London
Jewish W orld, which will be read with some in
terest.
“The method proposed by those hostile to
the Jewish mode of slaughtering animals, may
be*termed “shock to the brain.” Before con
sidering it in detail, it were well to make some
preliminary observations. In the first place,
what are signs whereby we may ascertain if a
living creature does or does not suffer pain ?
We know of two only for animals, three for hu
man beings. The former, when they suffer,
otter orys and make movements; the latter,
while frequently exhibiting these signs, possess
i ret another, which they use still more frequent-
y—that of speech; they declare the pain they
suffer. Clearly the necessity for this third sign
shows the insufficiency of the other two. Aud
we may well ask: If a man may be suffering,
without uttering a cry of pain, and without
making a movement of his limbs, why may not
it be so with animals? And in troth it is so.
We see animals laboring under some ailment,
refuse to eat, languid, exhibiting feverish symp
toms: they do not cry, they do not move about,
but the analogy of human beings laboring un
der the same symptoms, assures us that they must
be snffering much. Again, in almost all dis
eases of the brain, it often happens that there
is paralysis of movement with preservation of
sensibility. In such cases, if the paralyzed
limb be pricked, the man feels it, bnt still does
not remove the limb. In other cases there is
what is termed, “painful insensibility,” that is
to say, the limb is paralyzed in movement and
in sensatton; it cannot be set in motion, it does
not feel the prick of a needle, yet the sick man
tells us he suffers pain in that limb. Such a
condition may exist in an animal withont onr
knowing it, for the animal could not tell us he
suffered.
When an injury is inflioted npon any part
of a man’s body, he Vfeels pain and instantly
withdraws that part from contact with the in
strument, which is causing the injury. The in
jury, the pain, the withdrawal, are all seeming
ly the work of the same instant, bat in truth
they form part of a long series of successive
operations. 1st. The instrument produces an
impression on the exernal nerves which en
close the body witha complete net worn; 2d,
This impression is transmitted to the nervous
centres; 3d. This,impression is received or
formed at the centres ef the nerval system; 4th.
The man becomes consciousof this impression;
oth. He formulates the determination to avoid
further injury and remove the injured limb;
6th. This determination is transmitted to the
apparatus of movement; 7th The movement is
made. Now these different operations are per
formed by nervous cells or fibers of different
orders. It is easily to be understood, then,
that a disease of the nerves, or of the centre of
the nervous system, the nerve fibers of differ
ent orders may be injured in different degrees,
and some continue their functions while others
cannot, and that therefore the series of opera
tions just described, cannot be entirely carried
out; they go on until the consciousness of
pain, bnt stop before reaching prodnetion of
movement. In such a case, a man or animal,
wounded with a knife, might suffer the utmost
agony, without manifesting it by any move
ment. Even a word could not be spoken, or a
cry uttered, because that wouid require the
movement of the muscles of the throat.
Altogether the qnestion of determining what
pain is suffered, is one beset with the greatest
difficulties. The author of the work we are
laying before our readers, Dr. Rabinowicz, re
calls a case, that came under bis notice, when
a student in a children’s hospital, the hospital
of.St. Eugenie. A doctor of the establishment,
a young man of 30 years of age, caught the
croup and died of it in a few days. During the
illness, he frequently told his colleagues that
no author had described tbe disease thoroughly;
they had not suspected the intensity of the ag
ony it occasioned. Poor fellow! he knew it bet
ter than his teachers.
We do not declare the Jewish method of
slaughtering animals to be a mode of inflicting
death without pain. Nature has decreed that
pain should be experienced in commencing
and ending existence. All we contend is, that
it is accompanied by as little pain as possible.
For take the method proposed—death by brain
shock. In the brain are three distinct sets of
fibres, one appropriated to sensation, the other
special to motion, the third presiding over in
telligence. If these nervous fibres be smitten
by a destructive instrument with very great
force, they are annihilated and those functions
abolished. If the nerves of sensation be shat
tered, there is no more suffering; if the nerves
of intelligence are thus destroyed, there is com
plete loss of knowledge, and so on. If the force
of the destructive instrument be not sufficiently
great to produce complete destruction at the
first shock, there are symptoms of intense ex
citement and irritation such as delirium, con
vulsions, frightful agonies, according to the
nature of the nervous fibres injured. An ex
amination after complete brain shock has not
revealed any material alteration in the brain
matter; consequently it is impossible to say
which part was during life most greatly injured
by the shock. But it is certain that all these
parts are not equally injured, for we perceive
complete loss of intelligence, while the move
ments of respiration are still continued, show
ing clearly that the brain matter governing in
telligence has been injured to a greater degree
than the brain matter directing motion. How
about the brain matter concerned with sensa
tion ? Is it injured like that connected with
intelligence and abolished, or only like that
regulating movements and therefore not abol
ished, only irritated and causing intense suffer
ing? If we may judge from analogy when it is
impossible, as in this case, to have direct de
monstration, we should say this: In almost all
diseases of the brain where there is paralysis
of motion sensation is very often still complete;
hence we may conclude that brain matter con
cerned with sensation is less susceptible of al
teration by destructive agency than brain mat
ter concerned with motion. It results then that
if in brain-shock, motion is not completely de
stroyed; in other words there is plain, the
creature suffers.
Let no one say that where there is losss of
consciusness there can be no pain. When we
say there is unconsciousness we mean only that
there is no visible sign of intelligence—the pa
tient makes no movement, utters no sound.
We should pronounce him dead, if there were
not still continuing, breathing and circulation.
But. in the series of operations described above,
which are made in succession when a limb re
ceives injury and is drawn instantly away, it
was shewn that the perception which causes the
sensation of pain is the fourth operation, while
the movement, which is the manifestation of the
consciousness of pain is the seventh operation.
Consequently pain is endnred before movement
is made, and might exist where the latter had
ceased to be possible, especially as pain is pro
duced in the part of the brain concerned with
sensation, while movement proceeds from an
other part of the brain which susceptible of
alteration. In this much vaunted humane
method of slaughter—brain shock, then there
is no certainty that the animal does not suffer;
indeed, it is probable that the animal suffers
much.
Now by the method pursued by us, in which
the animal dies by hemorrhage, there can be
but very little suffering. We know most posi
tively that sensation, and therefore, suscepti
bility of pain, exists only in the nerves and in
the brain and spinal marrow, and not one of
these is touched with the exception of the nerves
contained in the skin. Bnt the catting of the
skin endures only for a moment, and is of no
greater duration than the shock. As soon as
the skin is ent, there is no more pain, because
only the trachea aesophagus and the blood ves
sels are cut, bnt no nerve is wounded, and so
no suffering is experienced.
Now for a moment let ns consider, when the
two methods we are eomparing are employed
by inexperienced hands, or when by some acci
dent the animal is loft some time without the
operation being fully completed. By the shock
method, if the animal be not felled with suffi
cient force, its sufferings mast be frightful be
yond conception. By the Jewish method the
moment the blood vessels are cat, if even in
sufficiently, the hemorrhage will be less abnn-
dant it is trne, and the pain endnred continued
for a longer time; bnt death is certain, and
withont great snffering, because neither brain
nor nerves (except those of the skin) are hart.
Again, by the shock method, if the blow be not
effectual the animal may after, seeming for a
time, retarn to life just as some painful incis
ion is being made. What frightful agony must
then be endured ? But with slaughter by cut
ting the throat, the hemorrhage prevents all
possibility of return to life.