Newspaper Page Text
She AHontiiomcf!) JKonitofc
D. C. SUTTOX, Editor and Frop’r.
Her Choice.
"Draw closer Jennie, lor my voice is weak.
Ami sair it warsles me th*‘ nooto speak,
lint there is somethin? lyin’ on my hairt
That I maun lichten, lass, afore we part,
“Ye’ve been a ?uid wife, Jennie, and a true,
And wae am I to leave you as I do—
YVT iittle bainin o’ the warl’s weal
Forby the hoosie and the souter’s stael.
“Hut ye are young and tri?, and weel I see,
YY ere nae a marrow for a carle like me;
Ye’ll nae want wooers when my banes are
laid
Atnan? the mools—atweel a cauldife bed I
“Tak hent, and dimm throw yersel awa’,
A canna b dy i< yon Huirli McGraw,
And ane mail ridant never ca’d a prod;
Think weel o’ Hu?h when I’m aneath the so<l.
“There’s Davie Stronacli, wha was here yes- 1
treen,
1 saw him watch ye wi’ his wanton een;
1 like na Davit*, tho* a strappin chiel,
And as the wai l gang’s, forehanit weel:
“He’s nae to lippen till; tak my advice
And iet hint gang—for baith it will be wises
1 couidna rest ainang my decent km,
It sic a wily tyke should tak ye in.’’
“Rest or nae rest. I tell you a nee for a*.
I’m never sash mysel wi’ Hugh McGraw;
Von wailydraigit*! In- can gang to pot!
I’ll jist tak Davie and the acre loti”
—M. A. Maitland.
WHY I REPENTED.
When I was a young man I fell in
love. as young men generally ilo, with
the girl who came handiest. This par
ticular girl happened to be Belle Bur
ton, and I devoted myself to her —rode
with her, boated with her (it was a
country place where we met), walked
with her, talked with her, begged her
for tiie roses she wore in her hair, and
tried in vain (for I was no poet) to
make sonnets not only to her “eye
brows,” but to her hair, her cheeks, and
her lily-white hands. In fact. I went
through the pretty dream of first love as
most young people do, and it ended, ns
it generally does, in an unpleasant
awakening.
One day the stage arrived at the hotel
with a dozen dashing New-Yorkers for
passengers. The next, one of them ob
tained an introduction to Belle Burton.
There was no doubt whatever that he
was handsomer than men usually are,
or that his grace and accomplishments
were equal to his personal charms.
Handsome Arnold he was generally
called, and girls went into raptures over
his large, loug-lashed eyes anti blonde
mustache, and men feared his broad
shoulders, deep chest, and splendid
proportions. For my part I hated him
from the first, for no sooner had he ap
peared upon the carpet than Beile
seemed utterly to forget my very exist
ence.
I suppose she had never cared any
thing about me, but she had flirted with
me while there was no better fun to be
had, and 1 was not old enough to know
that the man she loves is the one no
woman ever flirts with. With Arnold
she was rather graver than with most
men, but her eyes sparkled as he ap
proached her. She blushed when his
name was mentioned, and cared for
jothing in which he had not some
share. In fact, it was as plain that she
was in love with him as that he was de
voted to her; and there was no doubt
in any one’s mind that all this would
end in a wedding. It was a good
thing, said the old people, for poor
Belle Burton, for she “had nothing.”
*or my part it seemed to me that all tho
iuck was Arnold’s.
I should have taken my departure and
put myself out of tho way of hourly
torture, but I did not do so wisely. I
lingered about the place and did small
things to spite the happy pair—intruded
on the tete-a-tetes, managed to force tho
rociety of some excellent and loquacious
matron or some troublesome child upon
them, looked daggers of contempt at
him and forgot to pass the butter to
her. At last a grand chance to annoy
him occurred. He was a good rider
♦ml proud of his accomplishment, and
«e had a restive, nervous animal which
lie boasted no one could ride but him
«elf. I had heard him declare himself
n* perfect master of the creature, who
iad never given him serious trouble
«r.re once, when suddenly brought into
the presence of an artist who was sketch
ing under a white umbrella.
“That,” said Handsome Arnold, “was
something Prince could not under
stand, and made him forget who held
the bridle.”
As he came prancing up to the sate
or rode away with an air I used to wish
for an artist with a white umbrella. I
desired to see that fellow unseated and
ingloriously turned into the mud. That
would have made me happy; and once
when he had offended me more than
ever by his gallant style of riding I
sauntered out into the fields—cursing
him in my inmost soul —when what
should I spy in the middle of the grass,
intent upon a hunch of clover, but a fat
pre-Raphaelite artist in*a white suit, a
flapping hat, ami a white sketching
umbrella that would have frightened
the clergyman’s gray mare, who was
nearly as old as himself, into being a
runaway.
I rushed toward this artist with en
thusiasm. I took off my hat to him. I
said:
“Sir, I rejoice that one of your glori
ous profession has at last visited us.
You love the minute, I sec. Have you
noticed the spider-webs on the black
berry bushes at the turn of the lane, the
dew sparkling on the silvery film, the
delicious fruits growing beneath —have
you seen that, sir?”
The pre-Raphaelite artist scratched
his head with his brush and said:
“Well. no. I ain’t.”
“Will vou come and see it, sir?” I
said. “Will vou make it immortal on
your canvas?” •
The pre-Raphaelite artist replied:
“Well, I wouldn't mind.”
I did not care what he said so that ho
came. My object was not art; it was
the white umbrella. 1 desired to have
him seated where the eye of liaudsomo
Arnold’s restive Prince would fall upon
him as he turned tire corner of tho
garden walk, and to that very spot I
beguiled my artist ami there stationed
him, and, when he had settled with ;
Chinese precision to his spider-web and
blackberries, hid myself behind a tree
to enjoy the comic scene I fully ex
pected would follow.
I heard handsome Arnold bid adieu
to the ladies. 1 heard tho patter of his
horse’s feet upon the road, and in a
moment more 1 saw him come gayly
on, a smile upon his handsome face, »
rich color on his cheeks —youth, health,
strength, happiness expressed in every
curve and outline of his statuesque
form. The next instant Prince had
seen the white artist and the white um
brella. And then—then. Heaven for
give me, not the amusing spectacle of
handsome Arnold’s discomfiture that I
had hoped to see. He kept his seat,
while Prince, rearing and plunging,
dashed wildly away with him toward a
precipitous path along the cliff side and
vanished like a mad thing with his
rider still upon his back, going straight
toward a certain awful precipice which
overhung the rocky river shore below.
I cannot go on. They picked him
up just alive, no more, at the foot of
that precipice; and they carried him a
mere mass of broken bones and bleed
ing flesh back to the great hotel. Lato
at "night 1 crept softly up-stairs on my
way to bed. and, passing Belle Burton’s
door, heard those slow, heavy sobs that
tell of a breaking heart issuing thence.
“He cannot live.” the messenger had
said, and I was perhaps doubly a mur
derer. I thought seriously of adding to
niv crime by committing suicide that
awful night.
But poor Arnold did live. He had a
wonderful constitution, unbroken, as all.
the men who knew him knew, by dis
sipation of any kind, and it is hard to
kill such a man. He lived, and strength
returned to him at last; but no one
would call him handsome Arnold any
more. He had fallen on his face on tiie
horrible, jagged rocks, and during his
illness all bis bonny brown hair had
turned gray. No one would know him,
they told me; and so powerfully had his
beauty and his sweetness affected even
men of coarse natures that they uttered
these words for the most part with tears
in their eyes. As for myself I would
rather have seen a ghost.
Yet the sight was forced on me. One
day I received a note from him asking
me to come to the hotel, and it was
signed—Henry Arnold.
I had no choice. I could not refuse.
I went to him.
As I saw him seated in a great arm
chair in the room to which
showed me—as lie arose and advanced
toward me, and I saw that ho limped
heavily —1 wonder that ho did not die.
I felt the blood leaving my face, and I
saw the hot. flush rise to his, as lie no
ticed the shock it gave me.
But he only said:
“Sit down. It is kind of you to
come.”
1 staggered to a chair, and I saw
nothing for a while; yet through it all
I wondered what lie thought of my
strange conduct, and hated myself for
my weakness.
At last he spoke:
“I see how I —how my appearance
affects you,” he said, very sadly. “It
is a horrible thing that 1 am trying to
grow used to. I wish I had broken my
| neck. Os course, any man would under
the circumstances. But I did not ask
; you to come that I might say that to
you. 1 want you to take a note from
I me to a lady at your aunt’s house, if
you will be so kind. I chose you be
| cause you are, as it were, one of the
family, and you will be very careful and
I •—and kind, 1 know. It is to Miss
i Belle Burton. I had hoped so marry
1 her one day. Os course, all that is over
I now. No one would —no woman could
I —overlook my hideous appearance.”
His voice broke a little, but he went
I on bravely.
“So I have written to her. Ido not
want her to see me, and I shall go
abroad in a week or so, and —you’ll tell
her you’ve seen me, you know. I have
loved her very much. I always shall;
and this is terribly hard.”
He broke down entirely there, and
took a letter from his bosom and put it
into my hand.
“Give it to her,” he said, and turned
away.
I "went’ straight to Belle Burton. I
found her in the garden, and I told hor
from whom I came and gave her the
missive. She read it through gravely,
but without tears. Then she looked at
me with eyes that had such a solemn,
holy look in them, as one would hope
to see in an angel’s.
“Edward,” she said, “he says he is
frightfully altered; is it so?”
“Yes,” I answered.
“My poor boy!” said she. “As if
anything could change me but a change
I in his heart. Will you take me to him,
Edward? I must go at once.”
“Command me,” I said.
She caught up the wide straw hat on
the bencli beside her and drew on her
gloves and took my arm. 1 never
loved her so well as I did then, but, for
once, it was with a perfectly unselfish
love. I knew what she was about to do,
and I blessed her for it.
And so I took her to him; my hand
opened the door of his room for her;
my eyes saw—yes and gladly—that
however that changed face might affect
others it only made her love lor him
\ more tender. 1 saw her rush into his
I arms and hide her head on his shoulder;
and then I went softly away rnd hid
I myself where no one could see me, and
: cried like a baby.
Ah! well, that is a good while ago.
j and they have been very happy. The
| big fellow is always as graceful as ever,
and as for his face—l do not think it
JIT. VERNON. MONTGOMERY, CO., GA., ’l'll URSDAY, NOVEMBER 11. 1880.
would matter much to me what my
face was if any one loved it as well ns
Belle does his.
1 go to see them sometimes, ami my
man fancy of kneeling down and con
fessing my share in the horrible affair
of the past is quite abandoned. Be
sides, Belle’s daughter is Hi now, and
if an old fellow of 86 —ah! well, who
knows what may happen in the future?
Only that would be another story quite,
and 1 need not tell it here, if it is
written it is written.
The Summer Care of Young Phfl*
dren.
It goes almost without saying that it
is more difficult to guard the health of
young children in warm weather than
in cold. We have but to see that a child
is thoroughly protected against winter
cold, without much regard to the dif
fering degrees of intensity, while in
summer the varying heats and damp
nesses often render our climate tropic
one day, and cold the next. Such var
iations are trying to the delicate organ
izations of children, especially of babies,
and the greatest care must be used to
protect them and at the same time en
able them to grow and gain strength.
The food, tho clothing, and the air
breathed, are our tools to work with
and, in the wise management of them,
are our safeguards.
The most perfect food for a baby is
its own mother’s milk, always provided
the mother is healthy, not over-worked
nor excessively nervous, and not. like
Martha, troubled with much serving.
The milk of such mothers is apt to make
“colicky” babies and in that case Baby
is far better with some preparation of
milk or other food which can be relied
upon to be always the same. Care and
judgment alone will determine the par
ticular form of food which will agree
with each individual child. But once a
food is found reliable, keep to it alone
and do not allow yourself to change
from one sort to another except under
medical advice. A young mother’s
heart is so full of love and anxiety for
her babe that her judgment is often
weakened and a reliable food abandon
ed on account of some temporary ail
ment.
Let the most perfect accuracy and
cleanliness be used in preparing the
food, and lot nothing be too trilling for
attention in a matter which so vitally
concerns the dear one. By all means
use a thermometer to test the heat of
water or milk, and let there be no guess
ing in measurement. For cleaning jars
or bottles, in which milk has been kept,
nothing is better than “bird gravel,”
which is sold for the use of caged birds.
A teaspoonful of it with hot water and
soap, well shaken, will perfectly clean
any bottle. If this is done once a day,
the thorough rinsing of a nursing bottle
after each use will keep that article per
fectly sweet in any weather. A mother
should attend to this personally, and it
cannot be urged too strongly .that she
take time to feed tho child herself.
(Having the milk safely in the bottle is
by no means an assurance that the child
will be properly fed.) This need not
be made unduly burdensome.
Regularity should be the first rule of
Baby’s life; regular feeding and regular
sleeping. Regular feeding times in the
day, and each day tho same time, will
make the matter comparatively easy,
and is the only healthy way.— Mrs
Agnes B. Ormsbec, in Good housekeep
ing.
Ho Hadn’t any Situation.
A day or two since a gentleman of
good address called at Gov. Stoneman’s
office, at the capitol, and walking up to
ward him said, in a decidedly business
way: “I want a situation.”
'/'he governor was somewhat non
plussed at so abrupt and unmistakable
an application for appointment to some
soft place of political favor, and after
hesitating an instant replied: “Well,
what place do you want?”
The caller, with increased attention
to business, replied: “I want a situa
tion, sir!”
The governor followed with two or
three parrying remarks, such as an exe
cutive can so skillfully do after practi
cing in turning away offieeseekers by
the hundred and making them all feel
that they have their pockets full of
“prospects,” but which always fail to
materialize. To each of these the pres
ent would-be officeholder responded
with, “1 want a situation.”
Finally the governor’s equilibrium got
out of hinge and suddenly letting down
two or three of the top bars of official
dignity ho started to lire the intruder
out, with emphatic words of refusal,
saving, “I haven’t got any situation for
you!”
Without, waiting for words which
were evidently to succeed these, the
stranger quickly put out his hand for
recognition, and with a hearty laugh
said: “How arc you, old hoy? ’
The governor flushed witli embarrass
ment for a moment, but after the ex
change of a few words he recognized
arid heartily greeted Gen. l)c Lancey
FJoyd-Jonos, a fellow classmate at Wes
Point when they were leaving their
teens, and subsequently officers of the
same regiment in the regular army prior
to the war of the rebellion. They had
not met for a long time, and during
that period advancing years hud brought
silvered hair and other changes, which
covered the lima of former familiar
faces. — S'.craminlo ltticord-I.' uioa.
During a thunder-storm at New Rich
mond two thunderbolts went through a
pillow, one at each end. A young
lady’s bead reposed on the pillow, and
her hair was singed and ruined, and
her face burned. Next time she will
hang her hair on the back of a chair in
a distant part of the room, where a
thunderbolt can get at it without scorch
ing her face.— N orris U/um herald. r .
"SUB DEO FACIO FORTITER."
To “Hide" or to "Drive.”
A voting woman having appealed to
tho > s 'mt for the correct tisago of tho
vot’ds ride and drive, that authority in
formed her that "if a young woman,
i oes out on horseback with a young man
she rides with hint; hut if she goes with
o : nt in a carriage or a ’buggy’ sho
nrives with him.” From this dictum tho
Washington Post dissents, declaring
that there is no foundation for it, either
in grammar or in best current usage.
■As a matter of fact,” it says, "one
does ride in a carriage, and usually
does not dri.e. but hires a cheap man
to drive for him. It will answer well
nougli in England, whore equestrians
are common, to make the d i sort mill a
*ion wliieh the Sun explains, but it has
o application to this country, where
t.icrc are more who‘ride’on bicycles
than on horseback.” The usage in this
oart of the country among many culti
vated people who are lint more “verbal
dudes ami rhetorical exquisites” sanc
tions the distinct ion made by the Sun.
But there is no authority for it, in the
best English dictionary. Stormouth
gives the words ns synonymous. A
••ride "is “an excursion on horseback
or in a vehicle,” ami to ride is to “bo
borne or carried along, as in a carriage
or on horseback.” A “drive” is, ac
ording to same authority, “a ride or
excursion in a carriage," while the verb
signifies “to guide or regulate, as the
horses in a carriage.” This would seem
to limit the driving to the one who
drives, all others in the carriage simply
riding. The obvious and root meaning
is commonly the best. One certainly
rides, but does not drive on horseback;
he rides, but may not drive, in a vehi
cle. To say that vou have been out
“driving” conveys plainly enough tho
fact that you have been in a carriage.
To say that you have been “riding”
may require n descriptive word to tell
the Whole story. It was this fact, prob
ably, which led the country folks to say
“buggy-riding” and “horseback-riu
inn\” The latest, word, “horseback
ing,” is dreadful. The sum of the mat
ter is that it is correct to say either “to
drive” or “to ride” to indicate an "ex
cursion in a carriage;” and that to. in
dicate an equestrian excursion plainly
one must say “in the saddle ’ or “on
horseback. Heston Herald.
How Animals Practice Medicine.
An mals get rid of I heir parasites by
using lust, mud, clay, etc. Those suf
fering from fever restrict, their diet, keep
quiet, seek dark, airy places, ifrink wa
ter and sometimes plunge into it. When
dog has lost its appetite it eats that
species of grass known as dog’s grass,
which acts ns an emetic and a purga
tive. Cats also cat grass. Sheep and
cows, when ill, seek out certain herbs.
An animal suffering from chronic rheu
matism always keeps, as far as possible,
in the sun. The warrior ants have
regularly organized ambulances. Lat
reille cut the antenme of the ant, and
other ants came and covered the wound
ed part with a transparent fluid secret
ed from their mouths. If a chimpanzee
is wounded, it, stops the bleeding by
placing its hand on the wound or dress
ing it with leaves and grass. When the
animal has a wounded log or arm hang
ing on, it completes the amputation by
means of its teeth. A dog, on being
stung in the muzzle by a viper, was ob
served to plunge its head repeatedly for
several days into running water. This
animal eventually recovered. A sport
ing dog was run over by a carriage.
During three weeks in winter it,remain
ed Iving in a brook, where its food was
taken to it. This animal recovered. A
terrier hurt its right eye. At remained
under a counter, avoiding light and
heat, although it habitually kept close
to the fire, it adopted a general treat
ment, rest and abstinence from food.
The local treatment consisted in licking
the upper surface of the paw, which it
applied to the wounded eye; again lick
ing the paw when it became dry. Ani
mals suffering from traumatic fever
treat themselves by the continued ap
plication of cold water, which M. De
lanney considers to be more certain
than any of the other methods. Jri view
of these interesting facts we are, he
tiiinks, forced to admit that hygiene
ami therapeutiecs as practiced by ani
mals may, in the interest of psychology,
be studied with advantage.
Many physicians have been keen ob
servers of animals, their diseases, and
the methods adopted by them in their
efforts to cure themselves, and have
availed of the knowledge so brought
under their observation in their practice,
—New Orleans Picayune.
Teaching Children,
A glance backward at tho so-called
‘‘good old times” will soon convince*
the veriest pessimist that in the matter
of the treatment of children the world
has advanced rapidly of late. There
was a time in the history of European
civilization when the father had tho
power of life and death over his
children, and there are still parts of tho
world where this idea is not extinct.
'J here was a time, and it was not very
long ago—scarcely a century—when
i the only idea of the school was a place
where a schoolmaster, armed with rod
i or whip, forced unwilling youngsters
I to devour the contents of books with
their eyes and regurgitate them from
! their mouth in vain repetition of words,
This idea is not dead yet, because tho
! old style of teacher is not dead yet;
but it is dying, as dies the darkness of
night, before the dawn of the idea that
teaches that children must ho taught
to think, and that their weakness gives
no man or woman the right to ill-treat
the in. — Philadelphia Record.
■ - ■■ - ■ ■ ■
Princess Mercedes, eldest child of the
King of Spain, is said to he precocious
1 and pretty.
KTOriNO.
A Visit to the Studio of an Artist—The
Tool* 110 Work* YVMh mill llio
Effect* H«* I’roduc©*.
On the top floor of n high brick build
ing. which fronts one of the largest
squares in this city, says the Now York
Commercial Advertiser, is tiio studio of
an etcher whose nnmo on an artist’s
proof is a sure guarantee that tho sub
ject is worthy a place in any salon.
There is something characteristic in
the homo of every artist something
which enables even a casual observer
to classify the occupant at once. So the
lirst glance at the room in question
leaves no doubt in Iho mind of a visitor
that it is inhabited,bv a man devoted to
art. The hardwood floor is covered
with rugs; the walls are lined with un
framed pictures and plaster ot Paris
models; the panels of the door and the
larger pieces of furniture are decorated
to correspond, and in the center of all
stands the easel.
It is to bo observed*howwor, that the
easel does not occupy the principal
place in the room. Indeed, it may be
said that this alone constitutes the chief
difference, in the general appearance,
between a painter’s and art etcher’s
studio. The painter executes Ids work
on a piece of canvas, stretched over n
frame, and placed on an easel. The
etcher does his work on a heavy copper
plate, placed flat on tho top of a table.
Near at hand are a set of sharp-pointed
steel tools, etching ground, spirit lamp,
a twisted lump of “wall-wax.” burnish
er, and roller.
On a certain rainy night the writer
was scaled in a comfortable chair in
this studio. OraekerS, elioese, and beer,
unfailing accompaniments of an artist’s
quarters,occupied a conspicuous place oil
a heavy oak table. The air had begun
to turn bine with smoke from the pipes,
when the eteliur, to answer the innum
erable questions wliieh iuid been asked,
said:
“Let me give you in a connected
story the history of an etching from the
time the copper plaU: is placed in posi
tion for work until it leaves the hands of
the printer. In the lirst place, the cop?
per plate is thoroughly washed witii
turpentine, or, better, with benzine, for
the former is a lillie too thin. This is
to remove any grease. The plate is then
heated, commonly by burning under it
heavy etching tiaper, or, if the plate is a
lariro one, by a spirit lamp. It is heat
ed to such a temperature that water will
roll off in globules. When the plate is
sufficiently heated a preparation known
as ‘etching-ground’ is applied. This is
a composition which comes prepared in
the shape of a round hall, about the size
of a black walnut, and is made of as
phalt uni, beeswax, and oil of lavender.
This composition is carefully tied up in
silk, and through this silk the etching
ground oozes on to the plate, where it is
laid with a roller. After the ground is
applied and Jins sufficiently cooled it is
smoked, in order lo give the etcher a
black surface on which to work. Tho
smoking is done with a twisted wax
taper, candies, or in fact with any sub
stance which will produce the desired
effect. When the plate is cold the
ground is perfectly hard. So mnch for
the lirst part, of the process; that of pre
paring the plate.
“The etcher is now ready for work in
earnest. He takes a drawing, which,
of course, may he original or a copy,
and etches its fac-sinuie on the plate
before him. If he wishes to take special
pains with bis subject, which is usually
the case, hr; does not copy the drawing
directly on the plate, but takes an inter
mediate step. Over Ids drawing lie
fastens a perfectly hard transparent
gelatine composition, and with his etch
ing point etches the drawing on this,
exactly on the principle of the transpar
ent slate in our nursery days. The gela
tine plate is removed, and presents a
rough and scratched surface. It is
lightly scraped, but so lightly that the
indented lines are not disturbed or ef
faced. 'These lines are tilled with red
chalk. The gelatine plate is then re
versed and placed on the etching ground
»1 tho copper plate. A burnisher is ap
plied, which transfers the chalk to the
etcher's form or upon tho plate. Thus
the etcher has a perfect outline of the
drawing on the plate on which he is to
work. Iri this way he is guided in his
task, anil his work is expedited.
“The etchc r now begins to use tiie
tools of his trade, each of which is known
as an ‘etching point.’ With these in
struments the subject is again etched,
this time on the etcher’s ground. Where
the etcher wishes to obtain tho darkest
effects fewer lines are etched and are
made further apart to enable them to
stand a longer ‘bite’ by ttio acid. Os
course the acid bites into the copper
plate onlv where the etching point has
scratched through the etcher’s ground
to the original copper plate. if tiie
plate on which the artist is at work is a
small one, it is placed in a pan and the
acid is then poured on. If, however, it
is a large one, there is put around the
edge of the plate vvliat is known as a
‘frame of wall-wax,’ in one corner ot
which is placed a spout for convenience
in pouring off the acid. The first appli
cation of the acid is weak. It bites
clean and delicately. It leaves tho skv
lines, the distance lines, and, in general,
the lighter part of the picture. After
these lines are bitten the acid is poured
off, and the ground washed with water.
'J hen the parte which the artist does riot
wish to have longer acted upon by the
acid are covered with a ‘stopping-out’
varnish. The n«-xt application of the
acid is stronger, in order to obtain the
heavier effects. So the artist corrti nnes
stopping-out one place after another un
til the plate is stilli iently bitten, and
until he has reached the foreground.
When the entire plate has been suffi
ciently bitten, or, in other words, when
the picture has been etched into the
copper plate bv moans of the acid, the
VOL t NO 371
wax”wall is removed an<T~the plate
thoroughly cleaned with benzine. Now
he can go to the printer and see whafl
lie has. If some of the lines prove too
heavy, a little instrument known as tho
burnisher will reduce them. The line*
can even be run out entirely. If tho
linos are not strong enough, a new re
biting- ground can lie put on wherever
desired and the changes made.
“When tho last touches have been
completed the plate js sent to the pub*
lisliers. The publishers send it to an
eleetrotyper to have a steel face put on.
This is dono to protect the plate, whioh
would otherwise soon be worn out on
the press. The operation of electrotype
ing the plate is so delicately done that
when steeled the picture which it print*
could not bo distinguished from the
picture printed before tho operation by
the original copper plate. The finest
lines are coated; lines which are hardly
risible to the naked eye, and which
originally havo tho appearance of a*
hair.
“The beauties of etching are explain*
id in many ways. I think, however,
that, its special adaptation in the hand*
of an artist is to enable him to give to
the public, not to one person, something
of his individual work, something whicn
lias the charm of a sketch, yet which*
can be produced to any extent For
instance, an artist sketches a landscape.
It is impossible for more than one per
son to own lhat piece of work —that is,
there is but one copy. There can pos
sibly bo but one. Now the etching
enables the artist to giyo his sketch to
the public In just the mood in which it!
was marie. For, instead of marking if
on paper or canvas, lie lias made it on 1
a copper plate, from which it can be
indefinitely multiplied. ,
.:■(» Tl«e Golden Rose. i
The receipt bv the queen regent of
Spain of the. pope's golden rose has led
some curious writer to put together the I
following particulars concerning thej
flower: The first of these roses were (
simply flowers of red enamel, represent
ing the natural color of the rose. lister
tlie color of the rose was left white, and
a largo ruby was put into tho center,
the reflection from which gave the petals
a red tint. Innocent XI. had a golden
rose made which weighed over eight
pounds, was ornamented with several
sapphires, and represented a value of
over 10,000 francs. Alexander VII.
ordered one rose at, (i,OOO francs and an
other at 4.000 francs. Lately the golden
rose has been worth over 10,000 francs,
and has taken the form of a branch
with several flowers, a natural rose,
which lias been blessed by the pope,
forming the center. Os this kind is the
rose which tho queen regent of .Spain
has just received. It is planted in a
magnificent silver gilded vase, which is
a splonded example of Roman work
manship. Tho rose itself is said to be a
syinbo’ of the Creator; the splendor and
richness of the metal represents the eter
nal light which surrounds tho divine,
and the perfumes and spices, which are
placed in the vase by the pope, symbol
ize the glory arm resurrection of Christ
The benediction of the rose is a solemn
ceremony. The holy father, in his sacred
robes, reads tho formula of the benedic
tion from a book which is held by a bish
op. '’ ho other bishops, holding light
ed candles, stand by his side. The high
dignitaries of the pupal court surround
tlie pontiff, holding the incense the holy
water, the spices, and other perfumes.
Another dignitary, kneeling, presents
the rose, to the pope, who reads the pray
ers, blesses the incense, the spices, and
the perfumes, which am ill turn present
ed to him by a cardinal. After putting
them into the vase which holds tlie rose,
tlie golden rose is blessed, and the cere
mony ends,
German Girls. W
There is less difficulty in German girls
of the middle class finding suitable
partners for life than is the case in the
same class in England, says a writer in
the National INview. German girls,'
as a matter of course, take their share
jn household work. This does not pre
vent their being frequently very accom
plished, often excellent musicians, but
it does prevent a great deal of restless
ness and vague discontent A young
man who marries in that class knowsi
that he may reasonably expect his bride
to be a good housewife. If he is in the
upper middle class —for in.xffehce a shop-j
keeper—his wife often keeps’ the ac
counts of tlie shop. 1 havo wondered!
at the close attention to business detail*
shown by women who might have ex
pected to be spared such exertions. But
1 was assured they preferred to be thus
occupied; partly in order to save their
children, it seemed to me that the
master and mistress in most shops were'
on friendly terms with their assistants,
who were permitted to rest at intervals
during tlie day in a room behind tho
•hop. ‘
A Wild Stallion of the Plain*.
The sunlight came playing through
the trees, and burned on his sorrel coat
like molton goid. The graceful body,
round audsmootL, expanded where tho
vast haunches and sloping shoulders
set into It in welded masses of binding
muscle that stretched to the deer-like
limbs, with t heir clean knees and hocks,
each leg strung like a harp, with cord*
of stci 1 to Lhe ivory bone. His flowing
mane and tail seemed impatient to be
waving backward in the strong wind of
his racing galop. Though he stood
like a bronze, with only the trumpet
nostrils working to eatch the air, tho
small head, white even to the eyes,
turned over his shoulder to survey the
intruders who had disturbed his water
ing [ilace. • * • There stood the
horse, keenly alive to bis danger, nay,
even challenging it, for the ears laid
themselves slowly back —tho eyes be
gan so slime. Capt. Kemeys in Outinft