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V
T?r ROVVEKS CO'J ECT«
J. H.&W.B. SEALS }
ATLANTA, LI A., HEPTf^BEK J, 1SSO.
rifiK si nmr.
in tom o*uken.
I stood uj*nn a lofty peak,
The highest of the Willseot range :
The autumn breezes seemed to speak
In whispers softly sad and strange;
Enchantment held my soul in thrall.
And there I seemed above the world,
With all its beauties, great and small
Tnto my eager eyes unfurled,
An early frost had clad the trees
In scarlet tint and golden hues;
The mellow sunlight on the leas
Had wrought in sheen the morning dews.
The fleecy cloudlets in the sky
Were floating calmly o’er the scene
And easting shadows green and wry
Upon the fields so lately green.
Upon the plain, in view below,
On which the town of Murphy stands.
Where heroes died—though years ago—
And left no “foot prints in the sands/’
No monuments their deeds proclaim,
Hut in the mist-clouds rising slow,
My fancy saw tln-m chase the game
With fateful lance and bended bow.
My fancy saw their foes appear
With burnish armor on the plain :
J heard the dusky warrior cheer.
And rush upon the sons of Spain.
The cloud arose and passed away.
But those who f -tight so brave and well
Are sleeping now in grim art ay
Near by the river where they fe’l.
Gaixk*vim.!-:. A tig. H2, !»<).
FLORENCE DUVAL;
THE GARNET RING.
By Viola l»r i l l u <•<><!.
In the year 18—mv husband and my sen
with two children moved from the South to
a pleasant little town in the State of Illinois,
where we spent many happy hours, until I
became a widow. Then, being sad, lonely,
and so far from relatives, I determined to
return to my native home; although, I hail
made many friends in this \\ estern State
and had a large music school.
On the eve of my departure, one and all
my pupils gave me tokens of remembrance
of different kinds. One in particular, Mas
ter Edwin Earl, a bright, handsome boy,
lifteen years of age begged me to accept a
heavy gold ring. It was the last thing hand
ed me, as 1 stood on the platform of the
depot, bidding my friends farewell.
“Here, my dear teacher,” said Edwin,
“take this, and keep it until you see me
again.” . , ,
1 accepted the beautiful gift and asked
what 1 should give in return.
“There,” said he, pointing to a quaintly
carved ring with a garnet set, that 1 wore
on my first finger, “let me wear this until
we meet again. You know you have
promised to give me your little girl, and 1
shall claim her as soon as we are old enough
to marry.”
“That ring has a sad history connected
with it,” I replied.
“Oh never mind the history, Edwin an
swered, “I'll return it some day.”
The whistle bl w, and 1 hastily drew- the
ring from my linger and gave it to him—
which 1 deeply regretted afterwards—and
bidding all a hasty adieu, 1 began my jour
ney back to the sunny South. Hut my ob
ject is to relate the history of the ring and
not my own.
l,i tt certain city, m the State of South
Carolina, there was a large military school,
of which my brother Kutlivin Kingston was
a cadet. Being of tine personal appearance
and gifted with a bright, intellectual mind,
and possessing the rare quality of pleasing
.,11 vOiom he cared to win, he soon succeeded
in gaining the respect and love of all his
teachers and fellow students. His lady ac
quaintances were very limited, owing to the
tact that he could only occasionally get away
from the Citadel. Hut. one Sunday after
noon while Kutlivin and Harry Watson, his
room-mate, were strolling about the city
they came to a Roman Chutholic Church and
concluded to attend vespers. There, Ruth-
vin saw a lovely girl with blue eyes and
golden hair, kneeling at her devotions; and
he looked, cupid pierced his heart w ith
one of his sharpest arrows. Quietly he sat;
hearing the service but the only desire in his i ou t of my sight
heart was to know more of the blue eyed
beauty who had made him forget till else.
At length the services were over and as he
and and his friend left the church, he said ;
“Hurry did you notice the young lady
who sat to our right just two seats in front,
w ith a white cloak, and hat with blue trim
mings!” , . „
“Yes indeed, she is a cousin of mine, Miss
^Tjs'it possible.' I am delighted to hear it.
She lias the most angelic face I ever saw or
dreamed of; she is my ideal and 1 have met
mV fate. ’ -iir
“Why, Ruthvin,” said Harry,
believe you are in earnest,
she has so deeply touched your heart at first
Slt “Yes Hal I am in earnest; ns I looked at
her she crept into my heart like a little sun
beam and 1 feel that if I can win her love
my life shall be flooded with sunshine
■■•v.ithi.nr could make me happier than to
Ruthvin, but her motner
ee berTiroiled alive before she would
Terms in Advance: i siWiVcopy, 5*.
/ One Year. 82.50.
NO. 2<>7
religious opinions,
fathe
told me that, you believed he w«is in heaven
w Then, Mother, dear Mother, remembering
\VeII, Florence, where are you ‘ this can you find it in your heart to blame
me?”
“Nonsense! miss, nonsense!*’ spoke Father
O'Brien, “do you not know that your first
duty is to Mod, and that you risk your own
and your oftVpiiug’s salvation by marrying a
heretic. Florence,” he continued, ‘ come
here my feet and kneel and beg the blessed
leave i Virgin t<» aid you in overcoming your infat
uation for this man. Leave her to me,
madam, leave her to me. She must never
see the man again.” , . . . , . . , . ,
NIrs. Pent on went out without a word and ! Hopes glided beam straying into her heat
closed the door after her. land she murmured, “Ruthvin may get my
“Child, 1 bade? you kneel.” said tile priest, 1 ” l,v r betV.re it is too late.” Night hr''light
•Mo you heed it not;” I no repose to the weary restless mind— balmy
“I hear you, father, but 1 cannot kneel, I | sleep deserted her.
am not in a proper state of mind to pray.” i j[ e _ qke the world his realty visit pays.
He said no more but walked quietly out of ' where fortune smiles; the wretched tie forsakes:
the room and locked her ip, then spending j Swift on his downy pinion flies from woe,
an hour in private conversation with Mrs. ; And kehts on lids unsullied by a tear.
Penton he left the house. | Morning came, and with it rain, thunder
When Mrs. Penton unlocked the door of j nfl( ; lighting. Florence paced her room in
the room iii which Florence was confined she | s ji e , i( e. ; I10 w and then going to the win lews
found her very calm, sitting by an open win-i g., ze oll t j,, the direction of the Citadel
dow, looking out. Not a word was spoken ■■■•
‘1 really
Can it be that
spread her face, for his eyes were betraying
his heart.
“I assure you, dear cousin, I am more than
pleased to meet you and Miss Ella. Allow
me, Miss Duval and Miss Summers, to intro
duce my chum, Mr. Kingston,” Harry then
continued:
straying!”
“We have no particular destination in
view. Ella was suffering from depression of
spirits anil 1 am making her try the sea-
1 ireeze. ”
“Well," suggested Harry, “suppose we ex
change partners: let me have Miss Ella, and
while I am trying to cheer her, I will
you to my friend, Mr. Kingston:*you will
find him an entertaining companion.”
“I will consider it a great favor, Miss Du
val.” said Mr. Kingston, stepping forward.
Florence gave a smiling acquiescence. She
knew that Harry and Ella, who were be
trothed. wished to be together, and had very
few opportunities of enjoying each others
society. Therefore the exchange was made,
and the four began to promenadetliebattery.
During the walk the warm lire of Ruthvin s
love kindled a reciprocal tlame in the heart
of Florence : and when the time came to sep
arate, she felt that her life would have no
joy unless she could always be near him
Ruthvin gained access to Miss Duval's
home as Harry’s friend, and the love which
was so quickly born, lived and matured, and
though their interviews were few, each knew
the others Heart. Finally one summer after
noon, Ruthvin took Florence in his arms and
told her of his love. “My darling,” he said,
“I did not intend to tell you of this love so
soon, but I cannot repress this surging tide
of emotion! 1 must give utterance to my
feelings. 1 can no longer keep them pent up
in my own heart. Say that you love me, and
that "though all the powers of earth com
bine to prevent it, you will be my wife.”
And Florence, yielding to his embrace,
gave the solemn promise. He sealed it with
a kiss, and taking from his finger a beautiful
ring, placed it upon hers. “Eet this,’ saul
he, “be a token of betrothal. ”
Mrs. Penton, the mother of Florence Du
val, never dreamed of a love affair until too
late. When it came to her knowledge she
was greatly incensed. “What!” said she,
“Florence, do you think 1 would permit you
to lose your own soul by marrying a heretic!
' ' ' " to your room and
say your rosary; then go to Father O’Krian
and confess this sin you meditate commit
ting.”
“O, mother! do excuse me from the task,
and tell me what you can say against Ruth
vin! He is noble, true and as good as any
Catholic.”
“Girl! girl! you are not competent to judge
in this matter. How dare you set your opin
ion against mine; Go from my sight, until
you can submit to my judgment!” And
making the sign of the cross, Mrs. Penton
left the room.
Rut these harsh words did not check the
love in Florence’s devoted bosom; the flower
which Ruthven bad planted in that heart
and cherished so tenileriy, had budded
and bloomed. As well tell the rose to fold
its lovely petals and withdraw again into the
calyx as bid that heart cease loving. The
flower hail bloomed and only death could
wither the leaves and steal its sweet perfume
away.
Mr. Kingston was forbidden to visit Mrs.
Penton’s house, but the lovers had many
clandestine meetings and their affections grew
stronger with each interview.
Florence promised that leaving all others
she would lie his as soon as he had finished
college; and with this anticipated joy they
tried to content themselves. But, alas! their
secret was discovered and Mrs. Penton in
formed of their intention.
Florence was immediately summoned to
A Sonilii-■*ll i*i:tii(:i(ioEl Stem*
‘Mother, I have promised to
’oiii's Caliin.
to marry Mr. j “Mother, I have tried to be d itiful, always. ! oblige me bv not coming
Kingston; you only object on account of his i In this one instance only i ask to act as my ; .jrieveil indeed i blame
igious opinions. Tell me. was not my ] own heart dictates. If you could bring for- | Unhappy sbit
her a protestant; and have you not often J ward one argument that would prove Ruth- Harry's bn;
unworthy of mv love, I would com
to your wishes. You have married again,
and to please yonr hu-batul, have changed
ymir religion. Ruthvin does not require this
of me, then why object so seriously ?”
Florence, be quiet; I see it is useless to
parley thissubj ct with you. To the Con
vent you shall go and there remain until you
learn to be docile and obedient.” With these
words Mrs. Penton left the room.
Poor Florence, mis. ruble and wretched,
with dark clouds of dispair gathering about
her, stood for some moments with clasped
hands as her mother left her; then came
let'in'! 'marry a Protestant. Her mother isa
convi . to Catholicism and obstinately and
blindly attached to her creed But as he
saw RuU.vin’s brow oegin to cloud, ne\ei
mind old fellow I’ll manage it tor you.
Florence is not asbigotteil as her mother
“Thanks. Harry. I shall lie grateful for
y TheTollawing Sunday-afternoon Ruthvin
and Harry wandered down on t j appear before her mother and Father O’Brien
and there unexpectedly met I' o , caIIed upo|) to cou f eS s her error. Atfirst
ami her friend, Miss Ella Si mm t< , ars filleil her l„ v ing, truthful eyes, but re-
“(), Cousin Harry! ! ’ al 'L* 1 ° r . ’ vou membering Ruthven s charge to be strong
delighted to meet you. w here and f a j t hful through all tests, she raised her
been hiding yourself - l,ut ^ m , ove r- eves to Imr mother’s face anil quietly though
vin she hesitated, and a deep biu.su over g" rnll y ;
for some seconds, then Mrs. l’enton said
“Florence Duval, do you inte.nl to marry j
Mr. Kingston against your mother's will—
against the advice of the holy father and the :
Church!”
“I have promised him mother, I shall trv j
to keep the promise.”
“Enough! go to your room: don’t leave it
until I give you permission. For three days
you can meditate upon this subject and if at
the end of that time you do not come to a
different decision you will leave that room
for a convent.'’
Florence walked out of her mother's pres
ence ami up to her own room. There she
threw herself on her knees and implored
strength and direction from the great Being
who sees and pities each suffering heart.
The hours wore on, and still Florence sat
in perplexity. Plan after plan was laid, but
with each a new difficulty arose.
“Oh, what shall l do! Ruthvin is forbid
den the house, Harry is looked upon as an
accomplice and he, too, is refused admittance
ami I’m a prisoner.” Then going to her
canary bird’s cage, she continued: “You
dear little birdie, are you trying to comfort
me with those joyous notes! Ah! how I love
you; first because Ruthvin gave you to me,
then for your own little sake. 1 wish you
could talk that I might send you to him to
ask his advice. I shall die if they put me
into a convent, and if 1 do, little birdie, you
must go up to Ruthvin and sing your sweet
est to cheer his lonely heart, for I know he j When Florence entered the breakfast room,
will miss me.” , hi r step-father, who was sitting at the table
For only a few moments she gave way to 0 ^ e abruptly and aeknow lodging her pres-
these sad reflections, then her true, brave | em , e only with a look of indignation left the
spirit asserted itself. Taking her writing room . Though well aware that she was no
desk she penned along letter to Ruthvin favorite of Mr. Penton’s, this open display of
and when her tea was brought to her room ! dj s |i|,-e pained Florence deeply; but too proud
and she knew the other members of the fain- 1 p, a p)i<>ar to notice it, she seated herself at
ily were engaged at the same meal, she don- the table and partook of the breakfast spar-,
lied a hooded cloak and drawing it closely ingly and in silence.
over her features, she slipped on her rubber ghe was in the act of quitting the room
shoes, crept noislesslv down the stairs, made R Walton entered. He appeared so
her way through the back yard, out at the c t, p( ,,.f u i and happy, she thought, “Ruthvin
gate and quickly to the post-office, dropped p j not received her letter,” for in it she had
ill her letter, hurried to the lonely cemetery message to Harry
where she knelt fora few moments by the sent a message u. narry ^
headstone of her father’s grave and asked for “M ell, little comm, said he, hastening to
heavenly guidance in her distress, her side. I came down town on business,but
| as the flood-gates seem opened again and
[SEE ENGRAVING ON “ll PAGE]
and was back in her room only five minutes
when Mrs. Penton entered.
“Florence, my child,” she liegan. “I am
deeply grieved to know you are so willful.”
Florence’s heart began to double its pulsa
tions. She was sure her absence from the
house had been discovered. But she grew
calmer as Mrs. Penton continued, “Do be
your former self; it will pain me to see you
go to the Convent—though go there you shall,
sooner than wed witli one outside of the true
church.”
here. I am deeply
you for the present
ite of affairs.”
f flushed with indignant pride
for a moment, but. remembering his errand
■ he pleasantly replied;
j “Pshaw, auntie! you make too much of the
' subject. Why you would talk the young
i foius into it, if they had no idea of such a
| tiling." Turning to Florence, he added:
i “Come, cousin, and play me some cheerful
i music to dispel the gloom of this dreary
weather,” and taking her hand led her into
the parlor.
I “Courage, dear,” he whispered. “I have
I good news for you. Seat yourself at the piano
i and while you are playing I will tell you
what brought me here. Ruthvin received
' your letter, but fearing on your account to
trust a letter, he sent me with this note,
' which you can read after Fm gone, and a re-
i quest wh ich he urged me to beg you to grant.
Play on, but 1 is'en attentively.”
“He says,” continued Harry, “that there
is but one course left by which you can save
j yourself from a convent life and that by fol-
! lowing it you will make him supremely
i happy.”
j Florence’s heart beat fast and the nervous
fingers on the piano keys made many false
notes and betrayed her emotion. Already
; she guessed what Ruthven wished.
( “He knows,” continued Harry, “how much
; you are opposed to elopements, but begs you
j to consider your own happiness as well as
his and to give him the right to protect you
i and nothing on earth shall separate you
from him. He is very unhappy and sineere-
! ly regrets that he cannot see you and make
| this request in person. I love him, Florence,
and cannot bear to see the noble fellow so
j wretched.”
't he music suddenly ceased anil Florence
| pressed her hands over her eves to keep the
! tears from flowing. "Oh, Harry! don't tell
j me that 1 have brought so much bitterness
I into hislife!”
“No, Florence, I did not mean that; only
that you could make his life so different if
you would.” Anil seeing the advantage he
j had gained, Harry went on, “Ituchven will
| beat the side gate to-night at twelve o'clock
; with a carriage and Ella will be with him.
Ruthven's aunt, who is very kind and ilevot-
j ed to him,insists upon having you brought to
| her house, where l be marriage ceremony will
1 take place. Every arrangement has been
j made. Surely you will not disappoint him.”
! “Oh, cousin Harry! it is tempting, but I
! hate to begin a new life by an actofdis-
S obedience.”
| “In this instance you are excusable. Do
i you suppose a parent is justified in the sight
i ot God, who takes a young life like yours
| and crushes its spirit by enclosing it in con
vent walls ”
j “Hush, Harr}-.’ 1 only knowtliat mamma's
; kindness is all gone, and that no person seems
! to love me as Ruthven does. Yes; tell him
. I will meet him to-night.”
| “God bless you, dear. I will hasten back
] with your answer, for 1 know he is impa
tiently waiting. Bye-bye. Beware of your
stepfather.
“I will certainly be cautious. Harry,” and
giving him both hands, she said, “Good-by.
You are so good I cannot thank you enough.
Tell Ruthven to do so for me.”
The front door closed after Harry, and
Florence was hastening to her room to pe
ruse the note Ruthven had sent her when she
heard her mother’s voice calling her into her
w . room. She obeyed without hesitation though
threatening a second deluge, I concluded to her heart was "hungry for the loving words
softly. “Oh, Ruthvin ilo come before
it is too late !”
Outside, the rain beats against tlie window
panes, and the trees bend to and fro in the
i wild wind, their low moans arid sighs seein-
i ing to the poor girl like the echo of her own
j agony. Her meditations are interrupted by
I a knock at the door, and to her gentle—“come
I in;” a servant enters with a command, from
Mrs. Penton, that,
“Miss Florence will please come to her
breakfast,” and is hurrying out of the room,
when Florence calls, “Meg, Meg, stop I want
’ to see you.”
“Course I’ll stop if you want me Miss Flor
ence. But Missus told me not to stay a
minute.”
“Meg, I’m very much in need of assistance; I
are you my friend ;”
“Law, yes child ! 1 is: dat 1 is, ’cause if I
isn’t roar’s Judy would k:ll me.”
“\ t ry vv cll Meg. I 11 t-list. you. 1 expect a i
letter to-day; it will be thrown over the gar- ;
den fence near tlie Palmetto tree. Will 'you
watch for it, and bring it to me !
“Yi s miss, jes so, Fse gwine to do that.” j
Then, Meg, i will give you this silv r mon
ey and a nice head-kerchief.”
“Daw Miss ! I can’t take de sillier money,
’cause my old miss ’ell say, Meg where you
git em' . and when I tell her Miss Florence
give ein t<> me she’ll crack my head. No, no,
but 1 fetch the letter honey—but law Miss
Florence ! come to de table.”
take refuge in this ark of safety awhile.”
“Come. Harry,” said Mrs. l'enton, “I’m
displeased with you, and—”
Oh, stop, auntie! I know I’m forbidden to
cotne here, but you would not have a fellow
creature stay out doors such a day as this I
know,” and he hummed with a saucy good
humor:
"lion’t be angry with me, dearest.
Don't he angry with your boy.”
“Don’t interrupt me, Harry,” continued
Mrs. Penton. “After this morning, you will
she knew the note contained.
“Did your cousin,” began Mrs. Penton,
“advise you to follow my advice or persist
in this folly !”
This question took Florence quite unawares.
Her truthful nature revolted at falsehood
and for tt few seconds she remained silent
and unable to reply; then bursting into tears
sbe said:
“Mother, do with me as you will, hut all
you, cousin Harry, Father O'Brien, or any
one else may say, cannot alter my affection
for Ruthven Kingston. I have pledged him
my heart while life lasts. I have not the
power to take it from him even if I wished,"
“Then, miss, you can go to the convent to
morrow.”
“O mother! ilo not say that. I know the
nuns are pure, noble women, and are satis
fied with their lot because they have chosen
it, but I could never be. I should die. moth
er, I’m sure I would. Think of dear father!
He was a protestant. And, though I w as
only eight years old when he died, I can
never forget that last illness. Don’t you re
member, mother, that when he was dying he
called you to him and said: ‘Mv faithful
wife, take care of our little daughter, train
her to serve our God—teach her the road to
Heaven. There 1 shall await you both.’
Oh, let the remembrance of that hour move
you to be more lenient towards me in this
matter!”
Mrs. Penton’s heart was touched: her eves
suffused with tears: and a better understand
ing might have taken place between mother
and ehiltl had Mr, Penton not entered at this
moment.
“What! crying again!” he asked. “What
is to become of this house!” Florence quiet
ly left the room. Mr. Penton continued:
"That willful girl will ruin us all. Bhe has
kept this house in a turmoil quite long enough
and I do not intend to submit to it any
longer. 1 hoped, Mrs. Penton, you would
have had stability sufficient to come to some
decision, but as you have not, I will do so for
you.”
“Don’t be severe, my husband. Florence
is not at all well. Each day 1 grow more
confirmed in the fear that she has iuherited
consumption from her father.”
“ W -11 she had better die than marry
Kingston, for his only object is to get her
money?”
He became Ruthven’s judge, but did not
confess his own selfish motives that prompted
him to oppose tlie marriage so strenuously.
“I cannot believe she would marry with
out my consent,” said Mrs. Penton.
“Nonsense!” replied Mr. Penton, “1 tell
you Kingston is determined to get her if he
can, and the only way to prevent it is to
send her immediately to the convent. And
as I’m obliged to settle the matter, she shall
go to-morrow.” And without watting for a
reply he w alked out of the room, slammed
the door after him and left the house.
Left alone, Mrs. Fenton turned to go into
rnassa cornin’, den when te’git on"He'iiigfi nb-s
1 be right still, like a mouse, till he iebe.
Missus, he gwine for to kill Miss Florence if
he shut her up in that big house ober dere.
Please send her to her aunt in the country,
and let me go wid her,
“There, there, Meg, you must not presume
to make suggestions. I will see what can be
done. Go now, but don’t mention this mat
ter to your young mistress.”
“No ma’am, missis, I ain’t gwine to.”
However, Meg lost no time in getting to
Florence’s room with the intention of telling
her all she had heard.
“Miss Florence,” she began, “I got good
news for you. Missus gwine to send you off
to de country to morrow and Fs gwine too.
1 heard Massa talking ’bout yer money and
de propity, but thank the Lord, I neber
b’long to him, I ain’t. ’
“Never mind, Meg, I know all—”
“Law! do you honey! den you heard dem
too i”
Meg had been humored and spoilt by her
owners, when quite a child, and now that
she was older had, frequently, to be remind
ed of her place.
“There Meg, you have talked enough,”
said Florence, “you may go now. I wish to
be alone. If you hear my bell, cotne, I’m
not feeling well.”
Mi g left the room: saying to herself as she
went down stairs:
“Well, Miss Florence do look sick like. I
speck dey’ll worry her to def—poor homy!
Florence spent the rest of the day strug
gling with tlie conflicting emotions of her
heart. At times—when she remembered her
mothers kindness in the past—and the grief
she would feel when she knew her daughter
was gone she was on the verge of disappointing
Ruth win. Then, into her heart crept the
memory of his low, loving tones, anil in her
hand she clasped the note he had sent that
morning, in which, he implored her with all
the tire and eloquence of an Apollo, to come
to him. All day long she fought the battle
of love and duty. At length love triumphed,
but the effect of the struggle was plainly
seen in her face. Tlie girlish, cheerfulness
was gone, and in its place was a look of wo-
niai I v dignity and decision. So discernible
was this change, that Mrs. Penton was
struck with astonishment when Florence en
tered the supper-room that evening, and her
mothers heart longed to utter some loving
words, hut her husband was in the room and
she knew he would accuse her of weakness if
she showed ant' signs of relenting.
The meal passed in silence and when I lor
ence rose to leave the room she went over to
Mrs. Penton and said;
“Please kiss me good-night, mother.
Mrs. Penton looked at her husband as if
for permission, then kissed the rosy lips bend
ing over her and said:
“I am afraid you are not well, daughter.
Florence dared not trust herself to reply,
but hastened to her room where, no longer
in danger of betraving herself, she gave way
to a flood of tears. But the night was ad
vancing and much was to be done, therefore
nerving herself to the task she wrote a fare
well letter to her mother. It was not long,
but the blinding teardrops made her long in
completing it and stained its pages in many
places When sealed, she laid it upon the
centre’table and began dressing for the flight.
Down stairs Mr. and Mrs. Penton talked
I long and earnestly about Florence. Mr.
Penton urging the necessity of sending iter
immediately to a convent to prevent an elope-
! ment, and the mother proposing a visit to an
j aunt who had a delightful residence a few
miles in ttie country. But Mr. l’enton over
ruled his wife’s opinions, and it was decided
to send her to the convent on the next day.
[Concluded next week.]
In Egypt, the ulema, who are at the head
of religion, are extremely fond of the
haunches, legs, shoulders and ribs of the hy
ena. w hich Franks, (as Europeans are usually
called) hold to be unclean. The idea is that
hyena flesh imparts strength, especially mas
culine strength. Has a rich Egyptian a pain
in the back—he takes a siesta on a hyena’s
skin, and firmly believes that his pain must
vanish.