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less she can bear to think fearlessly of
the time when she will sit an old wife
by her old husband’s side, while her
only influence over him, her only com
fort for herself, lies in the strength of
that devotion which, saying not alone
in words but in constant deeds—“ 1
love thee!” desires and exacts no more.
This picture was Lettice Ruthven in
her old age.
She might have sighed to hear Pa
trick speak so forgetfully of those things
which she with great tenderness re
membered still—for women clirg long
er than men to the love-days of their
youth —but she never thought of bring
ing the brightness of that olden dream
to contrast painfully with their calm life
now. She passed over her husband’s
words, and kept silence, musing on her
daughter’s future.
“ lie is a rich man, and one of great
renown, this Sir Anthony Yandyck,”
she said at last. “ Being the king’s
painter, he saw our Marie frequently
at court: no wonder he thought her
beautiful, or that he should learn to
adore, as she says he does. I wonder
if she loves him ?”
“ Fret not thyself about that, good
wife, but come and tie up this bundle
of herbs for me. There, hang it on the
wall, and then sit by me with thy knit
ting-needles, which 1 like to watch un
til Igo to sleep. lam so weary, Let
tice.”
She arranged the cushion under his
head : he looked quite old now, far
more so than she, though they were
nearly equal in years. But he never
recovered the long imprisonment which
had enfeebled all the springs of life. —
Lettice watched him as he slept —his
pale, withered face, his thin hands —
and her undying tenderness enfolded
him yet. Dearly she had cherished
her children —the two dead boys, the
daughter now her sole pride —but this
one great love was beyond them all.
Ten years more—ten years, during
which the kingdom had been torn from
its foundations; and the humble phy
sician and his wife still lived on—safe
in their obscurity. The storm had
touched them, however; for with the
overthrow of kingly power had ceased
the pension granted by Charles I. to
Patrick Ruthven. They were poor,
very poor, and in their poverty was
none to aid; for the aged parents were
worse than childless. Marie the
young widow of Sir Anthony Yandyck,
and soon after the wife of Sir John
Pyrse—Marie had forsaken them. Still
they lived on, needing little; but that
little was always supplied. Patrick
practised as a wandering physician and
herbalist,so far as his declining strength
allowed ; and now and then they re
ceived help from their trusty friend,
the leal-hearted Scottish lady who had
contrived their marriage in the Tower.
Day by day the faithful wife of Patrick
Ruthven proved the truth of those
truest words : “/ have been young, and
now am old , yet never saw I the righte
ous forsaken, nor his seed begging their
bread”
One day when the January twilight
was fast closing in, Lettice sat waiting
for her husband. lie had been absent
since morning, having journeyed to
London with a young boy whose life
he had once saved, and who oftentimes
faithfully guarded the old physician’s
failing steps. Lettice waited, and wait
ed, until it grew dark. The slow pulse
of age is not easily stirred with the
quick fears of youth. Yet she was
growing alarmed, when she heard a
well-known step, and Patrick Ruthven
tottered in.
“My husband, what is this ?” cried
Lettice, for his aspect was wild and
disordered. lie trembled violently,
and kept continually his hand before
his eyes. At last he slowly removed
it, and looked fearfully around.
“ I think 1 shall not see it here ; i
have seen it all the way home—the axe,
the block—even the snow on the hedge
sideseemed dyed with blood! Oh, Let
tice, Lettice, it was horrible!”
- She, in her seclusion, knew nothing
of what had happened on that doomed
day, which she had spent calmly sitting
in her quiet cottage —the 29th of Janu
ary, 10t9. She thought her husband’s
mind was wandering, as it well might,
to the horrors of his youth and middle
age. She tried to soothe him, but in
vain. Some great shock had evident
ly overwhelmed the old man’s feeble
powers. As he sat in his arm-chair,
shudder after shudder came over him.
Often he clutched his wife’s hand con
vulsively or muttered broken exclama
tions. At last he said, speaking some
what more connectedly, “ 1 will tell
thee all, Lettice. This day l went to
London; the streets were crowded with
people, thronging as it were, to some
great ight. I asked a soldier if it were
so. He laughed, and said there was
indeed at Whitehall a rare show—a
royal show. 1 thought it was the king
restored, so I said with gladness, ‘God
bless King Charles !’ Then the soldier
smote me down. Look, Lettice !” lie
held up his bruised arm, and his wife
turned pale. “ Nay, it is nothing; for
the people rescued me soon, and one
man cried, ‘We have blood enough on
our heads this day.’ So the crowd bore
me on with them till we came to White
hall.”
Lettice ever changed countenance at
the word, which brought back that great
crisis in her life—when she came to
the palace to plead for her husband’s
freedom. She said anxiously, “ And
what didst thou see there, Patrick?”
“ A black scaffold, an axe, a block,
sights 1 knew well!” he answered,
shuddering. Ilis wife came closer to
him, but could not calm his rising ex
citement. “'i es, lie cried, “it was in
deed a royal show—it was the murder
of a king !”
There was a dead pause, and then
Patrick continued.
“ He came forth stepping from his
own palace-window to the scaffold.—
When he appear, and, women shrieked,
even men wept. Forme—the strength
of my youth seemed restored, i lifted
my voice in the crowd, crying out, ‘ 1
am Patrick Ruthven! That man’s fa
ther sent my father to the block, slew
my two brothers, imprisone 1 me for
seventeen years ; vet would 1 not take
life for life. God defend King Charles!”
But the people crushed round and si
lenced me. There was an awful hush ;
then 1 saw the axe shining—saw it fall!”
The o;d man gasped, shivered, and
was seized with a sort of convulsion.
All night he raved of things long past,
of the scenes ol blood which had mark
ed his childhood, of those he had wit
nessed iu the Lower. Towards morn
ing these paroxysms ceased, and with
ebbing strength there came over him
a great calm. He tried to rise, and
walked with Lettice’s help to their fire
side. But he staggered as he moved,
and, sinking in his arm-chair, said pite
ously, “ 1 am so weary—so weary !”
Then he fell into a quiet slumber.
\\ hile he slept, there entered the
Scottish lady. She was attired in black,
her countenance full of grief and hor
ror. She came hastily to say she was
going abroad to join her unhappy mis
tress. Her heart seemed bursting with
its load of indignant sorrow.
“ Look you,” cried she, “ I never
loved the Stuart line; even my husband
says that, as a king, the king erred; but
1 would give my right hand to save the
life of Charles Stuart. And I wish
that I may yet see this vile England
flow with blood, to atone for his which
rests upon it this day ! But, Lettice,
you are calm—these horrors touch not
you.”
And then mournfully Lettice told of
what had befallen her husband-
The lady stepped quickly and noise
lessly to look at Dr. Ruthven. lie
still slept, but over his face had come
a great change. The temples had fall
en in, there were dark lines round the
eyes ; yet over all was a sweetness and
peace like that of childhood. Lettice
almost thought she saw in him the
image of the boy Patrick, her playfel
low by the Cam. She said so to her
friend, who answered nothing, but stood
steadfastly gazing a long time. Then
she took Lettice’s hand, and looked at
her solemnly, even with tears. But she
did not speak, nor did Lettice.
“ I shall come back here to-morrow;
my journey may wait a day,” she mut
tered, and departed.
Lettice Ruthven went to her hus
band’s side, and watched him until he
awoke. It was with a quiet smile. —
“ What think you, dear wife, I have
been dreaming of the old time at Cam
bridge. How long is that ago?” She
counted, and told him more than fifty
years. “It seems like a day. How
happy we were, Lettice—you, and
William, and I ! How we used to sit
by the river-side on summer nights, and
play by moonlight among the laurels !
1 think, when l gain strength enough,
we will go and see the old place once
more.”
So he talked at intervals, all day re
ferring to incidents which had vanished
even from Lettice’s memory. For thir
ty years he had not spoken of these
things; and Lettice, while she listened,
felt a vague awe stealing over her.—
Something she remembered to have
heard, that at life’s close the mind often
recurs vividly to childhood, while all
the intermediate time grows dim. —
Could it be so now.
At night Patrick did not seem in
clined for rest. lie said he would
rather stay in his arm-chair by the fire
side. There, sometimes talking, some
times falling into slumber, the old man
lay, his wife watching over him con
tinuaily. Gradually the truth dawned
upon her—that on the path they had
long trodden together his steps would
be the soonest to fail. To the eternal
land, now so near unto both, he would
be the first to depart.
“It is well!” she murmured, think
ing not of herself, but only of his help
lessness—as a mother thinks of a child
whom she would fain place in a safe
! home rather than leave in the bitter
world alone. “All is best thus. It is
but tin - a little while..” Andsheceased
not to comfort herself with these words
—“ A little while —a little while !”
\\ hen Patrick woke his mind had
begun to wander, lie fancied himself
in the old house at Cambridge; he taik
ed to his aged wife as to the girl Let
tice whom he had loved. More espe
c ally, he seemed to live over again the
night when he was taken prisoner.
“I will hide here,but I will not see Let
tice—\\ illlam’s Lettice ! If I suffer, no
one shall know. Hark, how the laurels
are shaking ! We must keep close. I
clasp thee, love—l clasp thee ! Why
should l fear?”
Thus he continued to talk, but gradu
ally more brokenly, until just before
dawn he again slept. It was a winter’s
morning, pale but clear. There was
something heavenly in the whiteness
of the snow; Lettice looked at it thought
of the shining robes—white “such as no
fuller on earth can whiten them”—
with which the long enduring shall be
o o
clothed upon, one day. That day seem
ed near—very near, now.
IShe heard her husband call her. He
had awakened once more, and in his
right mind. “Is it morning?”he asked
faintly- “ I feel so strangely to-dav.
Lettice, take care of me.” She came
to him and laid his head on her breast,
Patrick looked up, and smiled. “Dear
wife, my comforter, and susUiiner ! I
have been happy all my life —I am hap
py now.”
He closed his eyes, and his features
sank into an expression of perfect rest.
Lettice said softly, “ My jiusband let
us pray.” She knelt beside him, still
holding his hands, and prayed. When
she arose, his soul was just departing.
He whispered smiling, “ Come soon !”
And Lettice answered, “Yes, love—
yes!” Jt was all the farewell needed
for a parting so peaceful and so brief.
Thus Patrjck Ruthven died.
“You will come abroad with me, my
poor Lettice,” said the Scottish lady
affectionately. But Lettice refused,
saying it was not worth while changing
her way of life for such a little time.
“ Alas, a bitter life yours has been!
It seems always the good who suffer!”
bitterly said the lady. “How strange
seem the inequalities of this world !”
Lettice Ruthven lifted her aged face,
solemn yet serene. “Notso; I loved,
1 have spent my whole life for him I
loved ; I have been happy, and I thank
God for all.” These were the only
words that sfie would say.
Patrick Ruthven and his wife have
long been forgotten ; even their very
burial-place is unknown. But there
lives not one true heart —surely not
one woman's heart—that, in dreaming
over their history, would not say.—
“ These two were not unhappy, for they
feared God, and loved one another.”
The Philosophy of Courting.—
The long nights are coining on, and
the season of courtship is arriving. As
soon as the weather gets so uncom
fortably cold that the girls are driven
in the house, instead of enjoying eve
ning promenades in the street, lovers
begin to nestle round them, and spark
ing commences. This accounts for
there being so many more marriages
during the latter partof the year than
there are in the spring.
SOUTHERN LITERARY GAZETTE.
€jjt (Bssmjist.
HOW TO MAKE HOME UNHEALTHY.
BY HARRIET MARTINEAU.
’ IV.
PASSING THE BOTTLE.
A brass button from the coat of
Saint Peter, was at one time shown to
visitors among the treasures of a cer
tain church in Nassau; possibly some
traveller of more experience may have
met with a false collar from the ward
robe of Saint Paul. The intellect dis
played of old by holy saints and mar
tyrs, we may reasonably believe to
have surpassed the measure of a bish
op’s understanding in the present day;
for we have the authority of eyesight
and tradition in asserting that the
meanest of those ancient worthies pos
sessed not less than three skulls, and
that a great saint must have had so
very many heads, that it would have
built the fortune of a man to be his
hatter. Perhaps some of these relics*
are fictitious; nevertheless, they are the
boast of their possessors; they are ex
hibited as genuine, and thoroughly be
lieved to be so. Sir, did your stomach
never suggest to you that doctored
elder-berry of a recent Ipew had been
uncorked with veneration at some din
ner-table as a bottle of old port? Have
you experience of any festive friend,
who can permit himself to doubt about
the age and genuineness of bis wine ‘
The cellar is the social relic chamber;
every bin rejoices iu a most veracious
legend; and whether it be over wine
or over relics that we wonder, equal
difficulties start up to obstruct our faith.
Our prejudices, for example, run so
much in favour of one-headed men,
that we can scarcely entertain the no
tion of a saint who had six night-caps
to put on when he went to bed, and
when he got up in the morning had six
beards to shave. Knowing that the
Russians, by themselves, drink more
Cnampagne than France exports, and
that it must rain grapes at Hockheim
before that place can yield all the wine
we English label Iloek, and haunted as
we are by the same difficulty when we
look to the other kinds of foreign wine,
we feel a justified suspicion that the
same glass of “genuine old port” can
not be indulged in simultaneously by
ten people. If only one man of the
number drinks it, what is that ediolon
which delights the other nine ?
When George the Fourth was Re
gent, he possessed a small store of the
choicest wine, and never called for it.
There were some gentlemen in his es
tablishment acquainted with its merits;
these took upon themselves to rescue
is from undeserved neglect. Then the
prince talked about his treasure —when
little remained thereof except the bot
tles; and it was to be produced at a
forthcoming dinner-party. The gen
tlemen, who knew its flavor, visited
the vaults of an extensive wine-mer
chant, and there they vainly sought to
look upon its like again. “In those
dim solitudes and awful cells” they,
groaning in spirit, made a confessor of
the merchant, who, for a fee, engaged
to save them from the wrath to come.
As an artist in wine, having obtained a
sample of the stuff required, this dealer
undertook to furnish a successful imi
tation. So he did; for having filled
those bottles with a wondrous com
pound, he sent them to the palace just
before the fateful dinner-hour, exhort
ing the conspirators to take heed how
they suffered any to be left. The com
pound would become a tell-tale after
twelve hours’ keeping. The prince
that evening enjoyed his wine.
The ordinary manufacture of choice
wine for people who are not princes,
require the following ingredients: for
the original fluid, cider, or common
cape, raisin, crape, parsnip, or elder
wine; a wine made of rhubarb (for
Champagne); to these may lie added
water. A fit stock having been chosen,
strength, colour, and flavour may be
grafted on it. Ise is made of these
materials : for colour —burnt sugar,
logwood, cochineal, red sanders wood,
or elder-berries. Plain spirit or brandy
for strength. For nutty flavour, bitter
almonds. Forfruitiness,Dantzicspruce.
For fullness or smoothness, honey.—
For port-wine flavour, tincture of the
seeds of raisins. For boqnet, orris
root or anibergis. For roughness or
dryness, alum, oak, sawdust, rhatanv or
kino. It is not necessary that an imi
tation should contain one drop of the
wine whose name it bears; but a skill
ful combination of the true and false is
desirable, if price permit. Every pint
of the pure wine thus added to a inix
tuie, is, of course, so much abstracted
from the stock of unadelterated juice.
You will perceive, therefore, that a
free use of wine, not highly priced, is
likely to assist us very much in our
endeavours to establish an unhealthy
home. Fill your cellar with bargains;
be a genuine John Bull; invite your
friends, and pass the bottle.
There is hope for us also in the re
collection, that if chance force upon us
a small stock of wine that has not been,
m England, under the doctor’s hands,
we know not what may have been
done to it abroad. The botanist, Ro
bert Fortune, was in China when the
Americans deluged the Chinese market
with their orders for Young Hyson tea.
1 he Chinese very promptly met the
whole demand; and Fortune, in his
“ Wanderiugs,” has told us how. He
found his way to a Young Ilyson man
ufactory, where coarse old Congou
leaves were being chopped and care
fully manipulated by those ingenious
merchants, the Chinese. But it is in
human nature for other folks than the
( hinese to be ingenious in such mat
ters. We may, therefore, make up our
minds that, since the demand for wine
from certain celebrated vineyards, large
ly exceeds all possibility of a genuine
supply, since, also, every man who
asks is satisfied, it is inevitable that the
great majority of wine-drinkers are sa
tisfied with a fictitious article. The
chances are against our very often
meeting with a glass of port that has
not tahen physic. So, let us never
drink dear wine,nor ask a chemist what
is in our bottles. Enough that they
contain for us delightful poison.
That name for wine, “delightful poi
son,” is not new. It is as old as the
foundation of Persepolis. Jemsheed
was fond of grapes, Ferdusi tells, and
once, when grapes went out of season,
stored up for himself some jars of grape
juice. After a while he went to seek
fora refreshing draught; then fermen
tation was in progress; and he found
his juice abominably nasty. A severe
stomach-ache induced him to believe
that the liquor had acquired, in some
way, dangerous qualities, and. there
fore, to avoid accidents, he labelled
each jar “ Poison.” More time elapsed,
and then one of his wives, in trouble
of soul, weary of life, resolved to put
an end to her existence. Poison was
handy: but a draught transformed her
trouble into joy ; more of it stupefied,
but did not kill her. That woman
kept a secret: she alone exhausted all
the jars. Jemsheed then found them
to be empty. Explanations followed.
The experiment was tried once more,
and wine, being so discovered, was
thereafter entitled “the delightful poi
son.” What Jemsheed would have
said to a bottle of port out of our
friend Hoggin’s cellar—but 1 tread on
sacred ground.
Os good wine, health requires none,
though it will tolerate a little. Our
prospect, therefore, Vhen the bottle
passes briskly, is encouraging Is the
wind good, we may expect some indi
gestion; is it bad, who can tell what
disorders we may not expect? Hog
gins, J know, drinks more than a quart
without disordering his stomach. He
lias long been a supporter of the cause
we are now advocating, and therein
finds one of his rewards. Jt is not safe
to pinch a tiger’s tail; yet,-when the
animal is sick, gerhaps he will not bite,
although you tread upon it heavily. —
Healthy men and healthy stomachs
tolerate no oppression.
London is full now; elsewhere coun
try folks come out of doors, invited by
fine weather. Walk where you will,
in country or in town, and look at all
the faces that you meet. Traverse the
Strand, and Regent-street, and Hol
born, and Cheapside ; get into a boat
at London bridge, steam to Gravesend,
and look at your fellow passengers:
examine where you will, the stamp of
our civilization, sickliness, is upon nine
people in any ten. There are good
reasons why this should be so, and so
let it continue. We have excluded
sanitary calculations from our social
life ; we have had hitherto unhealthy
homes, and we will keep them. Bede
tells of a Mercian noble on his death
bed, to whom a ghost exhibited a scrap
of paper, upon which were written his
good deeds : then the door opened, and
an interminable file of ghosts brought
in a mile or two of scroll, whereon his
misdeeds were all registered, and made
him read them. Our wars against
brute health are glorious, and we re
joice to feel that of such sins we have
no scanty catalogue; we are content
with our few items of irere sanitary
virtue. As for sanitary reformers, they
are a company of Danaids; they may
get some of us into their sieve, but we
shall soon slip out again. When a tra
veller proposed, at Ghadames in the
Sahara, to put up a lantern here and
there of nights among the pitch-dark
streets, the people said his notion might
be good, but that, as such things had
been tried before, it would be pre
sumptuous to make the trial of them
now. The traveller, a Briton, must
have felt quite at home when he heard
that objection. Amen, then; with the
Ghadamese, we say, Let us have no
New Lights.
V.
ART AGAINST APFETITE.
The object of food is to support the
body in its natural development, that
it may reach a reasonable age without
becoming too robust. Civilization can
instruct us to manage, that a gentle dis
solution tread upon the heels of growth,
that, as Metastasio hath it,
Si comincia a morir quando si nasce.”*
An infant’s appetite is all for milk ;
but art suggests & few additions to that
lamentably simple diet. A lady not
long since complacently informed her
medical attendant that, for the use of
a baby, then about eight months old,
she had spent nine pounds of “Infant’s
Preservative.” Os this, or some like
preparation, the advertisements tells
us that it compels Nature to be orderly,
and that all infant's take it withgreedi
ness. So we have even justice to the
child. Pet drinks Preservative; papa
drinks Port.
Then there is “farinaceous food.”
Here, for a purpose, we must interlope
a bit of science. There is a division of
food into two great classes, nourish
ment and fuel. Nourishment is said
to exist chiefly in animal flesh and
blood, and in vegetable compounds
which exactly correspond thereto, call
ed vegetable fibrine, albumen, and ca
seine. Fuel exists iu vvliaiever con
tains much carbon; fat and starchy ve
getables, potatoes, gum, sugar, alco
holic iiquors. If a person take more
nourishment than he wants, it is said to
be wasted ; if he take more fuel than
he wants, part of it is wasted, and part
of it the body stacks away as fat.—
These men of science furthermore as
sert, that the correct diet of a healthy
man must contain eight parts of fuel
ibod to one of nourishment. This pre
serves equilibrium, they say —suits,
therefore, an adult; the child which lias
to become bigger as it. lives, has use
for an excess of nourishment. And so
one of the doctors, Dr. R. D. Thom
son, gives this table; it lias been often
copied. The proportion of nourish
ment to fuel is in
Milk (food for agrowing animal) Ito 2
Beans, - - - - 1 “
Oatmeal, - - - - 1 “ 5
Barley, - - - - 1 “ 7
Wheat flour (food for an animal at
rest, .- - -1“ 8
Potatoes, - - - 1 “ 9
Rice, - ... j “jo
Turnips, - - - - J “11
Arruw-root, tapioeo, sago, - 1 “26
fetarch, .... i <4O
Very well, gentlemen, we take your
filets. As tegritudinary men, we know
what use to make of them. W’e will
give infants farinaceous food; arrow
root, tapioca, and the like; quite ready
to be tought by you that so we give
one particle of nourishment in twenty
six. Tell us, this diet is like putting
leeches on a child. We are content.
Leeches give a delicate whiteness that
we are thankful to be aide to obtain
without the biting or the bloodshed.
Sanitary people will allow a child,
up to its seventh year, nothing beyond
bread, milk, water, sugar, light meat
broth, without fat, and fresh meat fol
ks dinner—when it is old enough to
bite it—with a little well-cooked vege
table. They confine a child, poor crea
ture, to this miserable fare ; permit
ting, in due season, only a pittance of
the ripest fruit.
They would give children, while
* From swaddling-clothes,
Dying begins at birth.
they .are growing, oatmeal and milk
for breakfast, made into a porridge. —
They would deny them beer. You
know how strengthening that is, and
yet these people say that there is not
an ounce of meat in a whole bucketful.
They would deny them comfits, cakes,
nice, pastry, and grudge them nuts;
but our boys shall rebel against all
this. We will teach them to regard
cake as bliss, and wine as glory; we
will educate them to a love of tarts.
Once let our art secure over the stom
ach its ascendency, and the civilized
organ acquires new desires. Vitiated
cravings, let the sanitary doctors call
them; let them say that children will
eat garbage, as young women will eat
chalk and coals, not because it is their
nature so to do, hut because it is a
symptom of disordered function. Wc
know nothing about function. Art
against Appetite has won the day, and
the pale face of civilization is esta
blished.
Plain sugar, it is a good thing to for
bid our children; there is something
healthy in their love of it. Suppose
we tell them that it spoils the teeth.
They know no better; we do. We
know that the negroes, who in a great
measure live upon sugar, are quite fa
mous for their sound, white teeth ; and
Mr. Richardson tells us of tribes among
the Arabs of Sahara, whose beautiful
teeth lie lauds, that they are in the ha
bit of keeping about them a stick of
sugar in a leathen case, which they
bring out from time to time for a suck,
as we bring out the snuff-box for a
pinch. But we will tell our children
that plain sugar spoils the teeth; sugar
mixed with chalk or verdigris, or any
another mess—that is to say, civilized
sugar —they are welcome to.
And for ourselves we will eat any
thing. The more our cooks, with spice,
druggery and pastry, raise our wonder
i up, the more we will approve their
handicraft. We will excite the stomach
with a peppered soup; we will make
: fish indigestible with melted butter,
and correct the butter with cayenne. —
We will take sauces, we will drink
wine, we will drink beer, we will eat
pie-crust, we will eat indescribable pro
ductions —we will take celery, and
! cheese and ale—we will take liquor—
; we. will take wine and olives, and more
wine, and oranges and almonds, and
any thing else that may present itself,
and we will call all that our dinner, and
| for such the stomach shall accept it.
We will eat more than we need, but
will compel an appetite. Art against
Appetite forever.
Sanitary people bear ill-will to pie
crust, they teach that butter, after be
ing baked therein, becomes a com
pound hateful to the stomach. We
will eat pies, we will eat pastry, w
will eat —we would eat M. Soyer him
self in a tart, if it were possible.
We will uphold London milk. Mr.
Rugg says that it is apt to contain
chalk, the brains of sheep, oxen, and
cows, flour, starch, trescle, whiting, su
gar of lead, arnotto, size, etc. Who
cares for Mr. Rugg? London milk is
better than country milk, for London
cows are town cows. They live in a
city, in close sheds, in our own dear
alleys are consumptive they are
delightful cows; only their milk is too
strong, it requires watering and doc
toring, and then it is delicious milk.
Tea wc are not quite sure about.
Some people say that because tea took
so sudden a hold upon the human ap- ,
petite, because it spread so widely in !
so short a time, that therefore it sup- j
plies a want; its use is natural. Liebig
suggests that it supplies a constituent j
of bile. 1 think rather that its use has
become general because it causes inno- I
cent intoxication. Few men are not
glad to be made cheerful harmlessly.
For this reason 1 think it is that the
use of tea and coffee has become popu- j
lar; and since whatever sustains cheer
fulness advances health the body
working with good will under a pleas
ant master —tea does our service little
good. In excess, no doubt, it can be
rendered hurtful (so can bread and
butter); but the best way of pressing
it into employment, as an tegritudinary
aid, is by the practice of taking it ex
tremely hot. A few observations upon
the temperature at which food is re
fused by all the lower animals, will
soon convince you that in man—not as
regards tea only, but in a great many
respects —Art has established her own
rule, and that the Appetite of Nature
has been conquered.
We have a great respect for alcoholic
liquors. It has been seen that the ex
cess of these makes fat: they, there
fore, who have least need of fat, ac
cording to our rules, are those who
have most need of wine and beer.
Os ordinary meats there is not much
to say. We have read of Dr. Beau
mont’s servant, who had an open mus
ket-hole leading into his stomach,
through which the doctor made experi
ments. Many experiments were made,
and tables drawn of no great value on
the digestibility of divers kinds of
meat. Climate and habit are, on such
points, paramount. Rig is pollution to
the children of the Sun, the Jew, and
Mussulman; but children of Winter,
the Scandinavians, could not imagine
Paradise complete without it. Schrim
ner, the sacred hog, cut up daily and
eaten by the tenants of Walhalla, col
lected his fragments in the night, and
was in his sty again read} for slaughter
the next morning. These things con
cern us little, for it is not with plain
meat that we have here to do, but with
the noble art of Cookery. That art,
which once obeyed and no\v commands
our appetite, which is become the
teacher where it was the taught, we
duly reverence. When tegritudinary
science shall obtain its college, and
when each Unhealthy Course shall have
its eminent professor to teach Theory
and Practice—then we shall have a
Court of Aldermen for Patrons, a’
Grave-digger for Principal, and a Cook
shall be Dean of Faculty.
[To be continued.]
is as natural to a woman
as fragrance is to a rose. You may
lock a girl up in a convent, you may
confine her in a cell, you may cause, her
to change her religion, or forswear her
parents; these things are possible, but
never hope to make the sex forget their
heart worship or give up their rever
ence for cassi meres, for such a hope
will prove as bootless as the Greek
Slave and hallow as a bamboo.
£3?“ That must be a very foolish,
rash woman who will put tubs out
doors to catch soft water, when it is
raining hard.
’Hingrapljirnl Ikrtrjirs.
SIGN OR IN A PARODI.
The subjoined biographical sketch of
the peerless Italian Prima Donna, who
is at present the “bright, particular
star” of Meretzek’s Astor Place Opera
House, will be read with interest by
all admirers of the “art divine.”
Signorina was born in Genoa, (and
not in -Milan) of obscure but highly re
spectable, parentage, on the 17th of
August, 1827, and is now, consequent
ly, twenty-three years old. Early dis
playing great capacity for music, she
studied with the best facilities she could
command till her seventeenth year,
when, at the advice of the few who
were conscious of her brilliant genius
for song, she resolved to prepare her
self for the career of the stage. But
her parents were disinclined to this
course, and endeavoured to dissuade
her from her purpose. In the mean
time, having sung at some of the first
houses of Genoa, and excit ed great en
thusiasm, her parents yielded so far as
to allow her to begin a course of tho
rough training under the instruction of
Madame Pasta, who was then livingat
her beautiful villetta , on the shores of
the Lake of Como. The moment Ma
dame Pasta heard Parodi’s voice, she
recognized the counterpart of her own.
I here was,in other respects a moststrik
! ing resemblance between the blooming
voung Genoese girl and the celebrated
.Mist ress ofSong, who had so long worn
the m usical crown of Europe. Re
sembling Pasta so closely in person,
I that the portraics of her, taken in her
j youth, were supposed to be those exe
cuted of Pa rod i. and reminding all who
had ever seen Pasta, ofthe same frank,
generous, open-hearted manner, which
had always characterized her,an impres
sion early got abroad that the throne
which Pasta had left vacant, would soon
be worthily filled by the yiovana scliol
ara di Genova.
After Pasta had heard Parodi seve
ral times, and tested the capacity of her
voice, she encouraged her by saying
j that she would probably be able, by
close application, to fit herself, in two
years, for the stage. Encouraged by
this brilliant hope, the generous girl
dedicated herself, heart and soul, to the
noble career opening before her.—
feresa had left an aged father and mo
ther, a kind aunt, three sisters, and four
brothers, behind her, all of whom she
hoped one day to elevate to a more aus
picious fortune.
But Madame Pasta herself, had not
j yet learned how bright and priceless a
j jewel had been entrusted to her keep
j ing Every day “as marked by deep
er interest in the teacher, and more
wonderful progress in the pupil. At
last, at the end of twelve months,
Pasta called Teresa to her, one morn*
.ng, and taking her arm, they walked
upon the terrace, among the orange
groves of Como. “My child,” she
said, “ (rod has endowed you with a
rich, soft, and noble voice; 1 have done
for you all that I can do or you need.
You are now ready for the stage. You
may go, and my blessing will go with
you. I shall live to see you the first
singer of Europe.” She embraced her
gifted and lovely scholar, and Teresa
Parodi went to her home in Genoa, and
rejoiced the hearts of her aged parents
by relating to them what the venerable
Pasta had said.
She determined at once to begin her
career in the Grand. Opera Italiana.—
She had begun her studies with Pas
ta in 1843. In 1845, she went, by in
vitation, to Bergamo, during the annu
al Mechanical and Agricultural Fair,
(July and August) and appeared, for
the first time, at the Teatro Rieeardi,
in that city. There were strangers in
Be rgamo from various parts of Italy
and no one was prepared for so wonder
ful a display of musical genius. The
Italian people have a quicker apprecia
tion of genius in the arts than any oth
er nation ; but when the reports of her
unprecedented success went forth from
Bergamo, they seemed too extraordi
nary to be credited.
When her engagement was closed at
the Teatry Rieeardi, she was invited to
sing during the next carnivalc (1845-6)
at Verona, a city of higher rank, both
in population and art. In Bergamo,
she sang, as her first opera, “ La Gem
ma di Vergy,” by Donnizetti. At the
same city she represented “1 Due Fos
cari,” by Verdi. At Verona, these
opearas were repeated with increased
effect, and her fame began to spread
over Italy. Applications poured in
from every quarter, and the young can
tatrice could hardly believe her good
fortune—for one of the charms of Pa
rodi’s inimitable character has always
been a modest ertimate of her own
powers.
She chose a very brilliant occasion
for her next appearance. Anew and
exceedingly beautiful opera house had
just been completed at Spezzia. a charm
ing little city at the head ofthe gulfof
that name, which lies half way from
Genoa to Leghorn. Parodi had been
invited to —what shall we say ?—dedi
cate it! For in Italy, where the arts
have long held so supreme a sway, an
opera house is considered worthy of a
solemn and grand ceremonial, when its
doors are thrown open for the entrance
of the muses. Parodi appeared there
on this splendid occasion, in “Ernani,”
by Verdi. It was a triumph which had
never been achieved, even in Italy, bv
a girl of eighteen. She also sang in
“La Gemma di Vergy,” with increased
enthusiasm. Although the theatre rank
ed only among the third class, the event
was everywhere noticed, and the Paro
di triumph was everywhere spoken of.
The next year went to Palermo,
where she appeared in “ La Bemira
ni id,” and afterwards in “ La Norma.”
She was now rapidly in her career ap
proaching a higher and more difficult
point. In Palermo she sang before one
of the most discriminating audiences in
Italy ; but she surpassed expectation.
The next summer she went to Florence,
and, in the great teatro there, sang “La
Yes tale,” of Mereadante, and “ Maria
di Rudenz.” She went on to Rome,
and successively appeared in “Othello,”
“La Norma,” and several other operas,
in which she excited an enthusiasm
which had not been felt in that ancient
and venerable capital for a long period.
But, in the next carnival, she left the
peninsula, and returned to Palermo, to
complete her engagement, which ex
tended through two carnivals. She
now came out in anew and beautiful
opera, which had been composed ex
pressly for her, by Coppola, which was
entitled “11 Fingallo.” Anew enthu-
siasm was stirred, and, before the car
nival was over, the feeling of the city
rose to such a pitch that the whole peo
ple seemed to have gone mad for the
beautiful contatrice. This fact is the
more singular, since her greatest tri
umphs were achieved during the hor
rors of the Sicilian revolution —while
the red flames of war were rolling over
the blushing bosom of that devoted
island.
These scenes of carnage, however,
at last passed away. The friends of
liberty were finally compelled to suc
cumb to the overwhelming power of
despotism; the hoof of the tyrant
again pressed the soil, and Parodi left
Sicily to follow her career in Europe.
She had made an engagement to sing
at San Carlo, at Naples. But it was a
gloomy scene to contemplate. Naples
was again under the feet of the merci
less Bourbon despot.
At this crisis,Lumley,the great,“em
pressario” of the Italian Opera House
in London, despatches a messenger to
Italy to effect an engagement with Pa
rodi, who was believed to be the only
contatrice in Europe who could prove
a formidable rival to Grisi, or to the
Swedish Nightingale. He succeeded.
Parodi appeared in London in “ Nor
ma,” and carried the fashionable world
by storm. In less than ten days the
enthusiasm was unbounded. From the
highest arena in Europe, and from the
greatest rival on earth, Parodi had
come oft'with eclat ! She appeared in
rapid succession in “ Norma,” “La
Favorita,” “ Semiramide,” “ Lucrezia
Borgia,” “ Don Giovanni,” “ Le Nozze
di Figaro,’ “II Matrirnonio Secreto,”
&c, and to every new scene she im
parted a freshness, with every word and
movement she carried a power, and
over all she east the magical charm of
an enchantment which even Grisi had
failed to command.
At the close of the season of 1849,
in London, Parodi reigned supreme
over the musical world. It was a tri
umph without a parallel in the records
of history ; for she was not yet twen
ty-two years.
Summer before last she visited her
home, and sang before the court of
Turin. Last spring she again appear
ed in the scenes of her Majesty’s The
atre, in London, in “ La Madea,” of
Mayer, in “Ernani,” “Nabusco,” and
“ 1 due Foscari.” Her fame was al
ready regarded as complete. But she
was, on her second appearance, greeted
with still greater enthusiasm. She be
came the pride of the aristocracy of
England, and by general consent Eu
rope accorded to her the vacant throne
of Pasta.
€\)t Inrrtil Jllfar.
PRAYER.
Wake, little cliild, the ntorn is gay,
The air is fresh and cool;
But pause awhile, and kneel to pray,
Before you go to merry play,
Before you go to school.
Kneel down and speak the holy words;
God loves your simple prayer,
Above the sweet songs of the birds,
The bleating of the gentle herds,
The flowers that scent the air.
And when the quiet evenings conre,
And dew-drops wet the sod,
When bats and owls begin to roam.
And flocks and herds are driven home,
Then kneel again to God.
Because you need him day and night,
To shield you with His arm ;
To help you always to do right,
To feed your soul and give it light,
And keep you safe front harm.
Lesson for Sunday, December 1.
REDEMPTION.
“ Eternal redemption.”—Heb. ix. 12.
In these words we have the grand
theme of revelation, the mightest work
of God, and tire best news to man.
The priests under the law prefigured
the Saviour; but he excels them in the
dignity of his person, the purity of his
nature, the perpetuity of his office,and
the value of his sacrifice. Let us con
template eternal redemption. Every
new covenant blessing bears the mark
of love.
The blessing it includes. The very
term explains its meaning; it is deli
verance from spiritual bondage, and an
introduction into glorious libertv. Its
full extent cannot be known till we
unite with the redeemed in heaven,
where its glories skull fill our minds
w ith wonder, our hearts with love, and
our tongues with praise.
I HE SOURCE FROM WHENCE IT FLOWS.
I he streams of salvation issue from the
fountain of Divine grace. The love of
Christ prompted him to the work of
human redemption. Every new cove
nant blessing bears the mark of love.
The price by which it is procured.
It was such a price that none but an
Infinite Being could advance. Estimate
its worth by this, and remember that
the degradation to which the Saviour
stooped, the scenes of suffering through
which he passed, and the costly offer
ing lie made, were to procure eternal
redemption.
The glory it displays. It throws
a bright lustre on all the Divine per
fections, and makes the glory of each
to centre in the cross, where mercy and
truth meet together, and righteousness
and peace embrace each other.
J HE FREF.NESS BY WHICH IT IS DISTIN
GUISHED. O delightful fact, while there
is here the brightest display of glory,
there is the freest discovery of grace.
“Liberty to the captive” is the Gospel
proclamation.
The OBLIGATION IT INVOLVES. If
Christ has redeemed us, we must glo
rify him in our bodies and spirits, which
are his. At every step, let our lan
guage be, “ Lord, what will thou have
me to dt ? Let us display more of
the life and activity to godliness—and
remember that religion is not the dun
geon air, but the mountain breeze; not
tlie stagnant pool, but the running
stream.
Idolaters can Worship Any Thing.
At Baitenzorg, a village of Java,Messrs.
Tyerman and Bennet observed a street
occupied exclusively by Chinese. They
called at several of the houses and no
ticed an idol in each. In one, they ob
served an engraving of the French
Emperor Napoleon in a gilt frame,
before which incense was burning. The
old man, to whom the picture belonged,
in their presence, paid it divine honours,
bowing himself in various antic atti
tudes, and offering a prayer for bles
sings upon himself and family. When
we asked him why he worshiped an
European engraving, he replied, “O,
we worship any thing.”
(Sritmil Crlrrfir.
copy the followings
written article from the Sumter /
ner. The truths it contains are up Tr , „
and fitly uttered. The important
fostering native literature and aiding
the development of the talent wp
lies slumbering in our midst, cannot l
too often or too strenuously i n q v ,
upon. The cordial tribute which ,
contemporary pays to our Guzettd
gratefully appreciated: |
Southern’ Literature.—\\ e w
happy, during the past week, to j,J,
the acquaintance of a gentleman <•, •
nected with the Southern Literary t;" 0
zette , a paper published in Charleston’
who was exerting himself to enlist i ,
feelings of our citizens on behalf of tl, ,
Journal.
• Regarding it as one of the mostvaj
uable among the number of our
changes, we would, if for no other i
son, with pleasure recommend it to,
readers; but we think that it has hit, 1 ,
claims upon our aid than its own ; t
trinsic merit, great as tfiat indeed L
Such a paper, comprising almost
every variety of interesting matter
furnishing food for reflection andamus*.
nient, diverting our lighter hours and
informing and improving our graver
ones, has long been a desideratum at
the South. But the dependence upon
the North, in which we have existed
for all that embellishes life and relieves
it of its tedium, seems by the force of
habit to have grown into a thraldom.
Northern millinery is to the full extent
as necessary to us in Literature as in
Fashion. Psuedo philanthropy, m< k| v
sentimentalism and missyish romance
are dressed up in all the attractivcncs>
which the graces of style can lend to
them, and these fopperies coine'float
ing through till our land and find their
way to every hamlet and farm house.
But the consequent vitiation of
and manners is not the evil which we
most deprecate and complain of: our
peculiar sentiments and institutions are
often sneered at and ridiculed, often
misrepresented and denounced, and
Southern gentlemen and ladies, who
divert a leisure hour with the ephe
meral fictions of the Northern press,
will often require some reflection and
reasoning upon facts to convince them
selves that they are not less civilized
and humane than their hyperborean
allies.
Who can estimate the moral effects
of suc h influences, or how much of the
apparent hesitation of the South to
assert and maintain her rights is not
attributable to an uncertainty,generat
ed by Northern literature, as to wheth
er she is in the right at all?
We have been led to these remarks
by the desire to induce the completion
of the work we have begun. We have
thrown off some of the fetters that
bound us. We have determined to lie
i as independent as possible of the North
in the carriage of our products and the
; importation of goods. Shall we deem
the transmission of thoughts, of opin
ions and sentiments, of less moment
than the porterage of commercial com
modities? Let the hundreds of thous
ands who now fill the pockets of their
foes in return for that which enervates
1 and degenerates them, turn their atten
tion and fostering care to the talent
which lies slumbering and undeveloped
amongst them, and one great entrance
for demoralization will be closed up, a
wide avenue will be opened up to dis
tinction and to glory, and the South
, will speedily attain to that eminence in
Letters which has always been hers in
| Honour, in Generosity, and in Virtue.
THE SECRET HISTORY OF ROME.
We eJfract from M. Filopanti’s Lec
ture on the Secret History of Rome,
the following parallel between the
causes of the ancient power of Rome,
and the causes of the present, and of
the probable future, greatness of our
country :
“As for you, ladies and gentlemen,
the Roman History has a peculiar kind
of interest, even deeper far than many
European nations. Within a hundred
’ years, probably even less, the United
j States of America will be as populous
and as powerful a country as was the
Roman Republic one thousand and
nine houndred years ago, and perhaps
they will have absorbed all the regions
of the American Continent, as Rome
nearly aggregated to itself all the an
cient world.
“ The three general causes of the an
cient greatness of Rome, namely, the
superiority of the race, the superiority
of geographical position, and the supe
riority of institutions, are identical
with the causes of your present and fu
ture greatness. Better to understand
the influence of the former cause, 1 beg
leave, ladies and gentlemen, to suppose
that we gather from sundry countries
the tallest men and women, ami we
carry them together to some unpeopled
island : their posterity of course, will
be of stature above the average of oth
?r men.
“ Now, suppose further, we again
choose out of the number of these tall
islanders the tallest of them all, and
make them the inhabitants of a newly
budded city—will not their depend
ents be of a more conspicuous height
than the men of the other countries?
This fanciful hypothesis bears a close
analogy with the real case of Rome, and
of the United States.
“ Italy, by her unrivalled beauty,
salubrity and fertility, and by her
stretched peninsular form in the middle
of the Mediterranean sea, attracted to
her, shores the most intelligent and en
terprising men of Europe, Asia, and
Africa : and, since the natural richness
of the soil afforded leisure to cultivate
and improve all the imported seeds ot
learning and industry, while the divi
sion of Italy into many small common
wealths prevented idleness and effinaa
cy, and kept up the warlike spirit o!
the population, the Italians were at the
same time the most civilized, except
only the Greeks, and absolutely the
bravest among all nations of the earth.
Now the peculiar policy of Rome
caused her population to grow out ot
the flower of all the population of Italy.
This single fact may, in a great mea
sure, explain how Rome became the
first city in the world.
“By a correspondent manner, the
main body of the present population
of Great Briton is to be traced to the
invasion of the most daring and reso
lute adventurers from the warlike na
tions of Saxons, Anglos, Danes, and