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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