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— 4~-—- ssfa e v - -J] -
J Lm&SMHi a Skeleton.
[Fifty years ago the London Morning Chronicle pub
lished a poem entitled “ Lines on a Skeleton,” which
excited mnch attention Every < (fort, even to the
oft'or-i.ig of a reward of fifty guineas, was vainly made
to discover the author. All that ever transpired was
that tlie poem, in a fair clerkly hand, was found near a
skeleton of remarkable beauty o! form arid color, in
the Museum of the Rry.il College of Surgeons, Lin
coln's Inn, London, and that the curate of the Museum
had sent them to Mr. Perry, editor and proprietor of
the Horning Cir-'nicle.]
Behold this 1 nin 1 ’Twas a skull,
Once of . thereal spirit full;
This narrow cell was life’s retreat.
Tliis space was thought’s inystetions seat—
■"VVtiat beauteous visions filled this spot!
. VVh at dreams of ploasmc long forgot!
NOl hope, nor joy, nor love, nor fear,
Have It ft one t rare or record here.
Ren eat n this mo aider! n g canopy
One. shot, bright and busy eye;
VBiit not jA . not at the dismal void ;
It soci and I®.: that er e employed--
If with no lawles" the It gleamed.
But through the dew of kindness beamed—
Tint eye shall he forever bright,
When stars and sun are sunk in night.
•V •
Within this hollow cavern hung
The ready, swift and tune til tongue :
If falsehood’s honey it disdained,
A rut where it could not praise was chained;
If bold in virtue’s cnuswlt spoke,
Yet gentle concord ncv. r broke.
This silent t<*nga« shall plead for thee
When time unveils eternity.
Bay, did those fingers delve the mine 1
< Or with envied rubies shine t
To hew the rock or we.ir the gem
•Can little now avail to them ;
But il the page of truth they sought,
Orcomtort to tin- mourner brought.
These handsii richer meed shall c aim
Than all that wait on wealth or fame.
Avails it whether bare or shod,
Tires fe t the depths of duty trod ?
Jfjrom tlu: lmbs of ease they fb.d
To *eek A tlliction’s humbU sited ?
inSr irideur’s guilty bribe they sprinted,
A: and honor to Virtue s cot?returned,
These - feet wi h angers wings shall vie,
And tread dm palace of tlie sky.
'} " • - ■
HE AND I
“ Candidly, do you believe in love at first
Jwghtp&niy ?”
t A young man asked tin; question, looking
\ip from the novel he was reading. And a
yr triri, probably bis eotisin, blushed.as she
I r pb .il, “8110. did not know,”
[ 4 forgot what else passed. They wore only
Teiiow-tr'velers in a railway carriage. My
friend, Mrs. Murray, who was taking 1 me to her
home, called my attention to some place of in
terest we were passing, and tin? young man re
sumed his book.
Hut the question recurred to me; and as I
leaned back in my corner I tried to answer it
for myself, and to solve a little mystery that
puzzled mo.
Tit iitnes had I met a gentleman,-a hand
ed...; mg man, tall, dark, and listless. We
had .u ver spoken, but his notice of me had at
tracted my attention. At a ball lie followed
me about, changed bailor when our eyes met,
but did not seek an introduction.* » •
At a concert he stared me almost out of
cov -tenanee,yet grave almost respectfully.
* a pie-nie—the last time I bad seen him—
-1 ■ as happy, laughing and talking- till he saw
m V<en nie manner became^constrained, and
i; ••• minutes lie left the party.
T:Y> . e was a strange fascination in his* ]*• £e
dark eyes, and I wondered if I should ever meet
him again. •*
He must have had some reason tor noticing:
me so strangely, for I was not pretty. No,
no! It could not be love at first sight, could
in _
We arrived at Th? Meadows late in the even
iug. Mrs. Murray introduced me to her daugh
ter Lydia, a lady some fifteen years older than
myself. Mr. John was married, and had the
rectory. George, the eldest son, was traveling
abroad. *
Mr. Murray and ray mother had been school I
fMeuds, but had been separated for years, and |
•o were comparative strangers till they met
again jn society, and Mrs. Murray asked me«to
•pend two or three months with her in the
country, to recruit my strength after the fatigue
of a London season.
The day alter ouf arrival Lydia shewed me
over the house and grounds. Harold, Mr.
Johu’s eldest child, eight years old, came with
us.
Tbe conservatory door wa.s locked. Miss
Murray left us to fetch the key. Harold re
mained talking.
“1 shall have this horrid old place pulled
down!” he said, pulling at some ivy that clus
tered round the turret, ne looked at me as
though expecting an answer, then, resumed :
“Pa says, if ho has it he shan’t stay at the
church. lie shall pull this down; if he don’t, I
.shall.”
“ But this is your uncle's place,” said I.
“My nude ! He won’t live long. My ma
lays uncle George is a bad man, a wicked mau,
Don’t you think he is a wicked man ?”
“No,” said I, though I knew nothing of him.
“Little boys—” I began impressively; but his
aunt returned and the conversation ended.
“The place would lie very different if poor
George were here,” said Lydia, sadly.
“Does he never live here?” I inquired.
Miss Murray looked at me keenly. “Live
here! No. never. He stays for week or two
sometimes.”,
“ Perhaps soufc dw he wil! marry and set
tle.”. ‘ ' *
“Kever!” said Lydia, stopping to pick a
flower. ‘*llave you not heard about him ? ’
“Heard what?” saidl.
“I shall uot be a raven, and tell you. You
will learn soon enough.”
Harold was standing in the doorway look
ing back at us. He had large brown eyes, and
something in them made me fancy I had seen
him before, though I knew I had not.
So. there was a secret in the family- some
mystery about the eldest son. Perhaps I was
wrong, bin 1 did wish to find it out.
I had been at The Meadows re.-rly a month
before an opportunity occurred. Then 1 paid
a visit *o the rectory, taking my work, that 1
might spend the day there. Mrs. Murray, I
fancied, ?rot tired of having to entertain me.
and Lydia liked, to have some time to herself.
Mrs. Johns and I were friends, so could
frec'y to each other.
yotf engaged ?*’ said Mrs.. Johns.
,:,n(, >' sn " shcaiiuded to an opal
ring 1 always
to \ouiig. iiow old are
< : If J' ’•• • - T ■
“O, r was more than that when I married.
Mamma could not bear the idea—a secotfd son,
you know. It was not a good match themjmt
I always said I would marry lor love,
they are pleased enough, for poor GeO l % ™ 0
really nobody ; only he keeps John out of the
place at present. Eventually Harold must have
the estate. It is entailed.”
“But there is an elder brother ?” said I.
“To my husband ? Yes; but since that affak
of his be will never marry, and John comes
next. Sad affair that !* 1 always pity poor
George.”
Mrs. John said this Very comfortably, in the
same way one pities a tradesman lor having to
reduce the price of his goods, while rejoicing
iu the opportunity of buying them cheaply.
“Is he very unhappy ?”
As I said this I hated myself for asking it.' I
know it I had been right (as some would say
“commonly honest”) I should have declined to
bear anything- Lydia would not tell me. Like
a good child I should have said, “Thank you, I
must not listen. He would not like it;” but
‘rnisere!’ as a French friend of nriiie used 10
exclaim, I am one of Eve Is true daughters,
and the temptation was irresistible. I yielded
to curiosity.
“ Well, yes,” said*Mrs. John, “ for the world
is not charitable. Os course wc know the
troth, and we don't really condemn him. Bui
he takes_ it to heart, (perhaps to conscience,
and that'is as had,) though it may be a shadow
alter all—it may be.”
Mrs. John emphasized the last three words,
and her straight lips again made a correspond
mg line to.the faint straight eye brows that
met, over her nose, and disappeared behind the
set curls arranged neatly on either side of her
face.
“ It is a pity he should mind a shadow—”
1 spoke awkwardly, conscious of trespassing
on a forbidden subject.
Mrs. John looked up at me. “ I thought all
the world knew his history,” she said ; “ quite
romantic it is, and sad. You know be was a
surgeon. Before his father had this property
left him by his brother, the boys were brought
up to professions. My husband to church, to
take t his Jiving. George chose to he a surgeon,
so he became one; and clever, too, I believe,
very clever. Well, he had good expectations,
60 was in a good deal of society; and in the
course of hi& practice met a young lady whom
he liked; in fact, fell in love with her. I sup
pose she returned the affection, for they were
engaged (this was before I was married.) Well,
Miss Chester, Col. Chester’s daughter, was
rich; at least her father was rich ; the estates
were left by will in this way: if Col. Chester
died without hoys, hut. leaving a daughter, that
daughter might inherit; but if there was a son,
all landed property was to go to the son, how
ever young; and only some dower to be paid
to Miss Chester. An unlucky kind of arrange
ment, wasn’t it? Well, Col. Chester had but
this one daughter till he married again ; then he
had one son: Well, that eiiikl was born after
George was engaged to Miss Chester; and
w hen it was a year, or pet haps eighteen months
old, it became ill—some childish illness—and
the child died.”
I echoed Mrs. John’s” interjection, “Well?”
“Well, don’t you see, George had attended
to it. Was it not awkward ? George had never
been a favorite with the Colonel, and he became
suspicious, and had his prescriptions looked at,
and the matter judged by other physicians, for
Colonel Chester is an old man, and just mad at
losing the child. They say it was right enough,
quite right—medical men always hang together,
you know—but the child had not died of any
acute disease; it had died of an over dose of
medicine. It was, of course, the efiemist’s fault,
hut—you see how it stands —awkward for poor
George.”
“He could not help 51 ” said I.
“ My dear, he wa~. there three times a day to
see the child, (and Miss Chester) and the child
died; the little child died. The world is hot
charitable!”
“Nor are yon,” thought I, but I only said,
“ And Miss Chester !”
“Her father told George what he suspected of
him. He, ot course, gave her up on tjie spot.
I don’t know w hat became of her. George will
never marry, impossible; but he wanders about
like a ghost, and Ido pity him. It was a great
temptation for a young man without, means.
He had not succeeded to The Meadows then,
yon know. It was a great temptation.”
“ A Utile child !” said 1.
Mgs. John seemed surprised and half alarm
ed at the distress I could not Tielp fcclisg, so
probably betraying ; in justification of herself
she added :
“It, was very awkward for him—very—and j
people..will judge; and, my dear, the fact re-j
mains, whether it was the chemist or not,” '
said Mrs. John, before taking up -her baby j
from the sgfa, where it had been sleeping.— I
“The fact remains,” said Mrs. John, stroking j
baby’s ruddy cheek and fat arm, “though ha- j
hies live through a great deal, this little child i
died*.”
Two shadows fell across the window. Mrs. I
John had turned to take her baby to the*nurse
ry, and did not observe them till she was just. |
leaving the room. Then she said, “Talk of an j
angel, and von are sure to see its wings !” Sitq I
stood in the doorway a moment, and nodded j
and smiled before closing the door and . Uunsfr. j.
Her husband entered the window that bpenrff’t
to the lawn. After him came anothei; gentle- !
man. I looked up, and recognized the myste-1
rious gentleman of the concert, the ba|J and
Xhe picnic.
“Ah! Miss Christensen!” said Mr. John,
“let me introduce you to ray brother George.
This young lady is at your house, George, with
your mother.” t
Mr. Murray bowed, and his color changed as
he watched me collect my work and materials,
and prepare to leave the room.
“ Pray don’t let me frighten you away,” he
said, “ 1 shall be home soon.”
They were such common-place words, but
my face crimsoned, and I was gfad wlieri Mrs.
John came in. She was smiling most
ateiy. apparently had forgottewthe conversation !
that I would have given anything not to .have
shared. She noticed ray confusion, but'did not
know 1 had met him before; nor did she notice
that bis hand, trembled when at parting it touch
ed mine, but if did. I knew now whose eyes I
had recognized when I saw narold.
When I returned home, Mrs. Murray was ex
pecting her sou, for his man a*.d luggage were,
these already. •
“It is just like him,” said Lydia; becomes
and goes Hke Will-o’-the-Wisp; oerhaps you
may induce him to stay a little’ louger this
time.”
Again I Wusiied.
“ Did I offend you, dear ?” said Lydia, kind
ly, and she passed her arm round my shoulders,
and we walked up and down the terrace to
gether.
“No.” said I, “not in the least; if I influx
once Mr. Murray at all, it wilrbe to drive him
away.”
Then I told her of our meetings, but of course
I was careful in what I said. “He is' very
strange and moody at times, my dear; you
must not notice him.”
In the evening he came home, but he was
not strange or moody, and during the whole ,
six weeks he stayed, I found him rather the*]
reverse—pleasant, kind, considerate. He was
always waiting on his mother, going about
with Lydia, and rather avoiding rpe, still in a
kind, gentlemanly way. So matters went on, ■
till one evening I stood on the lawn, with baby ’
in nay at ms. It was a glorious sunset; the;
brothers returned from their walk, and carag ;
to my side. Mr. George Murray had a rose- I
bud in his hand, and held it to the child. The
little thing laughed and talked to it in baby ,
Inshiou and stretched ont her little hand to |
take it from him. Her hand touched his. He ;
dropped the bud and turned away.
AUGGSPA, GA„ MORNING, JANUARY 2, 1867.
Mr. John was good-natured, and I believe,
sincerely, fond of Lis brother®.* took Use
child from my arms, smiled syinp.diizing! “a;
George, and ran into the house to his wife, w , o
had been spending the whole day with us. Mr.
George looked very handsome with the sun
shine lurking iu his soft, glossy heard, the rest
of his face in deep shadow from the broad brim
of the fe t hat he wore pressed close on hi>
brow. 1 was sorry for him, hut I did not dart
break the silence, though it. was awkward, and
we wen quite alone. We came back to the
house side by side ; as we passed tin* drawing
room window v heard Mrs. John’s cold
voice say precisely ;
“Any one would thir.* they were lovers!”
He looked keenly in my face. lam afraid a
blush was there. He passed on to th.c library ;
and when I arose the next morning I heard*
that he was gone. Lydia was distressed and
out of spirits. We wandered together over the
bouse and ground's, and walked with Mrs.
Murray ;o the rectory, where she always spent
tiie first days of George’s absence. When wc
returned, I wait with Lydia to her brother’s
room to put away the many pretty things she
had arranged to welcome him when ho came
home.
“He has not stayed so long for years,” said
Lydia, as she disconsolately collected the
pipes that had been left scattered on a side ta
ble. “I cant think what sent him away so
suddenly, poor fellow.”
• I did not speak ; I dared not tell her Mrs
John’s remarks then. So I sat, idly looking
from the window, and Lydia busied herself
with the dressing table. There were some pa
lters there, left all together just, as they had
been sorted out.-to take. My George, must
have gone off in a hurry at last, and so have
forgotten them. Lydia looked «*.. ough-tliem
listlessly, saying, “Perhaps. 1 t. ust a,J|h Cin
on.” Suddenly her hand a - t >pcd turning the
crisp leaves, and an exclamation burst from het
lips. I rose and looked over her shoulder. In
her hand she held a small square paper, that
might once have been a leaf in a sketch hook. <
On it a girl s head had been roughly drawn in
pencil, flic hair waved off th§ temples, the
eyes looked up anxiously, pleadingly. The
lips were silently apart. Round the throat a
little ribbon was tied, and on the ribbon hung
a smalj locket. Beneath the drawing the letters
u C.. were written, and these two fyords,
“ Kyrie Eleisou.” It was not an artist’s sketch;
it was the drawing of a hand that loved. L\ dia
held up the sketch, and placed her finger on
the looking glass before us. The reflection
was reproduced in the sketch. I • urned away,
for it was my own reflection that I saw, and *
was sorry to have stumbled on another of Tfis
secrets. But my heart bounded, and anew life
,seemed to come -to my soul. Lydia put her
arm round me and kissed rue.
“My dear, a red rose; mind, a full,-rich
crimson rose, from the second standard in the
laiNje conservatory, and your long white dress.”
It was Lydia that -sp^oke; slie had come to
hid me good by for the afternoon. She was
called Irom home, she said. I must excuse her
and try to amuse myself. A bright bloom was
on her check, and she looked quite young
again, though-she wasdres-ed soberly iu black
with only a violet ribbon to relieve it. These
delicious hours of solitude, if solitude it, could
be called! ’No, no! it was life! new life! a
happiness too great to realize, luxurious; a
holy future, in a sweet uncertain tyniid shadowy
brightness. One figure, one face, in a thousand
reflections, precluded the idea of solitude. I
was companioned by the.futurc. . The eveniro
came so quickly. 1 must, dress for Lydia’s re
turn. The rose was plucked. I was fastening
1 it in my hair y. hen she came softly to my room.
■ She had been crying, tnougli evidently she tried
I to cc up os e herself.
“My dear, • she said, drawing me (town to
Lhc sofa at her jjjide, “do you think we are re
sponsible for the evil we unconsciously bring
on others ?”
“Certainly not,” said I, my mind going to
George and his mistake.
She lent her head on my shoulder, and a tear
drooped on my hand, as she whispered—
“ I have done you a real wrong. 1 have been
a Judas to you, and betrayed you by a kiss!”
I did not know myself or my weakness ; ac
tually 1 was ill, Mrs. Murray and Mrs. John
thought I had taken cold. Lydia knew differ
entlv. She kept my secret and nursed me
kindly. When I was recovering she told me it
was Miss Chester’s portrait I had seen; D. C.
was not, Dora Christensen, hnt Delicia Chester
1 Tt was my resemblance to Miss Chester that L id
! brought me so much notice from Mr. Murray.
! f hated myself for the mistake, and my hatred
I only Increased the evil. For weeks I lav.Pl at
; The Meadows.
Lydia would blame herself for showing me i
the portrait. But we'botfi felt that there is a !
mystery in sequence—circumstance rau-t fol- j
low circumstance. Ope link cannot be re cred !
in the chain of fate. And the weary i> :vs oi j
illness and eouvalesence passed on, and aftes
time my mother tqpk me across the channel io ,
Dieppe. We were en route for Geneva, but T
was weak, and we waited at Dieppe for a few j
days to rest, We used to watch the steamers!
come in. It was the autumn, and there were !
uot a groat many passengers. As the boat \
neared the shore the day before we intended to
I recognized a pair of dark eyes looking
up at me. Mr. George Murray was on board.
I fainted. When I recovered, Lydia was bend- j
ing over me! and though we were in an open j
carriage in the public road, she kissed me as j
she said:
“ Silly girl!’.’
We did no leave Dieppe that day. In the !
evening Lydia aud I walked out together, to ;
have a chat, she said, about old times; but that;
was scarcely her intention* for when we were j
alone together she was .unusually silent. We
were on the pier. I sat down to rest, and
“Lydia with some unintelligible-excuse, left me.
1 leaned against the parapet, watching a boat
come in. - The tide was dead ahead ; the wind
only a cross wind, so the Task of bringing her
in was not an easy one. It was only a fishing
boat with four mgn iu it. Each had an oar :
still, as they passed the crucifix at either side,
e*h raised his hat and signed the ero°s upon
his breast, and -seemed to breath#a prayer.
“ Do they lose or gain by that act ?”
I started so whgn I hear the question. It was
Air. MurAty who put it.
“ They lose a wave,” said I. “It is a ques
tion.”
“ They believe they gain. It may be super
\ stition, still I think their is some reality in
j their iuta. »The loss is again. The boat is a
' trifle longer—each man is nearer to bis home.”
I did not understand, for my brain was
stupid, and I felt ashamed at seeing him again ,
; but he said no more about the boat or the men.
, I hough we watched them ont of sight. Then
>he sat down at.nij r side. I felt his brown eves
on me; but what passed next I can never j
i write. It is only for him and me. The nil
utes passed on, each bearing away J pain fro. 9
my heart. lie told iue.be had come to DLep; .
■ pn purpose to see me, and wisi the remain c<
• °f his life endeavor •- aanish the remembrar. e
i of the mistake that had cost him so ran-.'
! And I could only weep and weep, till
; came back to put his hand in mine, and ash 4f
I would oo heii sister. " * <*'
li is ail told now. A month after we leftl
Dwppe, and Wjwe married by special lleec-e I
before- he took me- home to The -Meadows as j
bis wife. Mrs. Murray was glad to we let m; |
me, and have her eldest boy near her, haopy, j
though Mrs. John, rras not so pleased as she !
might have been, -'•id George and I talk L ee-1
ly of the past ; and f,*too, have learnt to sym- j
pathize m Miss Chester's sorrow, when she I
wrote those tw ;*sad words beneath the sketch '
Coionel Che'p'r permitted him to take from
her a few dtw*. *qfore her death. ’ j
Some to travel, and stop in Madeira,!
to ’ . lib cemetery and see her grave* 1
• Soil he carries the sketch; hut the mysliw is
i gone between us, and we are very strangely
* happy—he and I. He does not tremftle at. nfy
j baby, though often I'see the little fingers twine •
! ronn 1 his; indeed, 1 tDink he likes to feel the
I strange, soft touch'of baby’s cheek against his
I own.
fPaßs C6r. espondcacp of the Philadelphia Home
Weekly.
French Women—What thsy Marry For, and
How They Act When Married.
j What wr.etcned wives- French women make!
j They certainly are less fitted for matrimony
- than any women the sun shines on. Fond of
! excitement, devoted to pleasure, Joving dress,
debghted in company, home and its duties are
confinement in jail and irksome drudgery to
I them. .The best of them wear the breeches,
; baggie—as only women can haggle—about
, centime.- and sous, reduce their husbands to
j hardship, drive off his friends, reduceliis ex
penditures, diminish his pleasure, place money
i over and above every tiling else, make their
| will, the:, wishes, their wbuus, their caprices'
i tho ! ,-v °* Gfr household, and think they orght
to be adored as angels, because they keep but
! tons and shirt, from arting company.
Ihese are the jewels ot married women in
i l /n these ihink'lightiy of fidelity
•to marriage vows. In this natioh of social
! life, where society is everything, and all else is
nothing, nobody refusing any thing
v idea may afld to the* entertainment of ejom-
I pany. As husbands are zeros in the best
i oouses, any complaint they may make of in
vasion of their rig. its is commonly disregard
cii. 01 and insisted upon, is answered by suit tor
: divorce. Those “animals” have j»o rights ex
! cept so fir as the union of buttons and shirts is
Patterned.
1 in-1 iiei e are no women in the world more
: agreeable to strangers in a drawing-room than
j French women. Filsehood and truth are things
* indifferent to them; consequently such a thing
i as Principle never checks tHi ir desire t»*iie
| agreeable. Their natural ir.ai'cTousness aui' v
; their natural sprightliness, whose quiekneso'-
| a j l( * sharpness have been* increased by the con-'
j tinual attrition of company, make their conver
sation entertaining. Their satisfaction in ftnd
iuSpiliemselves in what they may not lyijustly
*tonsider their proper sphere, dimple their
checks with smiles, and kiudffls light in their
eyes. I heir vanity, which continually goaas
I them to struggle for applause, stimulates them
Ito exert all their powers ol pleasing. They
i consequently a’re the most agreeable, drawing
| room companions to strangers iu the world.
! It is almost impossible to avoid falling in
j lpve frith them. Fancy pursues them beyond
j the drawing-room, and uses her warmest colors
jto draw pictures of—the h’appiness of the men
| wlio constantly possess such bright, vivacious,
| amiable, and fascinating creUwP>s. Fanev—
! that will-o’-the-wisp of life—deceives us here
as i.: bar w'Ont, and, were we to follow her g’it
tering, airy flame, woqid surely lead us into a
most} kif’ul morass.
Ibe oeket, w hich lies in the artificer’s labora
tory, black, sullen, unattractive 'in its »-;:lgar
paste-hoard ca*c, resting on an unadomlk’nß- 1
polished, rough stick, do s cot n?ore fii/Fer
from the fiery boit which makes mobs c? i„i.-
it eemns to scale the highest heavens, thviMhe
jlreneli cynosure of the drawing-room i' :f Ter&
from the wife in her linsband’s«or her family’s
| company. •
fiic .restraint.-' of domCstic'life dpplrlfis them
Iti an me »nceivib’e degree. The, happi
ness ot a' >;t them.is to enjoy a motherless
widow. s'ireeoMit, Td*ii ivc r .• to give !
f Iheir time >or tneir .p* U r e , oc.of# : r hod*-. [
1 0 - ’ a *A-no cCnseience save otU'K.';leo '. ; i
; knewr.'•cia.-as repo, and by pi.oitgfTfei*, - ;-^,.
| Ic'-fCOld to be lieanlious, tlieys-are uever ini-i
1 moral, exctfif to gratify an agreeable compart- •
: ion ; and, were Jove to listen to their prayer, ,
men’s desires be of the same- temperature i
through life as they are at three-s^.e
It is neither wonderful imh and wo;V n h !r
Vy here, nor-wonderfn! tWv separnt „ jib/
riages are contracted so!.:!* vor monev ‘ Jr ;
social position, or £o: - k. Women marry !
for these advantages ai i ie free.
1 A woman is a ward,; -, mfiint, until she dia*. j
! rie-i. She musfnot be v- -u at plays wh(r->,e |
I dialogue is as thinly and sparsely draped as* e !
leading actresses, who keep its shuttle cock of ,
; conversation flying. Hue must* not go on the j
: street or into public gardens alone. She must 1
rot clip her nose ihto books which are only fit i
for the shelves 01 married Coventry She has
the worst, seat at theT*" t-hurch, theatre and
m carriage. She must o -.ileut, modest and re
spectful.
All changes when she marries. She was a
! sitjJ—she is a woman. She may go wh -'e he
pluses, when she pleases, is sic plea c ' , ° *: he
slave is tyrant m turn; the husband (s*e free
while unmarried, wf-ci 3 the di'-earded manacles;
■■ ;.e.
wnat sl'P. gjeakes. - icy, seesanj sight. ;
; n L. ' X v“i* jter what title,
j she jisspAßwly. Her T' w title becomes
1 feramioe, fyid is her propy. much as it his.
Hie opera box, '’*» ca- .a town and tlu-'
sou.'.try lutusc -1* . i.i , . Sh. ’ ngages and dis
j m sees the ser’ iii.- - '!?ie table is laid to suit
I her taste. She bis all th.- keys. Therefore,
I If matrimonYlxioes not suit them,- despite
| husband, lather*and mother*, she sues ajlivorc-e.
j Her husband is obiigedHo gi; ■ her an "Income
j j. ll keeping with their
1 'Fashton in Australia—A Novel Repre- -
| sentation of the PRESsN-The Melbourne pa
pers publish elaborate accounts of a saucy ball
given by the Mayor of Melbourne to Sir H.
Manners Sutton, the Governor of Victoria,
j Lady Manners Sutton and family, and about
fifteen hundred of the fashionable people of the ]
; city- Some idea of't he colonial wealth and
splendor may be fr ned from a description of
j the dresses worn by same of the ladies. Mis.
Gurner, as Selika, w ore a petticoat of amber
; cashmpre, enriched with Liver lace, a crimson,
velvet bodice ’With.a gold circle round the waist !
, from which depended dWunonds, emeralds and
topazes ; over the bodice was a royal blue satin
; robe trimmed with deep gold lace; the Lead
dress was a gold diadem with a cluster of to- ;
; pnzes in the centre, surmounted by a bird ol j
| paradise; a necklace of jewels was worn to ■
match (ho circlet. Mrs. Butters, as The Press, |
wore a white satin dress on wieh weia printed
! the first pages of nil the Melbourne newspapers [
and periodicals, including that of an,
•lurnrd with . portrait ofthe Governor. Irimer
nand she earned a gold model of a priutiiftftireaf
p—-, whiea v. ere struck ofl in the room sqpie
iii.i s from Byron’s “ Lara.” Miss Carter, as
the Beddess of Music, wore over a .blue satin
i {::iic skirt, circled at Uie waist by a band
; 7,'inber satin, or;'which were printed bars of
music. The bodice was of Anted black velvet,
isplaying musical characters. On her dress,
hung a golden !vre, and her head was adorned
v. i. h a of ladies
■* ——
i Sir. H. C. Eno has polished an amusing’'
i lithograph carieaturing.Docrbr Butler as “ Ma
! jor General &ilvcrsjja6n” on horseback, in fall
; uniform, with ali the etoqk qnd-fixtnres of a
i hippo tbeatrtcal pawn-broker’s shop. The pic
| tflrc is faulty in two respects ; it gives the Doc
i tor too youtfffnl and amiable a look, and he ex
' six spoons, two forks and one silver
; pitcher—which is a contemptible inventory of
! the stock in Butler’s shop,, and aj-idicuJously
i small estimate of theßoetor’s. efforts to “snp
i press the rebSllioa” in New Orleans.
Af Smith’s European Times.
in London.
DOCTOR MARY WALKER HISSED A’. J “COOED”
down by mepicai, studlnts.
• I)r. Mary Walker, the ladv who excited s«
much attention during the Manchester meeting
of the Social Science Association, delivered si
lecture in St. Jamcs|HLill. London, on the 20ih. i
The hall was crowded. The gallery at the end
of the room was especially crowded, and if re
port did not belie its occupants, there were
among them numbers of medical students and
I other tumultuous spirits, bent, on giving full :
j and free expression to the; feelings of the mo-1
i ment, whatever those might happen to he. In
I r * e interval- preceding the commencement ol j
j 1 .ie lecture, the utterances of the gallery - took a
| urieie-d turn—“ John Jjrown,” “Free and I
balky,” “J< liy Dogs,” and other songs admit- i
ting of an effective chorus being rendered with i
spirit, and hailed at the: close with vociferous !
cheers. A pofleom m was sent op stairs with
the object of moderating the fervor ot “ the j
I gods, hut for some time Iu - was unsuccessful i
jin his mission. Rev-using the usual formula, 1
j and addressing hcrseif to the “gentlemen and |
ladies’ present, Dr. Walker said she was one,'
j of those who thought it better and easier to j
\ li. v « their own individual lives, and to u-e
tin* powers specially bestowed upon tlu in, than 1
to live according to other people’s notions -to
live, in fact, the lives of other persons. More i
than fifteen years ago s.he resoived Jius to do j
her duty to,lHimanit.y, as she eoiuprehended it, I
leaving the results to take care themselves. At
seventeen years of age she entered the seminary,
where huge classes ol both sexes were he and, and
among her two greatest troubles were the re- ;
proaches leveled at the supposed inimode-t v ot t
desiring to be present at operations, and the per- !
-petttal worry attendant on longdrcsses. At tin- !
yceuni, when she attended the classes with two '
other ladies, many of the male students threat- |
efied to secede, but did not do so. The other
ladies discussed the subject of dress freely with
'ilier, hut did not like to make themselves ro
niaikable, declaring that it was no use to go i
against the fashion. For her own part she I
brought with her several short dresses and !
pantalettes ; but the drawback to the latter
was thafr they had to be changed so often in i
: tidily weather. Bhe had been anxious to !
volunteer for service in the Crimean liospilafa,
hut the war closed foo speedily. She, therefore, |
devoted herself to private practice among !
women and children, only attending husbands I
at the special request of their own wives. It 1
was a fact, admitting of no denial, that long !
dresses were killing women ; doctors knew the !
facts well, but as long as stays and long dresses :
were worn in their own households they could
not compel their patients to abandon them. The
Bloomer movement all but died out some
years ago, because the kdies who favored it then
were for the roost part incapable ot appreciat
ing and explaining the physiological, hygienic,
and moral bearings of the question. If the
petticoat were cut,in one way the lady was ac
cused of a desire to show her ankles ; if in
JAgfijiiM? “looking like a squaw.” Ridicule,
TWweverycould he overcome by patience. The
lecturer then proceeded to speak on the Ameri
can war, which was the signal for many of Ihe
audience to retire. For fully twenty minutes
IJr. Mary Walker, amid frequent manifestations
oi op patience, toiled through the familiar passa
ges _cf “Fort Sumter,” “the mighty Union ;
sentmien: ” and “the liberation of the negro.” ;
A ra»L she she came hack to her own s tare in
these events, and to the medical services which
she bad been enabled to t-cn/Jer, first at Wash- \
ingjbu, and afterwards nearer Go the scenes of
- At this point more probably than any
o;h v the lecturer carried with her the svmpa
tbie ,of the audience. Passages of UieleeMu C,
now ever, intended doubtless to .he deeply pa- \
thetie, convulsed the audience with laughter by j
the naivete and .minuteness with which she gave I
v very detail, however trifling, apparently"um j
x uiscious ot its effect upon those of the an- :
/Luce who were humorously inclined. At the !
<’lose of her address there was a burst of ap- |
pause, she remained for a few moments in I
eonver -i ion with friends upon the platform, j
hut v. . jidrcw into her own apartment I
upon tin reviv’al by her junior colleagues i
of the nr - Lea! profession of the chorus' of
“John Bro'v.i” with greater vigor than ever,
llic Pot 1 Mall Gazette says: “One or two
of tlu anecdotes s lie related struck us
as being in questionable .taste. For instance,
when cent in charge of a young soldier who was
sever-, y wounded, the latter said to his lady
physician, ‘Kiss me,’ or as we understood it,
‘Kiss me twice,’ fora perfect burst of uproari
ous mirth drowned the rest of the sentence.
order was restored the orator proceeded :
His .a teer, an aged grey-haired man, seconded
the request, saying, ‘ He’s a nice young man.’
1 paused before I complied with this repulsive—
here again excessive laughter and cries of ‘ Oh,
oh!’ which appea-ed rather to nettle Dr. Walk
er, for she suddenly remarked in a different and
perfectly natural tone and twang, I’d just like 1
to »rU you how he looked ; ‘ lie was yellow in j
hue and emaciated— ’ but at this point there j
"was such a sympathising chorus of cooing i
sounds as of many wood pigeons, and .such a
general uproar that the conclusion of the anec
dote was altogether - lost to the audience. We
regret this the more as it might have afforded a
valuable precedent as to the professional eti
quette to he observed under circumstances of
such an unusual and conflicting nature. On the
whole the exhibition was a pain lul one, 111
many respects Dr. Mary Walker is, we do not
doubt, au exceptional woman ; and it is likely
enough she will make a good many more dol
lars by lecturing in the Bloomer costume than
she would as a practising surgeon. Whether
she will advance the position of iemale physi
cians, or increase the consideration in which
.her sex is deservedly held, we take to be quite
another question.”
Mormomsm ix England-* Jonviction op a
Bigamist Apostle.—At the Winchester Assizes
on Tuesday Paul Harris was indicted lor mar
rying Emma Lew is, his first wife being then
living. The prisoner was marri lat Bury, Lan
cashire, in October, 1840, to Mary Haymer, and
again, in the name of James Herbert, to Emma
: Lewis, a widow, at Poplar, in October, 1865.
! Enmia Lewis said about eight years since she
! was told that tl»; prisoner was a married man.
| She accused him of it, and he told her that tlie ;
| other marriage was a Mormon one. The pris
! oner was a Mormon preacher. He had used her :
: very brutally. She had three children by the
prisoner. She pretended to he a Mormon, but ;
I never was one. The first wife had come to |
tjieir Louse in the Isle of Wight. When the
ess came back and found tin* other woman, ,
shfttook h:-r children and’ went away, but the ;
pri»ner declared it was a Mormon marriage,
and siie then went traveling with the prisoner,
leaving the children in the care oi the other wo
man, because she had no means oi supporting
them.
The prisoner, in his defense, said that lie and
this woman had lived together as man and wife,
and they went through a mock marriage to
please her father. The jury found the prisoner
guilty, and he was sentenced to one year’s im
prisonment with hard labor.
[ London Post , December 7.
The London Court Journal says that Mr.
Tennyson is about to leave the Isle of Wight,
where he has a pretty little house and grounds
at Faringford. If the report be true he will ;
have been driven away by the curiosity of his
neighbors. H" has bought up all the land he !
could get round hi? grounds, but to no effect.
He is watched and dogged wherever he goes.
In London he is quiet enough ; no one suspects
the tall man with <i wide awake, long beard, and
spectacles to be the poet.
V )L. 25. N-l. 1
The Eleehant as a Walker.—Wc have
generally found two curious points overlooked
or ignored by writers—one is the rapid and
noiseless movements of this animal in the
thickest cover; the other, his capabilities of
passing over ground for him apparently un
feasible. The elastic, noiseless footfall of the
elephant has been frequently re,erred to by
writers on Indian subjects, and has been rightly
asserted to he the most agreeable feature in
journeying on clepliantback. This peculiarity
111 av be easily explained by an examination of
(he structure of the animal’s foot; hut the si
lent, stealthy way in which lie will pass through
the densest thicket., literally “slipping away,”
when hisjieutc senses 01 smell or h< arlngwarn
him ol danger, has been generally overlooked,
and appears to us somewhat difficult of expla
nation. Let any one unskilled in the mysteries
of “ bush-ranging” attempt to move even a few
pa.ees in an ordinary fox covert without noise,
and he will form some idea of the difficulties
presented to the passage of so huge an animal
as The elephant through the dense tangled un
dergrowth of a South African “bush” Yet
that the animal, despite his enormous bulk, will
“ draw off, when within a few ya ,- ds ot his pur
suer, without the slightest lioioc, and with
th* greatest rapidity, even in the thickest
cover, is undeniable. Again, ids powers ot
passing over difficult ground are often un
derrated even by hunters. When experiments
were first made in India in training elephants
to draw the gutjs, it was observed with surprise
that t lie animal’s powers of ascending steep and
rugged ground were far greater Ilian had been
anticipated. The gun, a light six-pounder, with
which the trial was first made, was drawn up a
slope so steep as to require Hie animal to crawl
upon its four knees without hesitation. On the
other baud, hampered by the gun and harness,
the elephant (a small female) showed unusual
dread of soft and swampy ground. In Africa
marshes do not seem to piossess the same terror
for these animals in their wild state, for if thev
offer tempting pools, however uncertain tin/
footing may be, elephants appear to find a track
across them. In the river courses, too, deepen
ed as they are by the torrents of the rainy sea
son many yards below the surface of the sur
rounding country, and having banks nearly
perpendicular, small, shady pools, close-shel
tered from the sun’s rays, often remain in the
hot season, when the ust of the stream has dis
appeared, and to these, should no other way he
open, may be found tracks of the animals, leav
ing no doubt they have reached the coveted
water by slipping down on their posteriors.
In what position the hinder legs are placed we
can not tell, but the “spoor” leaves newloubt,
of its hiving been repeatedly adopted in places
apparently inaccessible. —lntellectual Observer.
An Oriental Letter. —Some months since,
the American Ethnological Society elected Gen
eral 01 man Hashem, lately ambassador from
Tunis to the United States, and a man of high
culture, an honorary member of their body.—
The letter of acceptance, which was received
some time ago, was translated from the origi
nal Arabic by the late Theodore Dwight, and
we And a copy in the New York Journal of
Commerce. It is chiefly remarkable as a.speci
tnen of the Eastern style of expression. It is
as follows :
“ TO GOD ONLY BE THE PRAISE !
“ Unto the men illustrious among the sons of
eminence; awake to subjects pfgieat thought;
the foremost riders on the race course of per
fection and knowledge, viz : Their Excellencies
the President and Secretary of the American
Ethnological Society. May God watch over
them !
“ After the completes! salaams and most spe
cial salutations, we would state that we have
been honored that which both gratified
•*nd rejoiced ns -a disungm ' witting in
forming us ot our election as* corresponding
member of your Society, celebrated tor its
ways, and praised for its record. This wc re
ceived at the hands of him *> iu, is digrified with
the dignity of your great government, Seaor
Amos Perry, Consul General of America to the
Court of Tunis. We express our thanks and
obligations for your thinking of us in this con
nection, although we are not of those qualified
for such things. Wc do not cease to remember,
with all thanks, the kind manner of our recep
tion during our journey to your, great country—
may God ever cause it to he well built and for
tunate ! Wo no longer wonder at your enter
prising investigations, as you are citizens of
such an honorable land ; and we ask God that
he will perpetuate and increase the communi
cation and friendship between our country and
yours. And may there ever remain to you the
help of the Almighty.
“ Written by him who stands in need of the
mercy of tne Exalted.
“ Qtman II a sue m.
“ Amir him , [Brigadier General.)
“ 2d day ol B ibua, year of the Hegira, 12851.”*
*lßth of July, ,1566.
Women in the. Departments—Startling
Disclosures. —Among the steps to “progress”
taken by the Radicals on assuming power at
Washington, was that of introducing women
nominally as “employees” in the Departments.
There are now several hundred of this class of
persons there. During the investigation in the
Printing Bureau of the Treasury Department
several months ago, it was shown that that
branch of the service was in the hands of pro
fligates and prostitutes. Now we have these
disclosures as furnished by a correspondent of
the Rochester Democrat:
“ There are seven hundred women or there
abouts employed in the Treasury. * . * *
There are undoubtedly evils connected with the
presence of women in the public offices, or rather
! the evil is in the mode ot appointment to these
| positions.* It would indeed be a surprising
I thing if among seven hundred women there
| were not some whose characters are bad. The
| wonder is that therefore not many more, con
| sidering the way in which appointments are
made, the tenure of favoritism by which the
j places are held, the character in far too many
i instances of the men in charge of the divisions
i in whose duties women are employed, and the
I meager paj r which the sex generally receive.
“ I hear of two men holding prominent po
sitions in that part of this great department
where women are employed, who are absolutely
dreaded by all the female employees. Os one of
these it is a common saying tint no young or
well-favored woman Can be three days in the
Treasury without being approached improperly
by him, and the name oi the other has become
a scorn among all decent men who know him.
He boasts of the favors his position gives. A
few such men as these, with corrupt nomniationa
by members of Congress, are sufficient to give a
little color to the slanders in circulation'against
‘female clerks,’ as they arc contemptuously
called.”.
Most of the women employed in the depart
ment at Washington obtain t heir places through
the influence or members of Congress. The
above revelations lilt the curtain sufficiently to
show the. relations of all parties in the transac
tion. Comment is unnecessary.
Dr. Gumming Once More.— Dr. Camming
writes a letter to the London Times, denying
that in a sermon recently preached by him he
stated that the consummation of all things and
the end of the world was fixed for the present
year, 1860. All he said was, that we may ex
pect before the ygar is out the final judgment
on the Papacy. lie adds: “The carih, I be
lieve, is to he transformed, not annihilated. I
have slated in a work published in 18G5. called
|‘The Last Warning Cry,’ and illustrated by
historical proofs In a work which Nisbet will
publish in a few days, entitled ‘The Sounding
of the Last Trumpet,’ that the great prophetic
epochs, on the fairest and most reliable data>
expire in 1867.” o „
