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About Weekly constitutionalist. (Augusta, Ga.) 185?-1877 | View Entire Issue (Oct. 9, 1867)
BY STOCKTON & CO, OtR TERMS. The following are the rate* of Subscription: Daily, one year $lO 00 'Vepklt, one year $3 00 (For the Constitutionalist. Family News. A Jitt'e g rl came here last nlghtJ They say “the Doctor brought her.” Mamma is glad, Papa quite proud, To have a little daughter. I cannot say that it is true, B it I have heard it said, Her coming so upset Papa, He .toed upon liis head. The Doctor says “she's quite a girl,” An honor to Mamma. The nu sc confirms the Doctor’s word, And adds, “ She’s like her Pa.” She sleeps and wakes, and wakes and sleeps, And now an l then she cries; Bhc- doubles up her small pink fists And pokes them in her eyes. She winks and blinks like some small owl, 1 mean slielooks quite wise, As if she could tell wondrous things, But then she never tries. I might go on and write a week, And then could not portray One hall the little maiden’s charms, There is so much to say. For all agree there ne’er was seen, Beneath a Georgia sky, A baby half as wonderful fcjinci Eve sang lullaby. Bho brought no jewels rich and rare, But In her little hand Bhe held the precious chain of Love, A wondrous sinning band. Blie’s twined her chain around our hearts In such a loving way, We enn but choose her for our Queen, An! own her gentle sway. And if you see the little Queen, * There’s nothing you can do But wear that chain of Baby love, And be her subject too. I have a thought within my heart, I think the Angels brought her, Because they thought no home complete Without one little Daughter. Bkptembbr 10, 1807. M. H. R. The Flight of the Goddess. BT T. B. AI.DIUCII. * A man should live in a garret, I think, An«l lmvo tew friends, and be poor.y clad, With an old hat stopping the wind in the chink, To.keep the Goddess constant and glad Os old, when I walked on a nwged way, And gave much work for but little bread, The Goddess dwelt with me nignt and day; Sat at my table, haunted my bed. The.narrow, mean attic, t see it now 1 — Lis window o’erlooking the citj’s tiles, The sunset’s lire, and tlie clouds of snow, And the river wandering mile* and mites. Just one picture hung in the room, The saddest story that Alt can tell— Dante and Virgil in lurid uiuom Watching the Lovers that float through Hell. Wretched enough was I sometimes, rinchod an l liarrassod with vain desires; But thicker than clover sprang the rhymes As 1 dwelt like a sparrow among the spires. Midnight filled my slumbers with song; Music haunted my dreams by day ; Now I listen and wait and long, But the Delphian airs have died away! I wonder and wonder how it befell: Suddenly I had friends in crowds; I bade the' li use-tops a long farewell; “ Good by,” I cried, “ to the stars and clouds ! “ But thou, rare soul, that has dwelt with me, Spirit of Poesy 1 thou divine Breath of the morning, tliou shalt be, Goddess 1 for ever and ever mine.” And tlie woman 1 loved was now my bride, And the house L wanted was my own ; I turned to the Goddess satisfied— But the Goddess had somehow flown ! Flown, and I fear she will never return 1 I’m much too sleek and happy for her, Whose lovers must hunger, and waste, and bum, lire tlie beautiful heathen heart will stir! I call—but ilie does not stoop to my cry; I wait—but she lingers, and ah Iso long! It was not so in the years gone by, When she touched my lips nidi chrism of song. I swear I will get me a garret aga'n, An i let the wee wife see the sunset’s fires, And lure the Goddess, by vigil and paiu, Up wiili the sparrows among the spires 1 For a man should live in a garret aloof, And have few friends, and be poorly clad, With an old bat stopping the chink in the roof, To keep the Goddess constant and glad I Leaving the Old House. There's sunshine on the meadows, And sunshine ou the road, • An 1 through the brightness toils my horse Beneath a weary load; And as I stand beside my gate, w.th hand before mv eyes, Fhear the children laugh to see the household gods I prize. There was a time when this old home VVas lull of mirth and glee, But one by one the household went, And lest it al! to me;. A quiet house of vacant rooms, each made a sacred place By echo of a missing voice, or dream of vanished face. Ah, how I used to pause before Tl»e mirror on the stair And shake mv long bright ringlets, cut, And fancy 1 was fair! I took that quaint old mirror down, and packed it up last night. And never stop ed to tries Ifiy' hair—for what is left is white I In later year* I used to sit And watch the long green lane, For one who came in those old time* But cannot cotue again. And somehow, still at eventide mv chair is turned that way ; I s:t and work where once I watched—l sat so yesier- My new house is a pleasant place • But yet it grieves me how ’ Its small completeness seems to say My world is narrow now. ’Tie far oo small for any one with festivals to keen. But for my funeraUarge enough for few will come to Good*by, old house, and long good-by; My hand is on your gate; Though teats are gathering in mv eyes, I may not 'onger wait. Good-by. old house, and after all, the love which 1 makes you dear, Awaits me in the heavenly home which I am drawing s near. (/Vow L<imr< Hours. The Illinois Billiard Association has resolved to devote all prizes, or their value, in the tour nament at Chicago, to a common fund for the benefit of the soldiers. [From the People’s Magazine THE WBEATH OF MALLOW. An English picture of the fifteenth cen tury; a village green, three sided ; around the green, three rows of uneven cottages; in its midst, a pool where ducks were taking an evening swim ; beside the pool, a great shady oak with a seat and a well beneath j It. On the rustic seat were two old men, chatting in old cracked voices, and at the Avell a girl in a red kittle was drawing wa ter. The sun, beginning to sink, threw flakes of bright rose-color on the girl’s head, the ducks’ backs, the shiny side of the oak leaves. At one side of the village rose a soft hill dotted with juniper bushes and | fringed atop with oaks and beeches, among which a proud castle liid all but its topmost towers from the lower world. On the other side stood a church on a tree-strewn, grave sown bank. It was a small church; the chancel walls were new and as yet unfinish ed ; the fresh clean stone wore a rosy flush in the evening sunlight; there was ahum of voices around the building; masons were packing up their tools and leaving work for the night. Presently they came, laughing and chattering, into the village; some came to rest on the seat beneath the oak and hailed the old men— “ Well, gaffer, how goes the world with you ?” One or two began to help the girl with her bucket; a couple who had walked together talking as far as the well, parted there, and one went straight to a cottage facing the church. At an open window of that house a poor thin little face was look ing out at the sweet country scene ; a white face, sadly old, yet sadly young, with hollow, thoughtful eyes, and two thin hands to prop it up. When the workman came to that window (which was nothing more than a square hole with shutters) a smile came over his hard countenance as he nodded his head cheerily to the owner of the pale face, who smiled back in his turn very sweetly. Inside the cottage, one could see that this face, which was as delicate as a girl’s belonged to a boy, perhaps fourteen years old, but crooked and stunted in growth, who was half lying, half kneeling on a wooden bench with both elbows propped on the window-sill. One could see this, indeed, though but faintly, ou dom ing out of the pure out-door air, for chim neys were as yet only luxuries for monas teries and great men’s houses ; and the smoke from the cottage fire, over which the mason’s wife was cooking the supper in an iron pot, came wreathing and curling about the room, all slow and graceful aud gray, before it found its way out at the window, or at the hole in the roof intended for its accommodation. The workman set down his basket of'tools'Avith a long breath, which told that he thus laid aside, not only the burden of their weight, but also the burden of liis day's labor. Then he came up.ta the boy, and laid ills hand tenderly on the high, deformed shoulder. “Well, Martin,” he said. No more, for AVords were hard things to him; but the boy understood his father, and put up one hand to clasp the strong, rough one which lay on his neck. The two hands made a great contrast, and were a little history in themselves. Father and sou looked out to gether at the green, the pool, tiie chattering people; blit Martin’s eyes rested most fondly on the church. . “llow happy you must be, father,” he said, at last. The mason gave a loud “ ha-ha !” “Do you hear what the lad says, wife ?” “But-are you not very happy?” asked Martin, raising his look wonderingly to his father's face. “ I don’t know, boy; one doesn’t think of such things as being happy when one has to work for bread.” ‘‘But the happiness is that yon can do such beautiful work for bread, and serve the Lord, too, at the same time,” replied Martin, eagerly. Here the mother, who had poured from the pot on to a great wooden dish a piece of beef garnished with cabbage, and swimming in the broth which it had been boiled in, came up to her little son, and, saying that supper was ready, took him in her arms as easily as if he had been still a baby, and propped him up on an oaken settle, with a black sheepskin, soft and thick, rolled into a bolster to support him. The father asked a blessing oil the food, and then they began to eat. “A supper tit for a prince,” said the ma son. r “It is a good piece of meat,” answered the wife. “ They have had guests at the castle, and there was much tiesh and good white bread also given away at the gates to-day.” “ Father,” asked Martin, presently, while pecking at his supper as delicately as a bird, with but little appetite for the meal.— “Father, did not the master-builder come With you to the oak ?” “Yes, boy, he did.” ”He was talking to you like a friend, father.” “ He talked as pleasant and easv as Rich ard Lougeheek might' have ;done ; he told me all that lias to be done in our church.” “O. father, tell me!” cried Martin, with sparkling eyes. “ Well, when we have finished the chan cel, with its tine fretwork and all the diffi cult tracery iu the east window, which the master will have to do himself, there will lx* painted on the walls, the miracles of the blessed Saint Silvesten.” “ Who will paint those, father ?” “ Some men are coining across the sea, ft’om tlie land called Italy, to do them, so the master told me. But the pictures will be a year or more a painting; we- shall have finished our work long before that.” “Have you more than the ehaucel to build, lather?” “Yes, boy, we have to put up two screens of fine open work, like the great window, at the east end of the south aisle, to make a chapel, where Sir Simon de Harcourt and the dame his wife will be laid when they are dead ; aud a grand tomb will be raised over them, with their figures carved iu stone it.” “ The Dame Mildred passed through the village to-day. and she smiled kindly on me,” said Martin. “ She had a queer tiling over her head, like the church steeple for shape, made all of fine blue silk, and a veil of lawn hung down her back from the top | ot it.” | “People bring back such follies when they go to Loudon,” said the wife. “ I like the old ways best; but it is fit for the uo , bles to have new and fine things, and the Lady Mildred is a good woman.” “ Sir Simon is a thrifty man and a gene l * rous," added her husband, “to spend his 1 money on the church-building.” AUGUSTA, GA., WEDNESDAY MOENING, OCTOBEE 9, 1867. “It Avili cost a great sum, beyond a doubt.” “ A great sum ! It will cost a good thou sand pound, the master tells me.” “A thousand pound!” cried both mother | and son ; for a pound Avas of more value at the close of the fifteenth century than it | is now. j “ And yet Sir Simon de Ilarcourt is not so rich as some of his neighbors,” added the Avife. “ His lands are not broad, but he is none of your rash nobles, like I have heard tell of, Avho had fifty suits of golden- tissue ; and instead of building one of these new fashioned mansions of avoocl, all carved and plastered, he is content to live in stone, as his fathers did.” “ But if he Avere to build him a neAv house, it Avould be new work for you,” said the wife. “ True, Avife ; but in the end I like better to see tiiose that can live in stone, as they did in the fair old times, before these luxu ries came in.of chimneys and soft sleep ing.” Alter a little pause Martin heaved a deep sigh. “ What is it, child?” asked the mother tenderly. “ Are you in pain ?” “No ; but I do wish I could Avork in the church, like father,” he ansAvered, in a low voice. Tim mason laughed. “You’ll newer do that, boy,” he said. But the mother understood her son bet ter, and laid her hand softly on his thin fingers. “Now Ave must show father something, shall weY’ she said. Martin nodded ; and going to an oaken locker, she opened it, and brougt out a fresh stone crocket or finial, delicately carved in the shape of three young fern fronds ; two tightly curled up, and nodding towards each other ; the third just opened enough to bend like a graceful feather over its little sisters. The mason took it and turned it over and OA*er, while Martin looked on with anxious eyes and panting breast- * “ That’s a good bit of work,” said the father. “ That’s tiie master's doing. Who gaA’e it you ?” Martin’s cheeks flushed red AA’ith jov, and his eyes gleamed mischievous!}', but the mother Avas too proud to keep the secret. “ It’s our Martin’s,” she said. “ What do you mean ? Who did it ?” “ Our Martin himself; he clid it.” “ Martin ! you!” The mason looked Avith a puzzled air from his son to his Avife and back again. “ He has been Avorking day by day when you Avere out, with his grandfather’s old tools Avhich you gave him,” said the Avoinau; “ he would not-let me speak a word till he had done something fit to sluTtv you. Isu tit pretty now ? Look at the leaA'es, for all the world like a bit of fern.” Tiie mason turned the fiuial over and over between his finger and thumb, mut tering an occasional “ hum, hum !” of ad miration and pleasure. “ Ho ay did you get the fancy of it, boy ?" “One day Avheu you carried me to the foot of the church bank, and I waited there all the morning. I played with some little ferns, and thought how pretty they Avould be iu stone, and resolved to try if I could not make them.” “ Good strokes; fair strokes; hum, hum !” murmured the mason. Very timidly, Martin edged himself along the settle to his father’s elboAv, and look ing in his face Avith wistful eagerness, said— “ There is a thing I have so longed to ask of you, father.” V hat is it, boy ?” asked the mason, slid holding the bit of stone in one hand Avliile he laid the other round his son’s neck. “ 1 long to do some work, if ever so lit tle, in the church. I think I should so dearly like a piece of my own handiwork, that is, a piece of myself, to be always in the dear church long after lain gone where I cannot see it.” The workman looked puzzled. “ Hut building up is hard to do. child.— One must run up ladders and carry mortar, and go from place to place.” “Tes, father, in building, but not in carving. O, if you would but show those little ferns to the master, and ask him whether a poor little boy, who longs to do it very much, might carve a wreath in the church! This is what I have thought, father. The heads of the pillars are all rough and plain. Might I not cut a wreath of flowers on one of them ? Then I should think that a little bit of me would be there always when the good fathers are preach ing about Christ; and it would be a tiny offering, also, and something to show that there was such a boy as Martin once in Awburg village, who did all he could for God.” “ Well, lad. it might be, in time,” replied the mason. ” But you are too weak now; you could not stand to the work. Wait a while till you are stronger, and then I will ask.” Martin fixed two grave eyes on his father. “ Father, dear” he said, “ I don’t think I shall ever be stronger. I don’t think I shall ever see the fine pictures in the church.— But 01 I do st> long to do some little, little work for God before I die. I have heard such beautiful things of Heaven and of the Lord Jesus, that I cannot rest nor sleep for longing to leave behind me some sign of my thankfulness.” ” Tush, tush, boy!” stammered the ma son; out iiis eyes were red. and the mother wiped hers with her apron. On the next day the mason SDoke to the master-builder of the wish of his little son, and at. sunset, when work was over, the master ciune to see Martin. He was dressed m better clothes than the rest, and looked to tli6 boy almost as grand and great a gen tie man as Sir Simon himself. He was verv kind, and praised Martin's fern leaves high- W promised to grant him leave, if pos sible, to do some work in the church, but he must first speak to Sir Simon de Harcourt I on the subject. At parting he put his finger I under the lad s chin, and, turning the pale, I thin face to him, looked at it with pity. ■ luu must make haste to get strong,” i sle said, “and then you can come aud join my band and be a free mason, going about ; trora pi ace to place to build churches and i hails.” | Martin's eyes glistened at the thought, 1 but he shook his head and answered “ Thank you, sir, but that will never be.” i Two days later the master came again, to tell the boy that his wish might be granted ; if he could design a wreath fit to adorn the i church. The Lady Mildred came also, on | her palfrey, with her blue steeple towering 1 above her head and the lawn veil floating round her SAveet young face., She alighted at the cottage door, and came with a gentle grace towards the hard settle Avhere the bov lay, first courteously greeting his mother. Mart;a blushed Avith pride and pleasure to , see the lady of the place come walking up to him in that kind, queenly Avav. She" laid her hand ou his curls aud sat doAvn beside him on the settle. “ So you, too, wish to make an offering to the Lord,” she said, smiling as SAA 7 eeth T ANARUS, thought Martin, as angels must smile, lie murmured something, he hardly kueAv what. “May He bless and accept your work,” she continued, reverently. “it is a good thought which lie has you.” “ But his father cannot see ho ay he may reacli the top of the pillar, which is ten feet high, nor how he may stand there to can r e the Avreath, when mounted, my lady,” said the mother. Martin looked up eagerly. “O, mother! I can stand,” he began. “land the master builder Avili contrive that you shall have your Avish,” said Dame Mildred ; and her manner gave security to the boy, it said so clearly, “ What I will is done. Now she had willed and the matter Avas 1 accomplished. In a few days more Martin i heard through, his father that it had been arranged for him to sit at his work in a j chair, which should be slung from the i clerestory AvindoAvs with ropes, and witli ! other ropes fixed firmly to the pillar. All I that remained was . for him to design a ! wreath worthy to adorn the church. This | took now all his time and thoughts, and ! morning ancl evening, as he knelt beside the ; straw pallet Avhich was his bed, with a | Avooden bolster for a pillow, he prayed : j “ O Lord, I pray Thee grant me poAver to ! do this little AA'ork, to be forever a sign that : Thou hast been so good and loving, to me.” ; God answered the child’s prayer and gave ! him strength, in part through the means of the SAveet Dame Mildred, who often thought j of the lame boy, and sent him dainties from her own table, and even a flock mattress and bolster; luxuries Avhich made his j mother say that they Avere as rich as if j they lived in a palace, for no king could ! lie’softer or eat better fare. * ' People in the village, hearing of Martin’s I great desire, used to gather and bring to him the largest floAvers and brightest leaves they could find, to help him in forming his wreath, but none quite satisfied him. “One day, as he sat propped up by his sheep skin, with a heap of leaves spread out upon the table before him, and Avith an eager yet i hopeless look in his eyes, for all these vain j efforts were tiring-liim, and causing him to I fear that he could not please the master, a little child, so tiny it could scarcely toddle, came rolling in at the cottage door with his lap full of common mallow, the- great red flowers and massy leaves making up a clumsy bunch as the baby held them. She had gathered them for Martin, off the church bark, and brought them in the kind wish of her generous little heart to give him pleasure. She held’the flowers up to him Avith some baby prattle, and Avhen lie had taken them from her she toddled out again to her mother’s cottage. The clusters looked ugly and hopeless enough at first to Martin, but as he placed them idly this way and that, an idea struck him suddenly and his face brightened. When his mother returned with her bucket of water, from a gossip at tiie A\ - ell, she found her boy crouch ing on the floor before the hearthstone, on Avhich*, with a cinder, he had draAvn a bit of a wreath of mallow, the heavy leaA'es lapping one over the other, and a flower peeping out here and there. “ What a brave wreath !” cried the moth er. “ O, mother ! if the master builder would but think so!” exclaimed Martin, flushing. The master builder did think ,so. “Why, my boy, you have designed as brave a wreath as I have seen this year.” he said. So Martin’s cup of joy was full, and in three days more the chair was swung up to the pillar, and the little lame boy, with his wan cheeks and happy eyes, was carried In tenderly by his father and seated in his airy throne. The workmen called it his throne, laughing, and lie thought that no king was ever prouder nor happier than he. Before he drew a line upon the stone he sent up again liis simple prayer: “ Lord, strengthen my weak hands, aud accept my work, I pray Thee.” The priest came iu and blessed him in God’s name, and then he felt strong indeed. So, day by day, the sick boy was carried to his place, and his thin hands, daily growing thinner, melded the chisel well.— The flowers opened, the leaves twined on one another lovingly in graceful clusters as the time went on. He placed the despised weed, which had done its poor best to adorn the graves, where it could be a beauty to tlie eyes forever. “I, too, am a weed,” he thought some times. “Itis a great honor for me .to be able to add one grace to God’s house.” In spite of Lady Mildred’s dainties and of his warm soft bed, he grew paler and thinner, and it was seen by all that God Would soon take him. As the garland grew its maker faded. Ttj£ work went on slowly towards the last, for his hands were feeble and he wdnld let no one but himself add a’ stroke to the wreath. Besides, there were many days on which lie could not leave the cottage. * At last the other masonry was done; the chancel was roofed and finished, the glass was in the window; tlie walls in deed were as yet unpainted, but that was a work of time.* A day was fixed for the re opening of the newly decorated church.— The day came. It was autumn now, and .chilly, but people from far and near to see the fair new chancel which Sir Simon de Harcourt had built. The choris ters sang their sweet hymn ; the early sun gleamed in through the dainty fretwork of the windows; the Lady Mildred and her husband knelt hand in hand beside the chapel where one day their bodies would lie side by side, when their souls were gone to rest; * and a boy, with a face which i seemed but the shadow of a face, carried in ; the arms of a strong man, raised two great bright eyes to a wreath of mallow carved ! upon the* capital of a column iu the nave, : and thought: “ Sir Simon and the dame will have their figures on their tombs when they die, and I shall have the little weed for my monument, to hear the sweet hymns, and offer up my soul upon its leaves to the Saviour day by day.” Within fourteen days the wreath of mal , low was the only visible sign left of little Martin on this earth. There it twines vet, his monument forever. ; The leaves are graceful still and perfect, and * the flowers peep out modestly from the j foliage. One of the band of free masons carved on two other columns wreaths of leafage—hops on one, aud on the other, A'ine; but there is something of a tender, living grace in the mallow garland which the others miss, for a soul and a flickering life were bound up Avith it. A Burnt Cork *’ Olaude Melnotte” at Sara toga. A story is. totd of a lion who roared here for a few days, to the admiration of the feminine guests, and Avas theu suddenly shorn of his name and king-of-the-ttelds dignity. Some Aveeks since a young felloAV, who Avas quite good looking, and had coolness and impudence which passed for style, ar rived from NeAv York, drank high priced Aviues, drove a fine team, wore the latest modes and large diamonds aud created a sensation. He aa’us a Avell known Ethio pian minstrel, Avhose troupe avhs enjoying a vacation iu towu. Several young men, salesmen in the city, Avho had been snub bed by a certain feminine set because they were not wealthy, conceived the idea of in troducing the burnt cork musician to those ladies as a gentleman of position and for tune, anxious to flucl a Avife. They impart ed their intention to him, (he Avas staying at the Clarendon,) and asking him to as sume the name of J. Roland Mortimer, car ried him off to the Union and had him in troduced as a fresh arrival from Paris. The felloAV, who enjoyed adventure, enter ed into the spirit of the thing at once, and in a feAV days the “exclusive young ladies” declared him “perfectly splendid.” He drove them out, promenaded with them, flirted and played billiards Avith them, until they became furiously jealous of each other, and indulged in e\'ery possible maneuVre to capture him, having no doubt he Avas all that had been claimed for him. They more than ever slighted the poor salesmen, and gave the latter to understand they kueAv Avho was worthy of their attention and de serving of their fascinations. The deception went on for more than a fortnight. The minstrel became the estab lished beau and gallant of the hotel. The Avomen evhausted eulogy upon him, and considered him the most accomplished gen tleman they had ever met. They were very imprudent with him, indeed compromised themselves, and it AA'as supposed that he Avas the accepted lover of a half dozen of the most famo’us belles. No doubt he could have married any one of them, had he been so minded. But he was not. He had his pleasure; and the time having arrived for his appearance in NeAv York, he left a note, poorly Avritten and Avorse spelled, I understand, informing them Avho he Avas and Avliat his vocation. He hajJ engagements with all of them ; but the next evening he left on the early train, and the young women, as you may conceive, Avere thunderstruck with the unexpected revelation. The salesmen per mitted the ladies to understand that they kneAv the Avliole affair, and indulged in in timations that confused and mortified tin damsels beyond expression. The indignant creatures A'owed their | brothers and fathers, and all their mascu line relatives, should folloAv the scoundrel, horsewhip and shoot him, and do every thing tragical and terrible. But nothing of the kind Avas resorted to; for prudence and policy demanded silence. The minstrel is singing now at one of the BroadAvay halls, and tells his adventure OA'er his morning, noon and evening cocktail AA’ith great gusto. — Saratoga Corrspondencee of the Cincinnati Commercial .l [Paris Correspondence New York Times. A Great Secret Divulged. THE NEW PROCESS OF PETRIFYING HUMAN FLESH. Not long ngo I spoke ol the lost secret for petrifying human flesh, of the persevering at tempts made in Italy to re-discover it, and ol the discovery, while making these researches, of another method of preserving flesh, perhaps quite as valuable as the lost one. At the Great Exposition, Dr. Burnetii, ol Padua, the finder of the new method, was honored with a gold medal, and with the true spirit of a man of science, he cainc forward the other evening at one of the meetings of the International Medi cal Congress, now in session at the School of Medicine of Paris, aud divulged his secret. — Tlie great amphitheatre of the school was crowded with distinguished medical men from all parts of the world, and when the Italian savant had concluded his speech he was re warded with an ovation which must have been a full compensation for any losses he may suf fer from having his secret passed into the pub lic domain. The following details are sufficient to enable any anatomist to avail himself of this important discovery : The process of Dr. Burnetti, which he ex plained iu French with method, and in a pure and elegant diction, comprises several opera tions, viz: 1. The washing of the piece to be preserved. .2. Tb e degraissage, or eating away of the fatty matter. 3. The tanning. 4. The desiccation. 1. To wash the piece M. Burnetti passes a current of pure water throughout the blood vessels and various excretory canals, and then he washes the water out by a current of alcohol. 2. For destroying the fat he follows the alcohol with ether, which he pushes, of course, through the same blood vessels and excretory ducts ; this part of the operation lasts some hours. The ether penetrates the interstices of the flesh, and dissolves all the fat. The piece, at this point of the process, may be preserved any length of time desired, plunged in ether, before proceeding to the final operations. 3. For the tanning process M. Burnetti dis solves fannin in boiling distilled water, and then, after washing the ether out of the ves sels with distilled water, he throws this solution in. 4. For the drying process Dr. Burnetti places the pieces in a rase with a double bottom, filled with boiling water, aud he fills the places' of the preceding liquids with warn, dry air. By the aid of a reservoir, in which air is com pressed to about two atmospheres, and which commuuicates by a stop-cock and a system of tubes, first to a vase containing chloride of calcium, then with another heated, then with the vessels and excretory ducts of the anatomi cal piece in course of preparation, he establishes , a gaseous current which expels in a very little time all the fluids. The operation is now finished. The piece remains supple, light, preserves its size, its normal relations, its solid histological elements, for there are no longer any fluids in it. It may be handled without fear, and will last indefinitely. The discovery is a magnificent one, and the sooner medical schools are pro vided with full cabinets of natural and patho logical pieces the better. A legless imposter was recently soliciting alms in St. Louis. His poverty was investigated", and he turns out to be the owner of property in New York city to the amount of sixty-five thousand dollars. VOL. 26. NO. 38 ‘‘John Brown,” the Beputed Lover of the Queen. THE LATEST REPORTS ABOUT HIM. Referring to the Queen’s visit to Floors Cas . tie, the Edinburgh correspondent of the luver i ness Advertiser says : It was observed on several occasions that John appeared somewhat officious in the dis charge of his duty toAvard ller Majesty. For instance, when the royal train arrived at Kelso, ; John was the first to approach the carriage which coutaim-d the Queen, and, but lor the intervention of the Duke aud Duchess of Rox burghe, the Duke of Bucoleuch and other dis tinguished company on the platform, the stal wart highlander would have conducted his sov ereign across the platform aud through the triumphal arch to the royal carriage at the out side of the railroad station. This lie was pre vented from doing by the Duchess of Rox burghe, who all but pressed him to one side in order to approach the Queen on alighting from the royal saloon. John, who was dressed iu full highland costume, seemed immensely proud ol his position; and it was certainly amusing in the extreme to see him now and again, with u broad grin, bowing bis acknowl edgements for the cheers raised for her Majes ty, some of which he probably thought were intended for himself. On the occasion of the visit to Melrose, John accompanied the royal visitors into the abbey, and seemed anxious to obtain a good view ot the architectural beau ties with which it abounds. Ou returning to the carriage, iu advance of the Queen, he found that his Balmoral bonnet had fallen from the back seat over to that which her Majesty was again alnnit to occupy; he lifted it up with the point of her Majesty’s parasol, then took off the Queen’s black shawl, and then threw it over him, aud on her Majesty again reaching the carriage he assisted her into her seat, and plac ed the shawl over her shoulders with great care. “ Welcome to the Borders—John Brown,” and “God save the Queen—John Brown,” were the words which, surrounded with floral decorations, were displayed over a shop iu one of the principal streets in Kelso.— They were words that astonished many of the passers by. But the simple explanation of the matter is this—that the John Brown, whose ua:ne wss painted under the mottos, was no other than the decent man who kept the shop, and Avho never dreamt of a joke when he sur rounded his signboard Avith these words ot Avelcome aud .good will tOAvards his sovereign. Church Union in New York.— The Rev. J. B. Waterbury says that the Avhole system of our costly churches and high pew rents, wall ing out one class of citizens entirely from another class, separating the ministry from the masses, necessitates anew economy, and ren ders imperative anew order of things. The jGospel must be preached to all. It is Heaven’s command. If it cannot be doue in the churches, it must be done outside. It is with this view, adds Mr. W., Ave have instituted our tout services on Fort'Green. More than a year ago, early in July the preaching tent was spread. It is a large canopy open all around, aud furnishes standing room for nearly a thousand persons. From tiie first it has been filled with an atten tive and interested audience, most of whom have no home i|i any of our city sanctuaries. The Mayor of Brooklyn authorized its erection in the name of tac Young Men’s Association of Brooklyn. It was to be taken down, and re moved as soon as the religious services were terminated. The city clergy of various de nominations Avere in turn to officiate, and noth ing sectarian was to be introduced. The sim ple Gospel, embracing repentance toward God, and faith ip our Lord Jesus Christ, with the obligations of a holy life, Avas to be the theme. These conditions have been scrupu lously carried out. Every pleasant Sabbath the preaching tent has gone up, and the audieper's, which have been large, have observed the same decorous deportment usual iu our churches. | New York Tribune. A Remarkable Invention—Justifying Type by Machinery.— Mr. Charles W. Felt, of Salem, Massachusetts, has perfected a ma chine for justifying type. Several inventions have been made for setting type, but the great drawback bas been tbe time expended iu justi fying the lines by hand. After each line of type is set a space is always left at the end of the last word, which has to be filled up by placing thin spaces between the different words forming the line. Heretofore this work has been done by hand, and bas proved very expen sive. After many years of labor Mr. Felt has suc ceeded in obviating this difficulty. This is something which has never before been accom plished, indeed never attempted, for it seems like endowing a machine with human intelli gence. It has been the great difficulty hereto fore in introducing composing machines, just as the want of tiff* method of applying ink with the comi osition roller was tin* great thing that prevented the usefulness ol the power press. When tli.it was at last supplied, power presses were introduced with the most astonishing rapidity and success. And now we may hope that the opportunity is afforded for an equally rapid and extensive introduction of composing machines, of which many have been invented and none have been put into operation. Mr. Felt’s machine has recently been shown to a number of experts iu this city, who say it is a decided success, and that it will do tbe work claimed for it. — N. Y. Post. The Question Answered. —Somebody |—a woman of course—inquires why, when Eve was- manufactured from the spare rib, a servant wasn’t made at the same time to wait on her ? Somebody else—a woman, we imagine—replies in the following strain: Because Adam never came whining to Eve with a ragged stocking to be darned, collar to be sewed on, or a glove to mend “ right away, quick now.” Becausethe never read the newspapers until the sun got down behind tlie palm trees, and then, stretching himself out, yawned out “ ain’t supper most ready, my dear !” Not; he. He made the fire, and hung the kettle over it himself, we’ll venture; and pulled the radishes, peeled the potatoes, and did every thing else he ought to. lie milked the cows, fed chickens, and looked, after the. chickens himself. He never brought home half a dozen friends to dinner when Eve hadn’t any fresh pomegranites, and tlie Mango season was over. He never stayed out till 11 o clock to a ward meeting, hurrahing for an out anil out candidate,' and then scold because poor Eve was sitting tip aud crying inside the gates. He never placed billiards, rolled ten-pins and drove fast horses, nor chocked Eve With tobacco ' smoke. He never loafed around corner groceries while Eve was rocking little Cain’s cradle at home. In short, he did not think she was especially created for the purpose of wait ing on him, and was not under the impres sion that it disgraced a man to lighten a woman's cares a little. That’s the reason that Eve did not need a hired girl; and with it was the reason that her fair descendants did. ' William Lloyd Garrison was in Paris at last accounts, and had made a speech before the Paris Anti-Slavery Conference. He was enthu siastically applauded.
