FEINBERG/WHITMAN LITERARY FILE  Prose "Lincoln's Assassination" (May 12, 1881)   Connecticut Courant  Printed Copy
Box 33 Folder 30[*Whitman [Sarah?]) [h?]68  #554/*]
Supplement to the Courant.
PUBLISHED EVERY OTHER WEEK AS A SUPPLEMENT TO THE CONNECTICUT COURANT.
VOL. XLVI.      HARTFORD, MAY 12, 1881.       NO. 9.

ANOTHER UNPLEASANT PEOPLE.
The more we know of the native man the 
more disagreeable he is to us. The British
ship Alert, which took Captain Nares on his
polar expedition, has just been employed in
surveying the ship channels in and adjacent
to the straits of Magellan, and those engaged
in the survey have had a rare opportunity
to make the acquaintance of the natives 
of Terra del Fuego.
In the southern extremity of Patagonia and
Terra del Fuego, the scenery is pronounced
very fine, being Norwegian in its character,
and generally very bold. But there are
strips of low-lying land, covered with the
Fuegan beach and other trees; there are also
extensive forests, but the trees are stunted,
with enormous masses of decayed timber; the
shores are indented with bays which give
good anchorage, and the straits with islands
—the scenery recalling at times the St.
Lawrence with its thousand isles. There are
headlands many hundreds of feet in height,
with deep water at their bases, and fiords
like those in Norway, having at their heads
glaciers two thousand feet in height, and behind
them high bare hills, and mighty snow-capped
mountains. One of the most
impressive features of the scenery are the
occasional mountains of barren, weather-beaten
rock. Some of these are as high as
the glaciers, and down their glistening sides
run cascades, the magnitude of small rivers.
The noise of these waters falling from a great
height resembles thunder.
The climate of this southern extremity
seems to be the worst that has been discovered
—worse than that of New England.
What it is in their winter we do not know;
in their summer it is described as something
dreadful. The Alert remained there last
year till April. It rains about six days out
of the seven, and not lightly, for heavy
clouds, laden with moisture from the Pacific
ocean, are driven against the hills and deposit
their deluge on them. The thermometer
of this so-called summer varied between
44 and 60 degrees Fahrenheit, going down to
34 degrees in March which was the coldest
month experienced by the Alert.
The inhabitants of this region are a remarkable
race, and exactly suited to the climate.
During the last month of the year
little was seen of them, and it is supposed
they were absent fishing on the rocks of Terra
del Fuego. But in January and February
they returned to the inner channels, and the
crew had the enjoyment of their pleasant society.
Many of them followed the Alert from
port to port, to obtain provisions from her.
One group of these families attached themselves
to the ship, and had a habit of congregating
about the sailors at meal times, which
was not provocative of appetite—for the extreme
cold of the winter does not appear to
disinfect these high-odored people. They are
called remarkable—that is as being in the
lowest grade of humanity known. The men
are frightfully ugly, and the women uglier
than the men. They are copper-colored,
wear matted black hair, and have huge shark-like
mouths. Indeed, their mouths are larger
than those of any other known race. They
are very well fleshed considering the humidity
in which they live and their hard struggle
for existence, but they appear to be short-lived,
no old persons being observed among
them.
These people followed the vessel in bark
canoes. When they landed to camp, they
erected tents of boughs, with skins loosely
thrown over them. The huts were semi-globular,
like those of the Esquimaux, and
too low for a person to stand upright in them.
Notwithstanding the coldness of the climate,
they wear very little clothing, in fact go
almost nude even in the winter months,
though occasionally some throw seal skins
over their shoulders. They rely for warmth
upon a thick coating of dirt, and in winter
crouch over the fire and shiver the whole
season through. They are the laziest of people.
They will eat their food raw rather
than take the trouble to cook it, and so long
as they could get anything to eat from the
ship—though the unaccustomed food disagreed
with them—they would neither fish
nor work. In their intercourse with the
whites they were mild-mannered and quiet,
but rather intrusive, and had uncommon facility
in "annexing" loose articles about the
ship. They were at first suspicious of the
whites, and sent all their women inland.
They were well armed with well-made spears
and bows and arrows. Their arrow heads
used to be made of obsidian, but since the
whites have visited that region, they have
advanced in civilization. The whiskey which
the whites bring in bottles they drink, and
the bottles they break up and make into
arrow heads.
Of their moral and religious state little is
told. They bury their dead, or rather put
them out of sight in crevices in the rocks.
That they are adapted to civilization their
taking whiskey hardly shows. The Alert
took on board a Fuegan in the hope that he
could be civilized and act as an interpreter.
The man was dressed and fed as a seaman
and ranked as cook's mate. But the high diet
of biscuit and salt junk brought on indigestion,
and the habit of wearing clothes developed
in him bronchitis, and Tommy died
of civilization in three months. These poor
wretches depend upon hunting for a living,
and must often go hungry. Seals they catch
when the weather permits, cormorants they
seize by the legs when they are asleep in
trees, and they hunt fish in shallow waters,
aided by their dogs, who are trained for that
purpose. On the whole, the use of this people
to themselves and to the world is not apparent

The maple tree is an emblem of Christian
forbearance. The more it is bored the more
sweetness it exudes.—Boston Transcript.

"SHIVERS."
The "mediums" are not thriving well in
England lately, and are coming to regard
this country as a more hopeful field. The
case of Mrs. Fletcher, who has just passed
through a London court into a London jail, is
a discouraging one for the profession. The
attention of Europe is just now turned to
earthquakes, and probably the moral quakes
will be more active here. Unless we take
it out in the "aesthetic" mania, we shall very
likely have an access of spiritism. As a part
of the exploits of Mrs. Fletcher and her comrades
were in the United States, it seems
proper to profit by a consideration of her
methods.
According to the long report of the case in
the London Times, Mrs. Hart-Davies was a
lady of peculiar temperament, and exceptional
views of life. She had been divorced from
one husband and had separated from the second
one, and seems to have been a moral
"lank lily;" and although she was not a professional
spiritualist, only a believer, she had
interest in the eyes of the mediums because
she was possessed of considerable valuable
portable property. Her dresses, laces and
jewels were valued at something like £10,000.
A susceptible woman with this amount
of floating property was likely to attract the
attention of the spirit world; for some unexplained
reason the denizens of the "sweet by
and by" take a lively interest in wealthy imbecility.
In 1879 the husband of Mrs. Hart-Davies,
who was then with her, introduced her to
Mr. Fletcher, a "magnetic doctor," who professed
to be able to treat her for disease of
the heart, which seems to have been complicated
with spiritualism and dreams of her
deceased mother. At the first interview
Fletcher discovered that his patient was
highly charged with "psychic force," and
while holding her hand he went into a
"trance." On coming out of this he delivered
a message from her mother in the spirit
land. The holding of the hand of Mrs. Hart-Davies
was attended with "magnetic shivers.'
Mr. Fletcher came frequently, and always
"shivered" and always brought a message
from her mother. In her testimony the simple
woman says: "Fletcher took my hand in
his and shivered at every visit." He came as
a friend and went into a trance, followed by
a message from her mother. The shivering
continued. Once her husband saw Fletcher
with her hand in his shivering and going into
a trance; and he didn't like it; and in fact
this hastened the separation between Mrs.
Hart-Davies and her husband. Perhaps he
could have put up with heart disease and
even malaria, but these "shivers" were too
much for him.
She was introduced to Mrs. Fletcher, who
was a "medium," and became very much attached
to her. The Fletchers opened her
eyes fully to the beauties of spiritualism and
kept the road open for communication from
her mother. The sequel may be imagined—a66  SUPPLEMENT TO THE CONNECTICUT COURANT.
weak, sympathetic woman, full of "psychic
force" in the hands of a couple of adroit maniuplators.
Her mother sent her a message
through Fletcher, proposing that they should
form a "trinity" of love, wisdom and work.
Fletcher was to represent wisdom, the defendant,
his wife, work, and Mrs. Hart-Davies
the affection of the family to bind
them all together. There was another person
hovering about the party, a Captain Lindmark,
who was a former lover of the complainant,
at present the intimate attendant of
Mrs. Fletcher.
When the victim got into the "higher
phases of spiritualism," her property began
to be transferred to the Fletchers; they were
necessary to her intercourse with her mother,
and she became so absorbed in the "work"
that she at last came to live with the Fletchers,
and made her will giving them all her
possessions. Last year they made up a
party to come to America, the Fletchers, Alvino,
a step-son of theirs, a lady friend of Mrs.
Fletcher, Captain Lindmark and Mrs. Hart-Davies.
They packed up an immense quantity
of baggage, as if they did not intend to
return. But by this time all the complainant's
possessions could be got into two trunks.
On the voyage her eyes began to be opened to
the character of the Fletchers, for they
treated her cruelly. Reaching New York,
Mrs. Fletcher and Captain Lindmark departed
at once for Boston, leaving the rest of
the party in New York, from whence they
went to Greenfield (Greenwich?) and then to
Lake Pleasant, where there was a spiritual 
camp meeting. There they stayed ten days
and Mrs. Fletcher and Lindmark joined them 
there. The camp meeting was a spiritual one 
but it was participated in by the Peculiar People 
and by Shakers, whom the trial justice 
ascertained from the witness were distinct 
from "Shiverers."
At this pleasant resort Mrs. Hart-Davies 
made the acquaintance of a Doctor "Mac," 
also a spiritualist, who told her that the
Fletchers were humbugging her. It appeared 
on the trial that this Doctor "Mac" was 
Doctor James McGeary, a "doctor
of healing," not a doctor of medicine; 
he used no medicine, but 
cured by the laying on of hands, a very 
popular and successful kind of doctor in
America. His laying on of hands, although
magnetic, did not seem to be accompanied
with "shivering," perhaps because his magnetism
did not evoke the "psychic force" of
the patient. At any rate, Dr. Mac made it
his business to rescue the lady from the hands
of the Fletchers, and by the use of detectives
and the police, and searching in various places
where her goods were concealed, and the arrest
of Mrs. Fletcher, he succeeded in recovering
the bulk of her property, a large quantity
of jewels, and the lace which was estimated
to be worth over £4,000. But she
agreed to pay the Fletchers £140 for their
expenses in bringing her to America. Mrs.
Fletcher got out of arrest by giving bail for
$45,000, and soon the whole tribe seem to
have returned to London, Mrs. Hart-Davies
oing back with her good angel, Dr. Mac,
and taking possession of her house in London,
by which means she seems to have evaded
the payment of the £140. She began a prosecution
against Mrs. Fletcher. In the suit
she does not seem to have recovered all her
property, but she punished the principal swindler,
Mrs. Fletcher, who was sentenced to
imprisonment at hard labor for twelve
months.
Mrs. Hart-Davies seems, however, to be
preparing herself to be swindled again, by
the spiritual healing doctor. She testifies
that since her return to London she has not
seen her husband; but, she says, "Dr. Mac
is my friend and adviser now; we live near
each other and see each other frequently. He
has a large practice as a healing magnetic
doctor. He has healed me of much of my
sorrow; but he has never magnetized me; he
could do so, no doubt, if I were ill. I had at
one time an affection for Captain Lindmark —
that of a young trusting heart, being then
friendless."
There seems to be no way of opening the
eyes of people to this sort of imposture. The
London Times, in commenting on the case,
says it recalls that of Lyon vs. Home in
1868. The medium Mr. Home thought he
had secured £60,000, just as the less ambitious
Fletchers thought they had got hold of
£10,000. Take an adriot "medium" and
a weak, fanciful woman of considerable
property, and put them in communication,
and the inevitable result
seems to be that a good deal of the
woman's property gets transferred to
the medium. The medium of course
cannot control the spirits, he is as liable
to be operated on by bad as by good, and
in these cases the bad always come to the
front. It is a shallow and vulgar performance;
the tricks used are clumsy; a cheap
conjuror can do them better. "Shivers" and
"trances" are easy. Some of the private
mediums are reported to perform wonderful
things in dark hole and corner meetings, but
they fail in the light of publicity and unbiased
investigation. When they do come
before the public it is, remarks the Times,
"not as discoverers of something that the
public would like to know, or as revealers of
what is future, or even of what is going on
at a distance, but as imposters who write on
a slate with a piece of pencil inserted under
the nail, as deceivers of foolish women, and
obtainers of property on false and fraudulent
pretenses. No medium has ever yet revealed
anything that was at once true, worth
knowing, and knowable only by means not
accessible to the rest of mankind."
The Times sums up the matter in a few
words:—"The delusion of spiritualism is no
new one, but, happily, it is now a waning
one. The Fletchers are now dismissed to
join the Homes, the Slades, and other mediums
whose vogue is past. It is certainly a
very good thing that the machinations of
mediums, magnetic doctors and the like
should occasionally come within the reach of
the criminal law. Not merely is their conviction
a warning to the public at large to
have nothing to do with people professing
mysterious arts who come from no one knows
where and live no one knows how, but the
glimpses we get in evidence of their daily life
and habits are sufficient to disgust all decent
persons with the very name of medium and
with everything associated with spiritualism.
What 'spiritualism in its higher phases' may
be, we cannot pretend to say; in the phase
professed by the Fletchers, and at least
acquiesced in by Mrs. Hart-Davies, it is a 
matter of coarse imposture in purpose and of
still coarser endearments, fondlings, 'crunchings'
and the like in practice, such as are
positively sickening to read of. It is the old
story of Mrs. Lyon and Mr. Home over again.
A foolish, fond, hysterical woman comes into
court and tells the tale of her own degradation,
of her falling under the disgusting spell
of vulgar intimacies and unbridled, if not
criminal, passions. It would be well if the
law were less tolerant than it is of such
offenses against public morals and public decency.
Overt acts of imposture and fraud
necessarily, and very properly, come within
reach of the criminal law. But are the
séances in which these things begin really less
offensive to the public welfare? We punish
and prohibit fortune-telling and other practices
of the kind. But fortune-telling is now-a-days
a sorry and unprofitable kind of imposture,
not to be compared with spiritualism
as a means of gaining a livelihood out o
the public credulity. Spiritualism practiced
for gain is as false as fortune-telling, and far
more mischievous. Why should we prohibit
the old imposture and leave the field open for
the new?"
MRS. PONSON BY DE TOMKYNS.
To those of our readers who have not made
her acquaintance through Mr. Du Maurier's
pictures in Punch, we beg leave to introduce
the charming English lady whose distinguished
name is proudly placed at the head of this
article. Such public presentation of a woman
of distinction in society might seem somewhat
impertinent but for the fact that Mrs.
Ponsonby De Tomkyns is graciously pleased
to enjoy all such extensions of her social horizon.
It is her pleasure to be known in all
such circles of intelligence and refinement as
are described by the circulation of papers
like THE COURANT, and to receive the admiration
and homage which her irresistable personality
immediately inspires. Unlike Milton,
her soul is not like a star that "dwells
apart." Quite otherwise.
The drawing-room is the scene of her splendors,
strategies, and triumphs. Inclusive
and catholic in her spirit, ambitious only to
secure universal attention, proud only of her
unrivaled powers of management, she appears,
with equal grace, in the receptions of
the noble, in the soirees of the vulgar rich, and
in the ateliers of impecunious genius—everywhere
and always resplendent, and by invisible
and unsuspected arts controlling the
movements and compelling the homage of the
various persons in whose company she may
chance to be. All other social luminaries unconsciously
revolve around her central, solar
superiority. Such arts of deference and delicious
distillations of flattery are they bedewed
with, such inimitable humilities are
displayed before them, such bright and tender
glances are discharged upon them, such
subtile wit is wisely and musically dispensed
to them, such innumerable and indescribable
feminine potencies are ceaselessly brought to
bear among them, that be they titled or
learned or wealthy or beautiful or famous or
even envious, they are conquered in some
wise, they hasten to do obeisance, and are
like puppets in her exquisite fingers.
The consummate woman of society is so often
depicted as a person of artificial charms, proud
manners, vain conversation, and heartless
coquetry, that we feel moved to attempt a
more minute description of Mrs. Ponsonby
De Tomkyns, although the task is
far beyond our feeble powers.
First of all then, she is much nearer the
ideal of physical perfection than most of her
fair unmarried sisters. Of medium height,
her figure is slight without a suggestion of
frailty, supple as a reed, and, in every attitude
and motion, easy and graceful. If her
face is not classically beautiful in repose, it
is always a sunny, pleasant face. In conversation
it becomes radiant with such lively expressions
of interest and approval as no man
and few women can encounter without a
feeling of pleasure and self-importance. Her
eager listening, her quick detection of originality,
her heartfelt words of kindly appreciation,
her sweet smiles of sincere recognition,

SUPPLEMENT TO THE CONNECTICUT COURANT  67
suffice to surround her with a throng of
votaries who find it delightful to flutter in
the light of her loveliness and to breathe the
intoxicating atmosphere of her presence.
There is no appearance of frivolity, vanity,
or selfishness in her behavior. One soon perceives
that she has the very prettiest little
foot in the world, but she seems quite unaware
of the fact. If not an utterly unselfish
woman, few are less self-conscious. Of
her dress one only knows it is in faultless
taste and perfectly befitting—as if a part of
her. It does not seem to have caused her
any care or thought.
No syllable of slang ever pollutes her lips,
nor any bitter word of depreciation of others.
Beneath her swift succession of sunny smiles,
there runs an evident seriousness of purpose,
as beneath the flashing, rippling wavelets
of the lake, there is a steady current.
She is always interested in the people about
her. Her heart is in the right
place—somewhere within her dress—which
is more than the costumes of many fashionable
ladies will allow. She belongs to no party
or school in church, state, or art. On perfectly
pleasant terms of acquaintance with
Mrs. Cimabue Brown and the esthetes who
are inwardly intense and outwardly decorative.
She declines to adopt their fashions or
phrases, and is equally calm in contemplating
a picture by Turner or Maudle.
Mrs. Ponsonby De Tomkyns has a husband,
—an excellent gentleman of irreproachable
respectability who adores his lovely wife,
but evidently neither understands nor appreciates
her. He is always somewhere near
her, wearing a dejected, forlorn, wistful
look, as if wondering what under heaven she
will do next. His dull prosaic mind is slow
to catch the drift of her poetic movements.
When some ponderous dignity enters the
crowded salon, Mrs. Ponsonby De Tomkyns
quietly puts her best little foot forward.
"No use to do that," growls Ponsonby, "he'll
only step on it." "Just what I want him to
do, you dear old stupid," she replies. "Then
he must apologize, and be introduced!"
Our Lady has an exquisite way of so putting
the truth as to make it particularly agreeable
to everybody who may be present with her.
When old Gorgius Midas complains that a
man of his position and wealth should remain
untitled, she surveys him with a smile of interested
friendship, and bids him wait patiently
for "no man of your stamp, Mr.
Midas, need despair of a peerage." Mr.
Midas is unspeakably comforted and in due
time is knighted.
Again when young Gorgius Midas (whom
every one else laughs at) complains that at
the Duke of Stilton's, the artists and literary
fellers were more thought of than he, she reminds
him that if one of those men should
propose for a daughter of the house, he would
be turned into the street. "But you, my dear
sir, have only to throw your handkerchief."
The rising artist, Mr. Sopely, had painted
a portrait of old Mrs. Midas. It resembled
that dumpy lump of vulgarity about as nearly
as the Venus De Milo resembles Sairey
Gamp. A company has assembled to view
and pronounce upon it. The candid opinion
of Mrs. Ponsonby De Tomkyns is besought,
for she is a friend of all the parties. Equal
to the occasion, as usual, she says with beaming
face; "as a mere work of art, it surpasses
anything I have ever seen either by Titian,
Rembrandt or Velasquez, and will live forever.
But as a likeness of my dearest Lady
Midas, it is—you will forgive me for saying
so, Mr. Sopeley—a Libel!"
The entire company retires in exultation,
and old Midas orders two portraits of Mrs.
Tomkyns. Once more: The scene is a Lawn
Tennis Ground. Our Lady, looking lovelier
than ever as she reclines at ease in her basket
chair, is approached by young Midas, who
wants advice.
"Which I had better spot, for better or
worse—Mary Robinson, who is as good as
gold and a beauty—or Lady Jane Cadbury,
who ain't neither?"
Silently revolving the problem for a moment
and then, emphasizing her words with
pretty little foot-taps, Mrs. Ponsonby De Tomkyns
delivers her ever-memorable opinion:
"Beauty fades, Mr. Midas, and mere goodness
is apt to pall; now, a title lasts forever,
and one does not tire of having a Duke for
brother-in-law."
It is needless to add that Mr. Midas "spots"
Lady Jane Cadbury.
How invaluable to society such a woman as
Mrs. Ponsonby De Tomkyns must be, is quite
obvious. Her inimitable art of management
excites the liveliest admiration. To know
how to bring all feminine arts and powers of
persuasion, of delicate flattery, of unsuspected
manipulation to bear so as to compass the
results of which the complete outward success
of social life depends, is a great knowledge.
To suppress the envies, jealousies and
rivalries that distract society, to soothe
wounded pride, and heal the various hurts
that rankle in ambitious bosoms, to comfort
conceit, and applaud mediocrity, and give
good advice without offense, and keep things
flowing on smoothly and peacefully on the
surface, at least, is a most desirable labor for
the successful prosecution of which only a
few persons are by nature and temperament
fitted and inclined.
Now and then a specially wise old virgin,
or tedious old sage, may lament the superficiality
and unspirituality of Mrs. Ponsonby
De Tomkyns. But people generally will like
her, and wish there were more like her. Our
admiration for her exceeds even our respect.
May she live long and never grow old, and
may her tribe increase.
THE CULTURE OF INTENSITY.
There are certain phases of foolish sentimentality
with which the writer, however
skilled in sarcasm and caricature, cannot
adequately cope. They require pictorial delineation.
One of these phases is the strange
form of aesthetic mania which has been prevalent
in England for some time, and is breaking
out here and there, in our own country.
It is difficult to describe it without seeming to
be extravagant, for the nature of it is extravagance,
and when its expressions are reproduced
in pictures or language, they look
like caricatures. It is full of "aspiration."
It is "sever," and above all, "intense." It
is full of "soul." Ordinary language is inadequate
for the utterance of its emotions,
and it finds expression in sighs, gasps, wild
glances, abrupt gestures, agonizing attitudes
which are supposed to be "sculpturesque,"
and incoherent exclamations. It delights to
dress women and adorn drawing-rooms
with a combination of faded
tints splashed here and there with blotches
of color. It hangs hideous old plates on the
wall, and makes the fire place flare with
dreary parasols. The dado is its delight. It
disports itself in peacock feathers. It affects
very tight and twirling garments, and frizzles
the front hair in a "frightfully fine"
manner. It cultivates an unhappy yearning
expression of countenance, and indulges in
the most astonishing forms of ecstatic speech.
The votaries of this "kult" are invariably
a languid and dejected set. It is not "good
form" to be cheerful. If some lean, long-haired
young man wails forth an inane song
(rondel, he calls it) in a gusty strain which
terminates in something like a howl, a solemn-visaged
woman, appareled in what looks
like a scanty lot of twisted grey toweling,
flops limply down on the divan, clenches her
hand, and exclaims that "it is star-like."
This "kult" has a language of its own. Our
readers are familiar with its "awfully awful,"
"utterly utter," and "too too." One of
its pet adjectives is "consummate." No
other word so nearly expresses what may be
called its "height of quiteness"! These exclamations
are supposed to derive a certain
additional emphasis by being uttered with the
chin firmly set in the clenched fist, or with
both knees tightly clasped with the outstretched
arms.
This wretched cultivation of hysteric self-consciousness,
this hypocritical affectation of
deep emotion, has made its way not only into
artistic circles, but into the realms of music,
literature and religion. It sets silly folks
into imaginary ecstasies over pictures that
are simply hideous; over poems that are worse
than the pictures; over music of the modern
romantic school that is an utter confusion of
sounds as makes it impossible to say whether
the fiddlers are sawing off right or wrong
notes; and over sermons and ceremonies that
are inexcusable and abominable trash.
The Misses Prigsby clasp their bony knees
while a "song without words" is simply played,
and say "they never listen to Mendelssohn."
But why not? "Because he has no false
notes!' You can detect a false note in the
playing of the music of Mozart as readily as
a finger-print on burnished silver; but in one
of the "romantic" symphonies of the "intense"
school, a madman might be fiddling
away meanwhile and nobody would suspect
that it was not "consummate."
In deliniating this culture of the "intense,"
so that we could see its unreality and absurdity,
Mr. Du Maurier has done the world a
great service. Our dear old hump-backed
friend Punch has never given the public anything
cleverer than the cartoons in which we
make the acquaintance, and watch the performances,
and listen to the language of
Mrs. Cimabue Brown, Mr. Pilcox, Mr. Jellaby
Postlethwaite, Mr. Maudle, Mr. Prigsby and
others.
Jellaby Postlethwaite is the great poet who
has written "Sapphics"—a sweet youth with
flower-like eyes, willowy frame, and an exquisite
sad smile. Mr. Maudle is a fat, oily,
aesthetic Chadband who painted Mr. and
Mrs. Cimabue Brown as "Abelard and
Heloise." They think him "divine!" When
Maudle speaks of poetry he says that "in the
supremest poetry, Shakespeare's, or—
Postlethwaite's, or even Shelley's, etc."
When Postlethwaite speaks of art he says:—
"The consummate painters, such as Velasquez,
or Maudle, or even Titian, etc!"
Pilcox has painted Mrs. Cimabue Brown as
reclining with all the grace of a faint rag-baby,
sick of lilies, and trying to smell a sunflower.
He is modestly afraid it is one of his
failures. Mrs. Brown remarks that his
failures remind one of Angelo at his best;
whereupon Pilcox smiles and hopes "it is not
quite so bad as that!"
Mr. Maudle crawls up to a sensible
Englishwoman and gasps out with his fishy
lips, "How consummately lovely your son
is!" She replies that he is a manly fellow
who has just left school and wishes to be an
artist. Whereupon Maudle gasps out, "Why
should he be anything? Why not let him remain
content to exist beautifully!"
Postlethwaite now and then excites a little
pity, as when he enters a restaurant, calls
for a glass of water, puts a freshly cut lily
into it, and that is his dinner. Poor Jellaby
says that he never bathes, because he sees
himself "so dreadfully foreshortened in the
water!"
Another exquisite bit of criticism is that
cartoon of Maurier's in which the aesthetic
bridegroom brings home an old tea-pot. "It
is quite consummate, is it not!" The "intense"
bride gazes at it in speechless ecstasy,
then raises her eyes to the "dado" and ejaculates,
"It is indeed! But oh! Algernon,
let us live up to it!"
Mr. Du Maurier has struck a rich vein, and68 
Supplement to the Connecticut Courant.
in working it with remarkable success.  Let us pray that his efforts to reveal the emptiness and ridiculousness of this mania may not only afford the world a great deal of amusement, but effect a wholesome reaction and reformation.
"You tell me, " says John Smalker to his Mary Anne, "what there sint such a thing as a daydo in the ole of Gath Lodge! My dear gurl, it is quite ekscrewshiating." 
This "Kult" is quietly descending to the bottom of society.  We have heard of a society for "bringing Beauty home to the pantry!"  We would like to contribute to that society.  In our judgement Beauty needs to be "brought home to the pantry." Once get her there, some room may be found for common sense and good taste in the other parts of the house.  Once get a dado in the kitchen and the regeneration of society will have begun.  Our sympathies are with the Frenchman whom Smith had engaged to hang his walls.  
"But, Monsieur Papelard, will not orange curtains kill my high blue dado?" 
"Parbleu?" replied Monsieur, "He is a beast, your 'igh blue dado! and I wish to kill him very much indeed."
Native Talent.
The Indian pupils in the Carlisle Barracks in Pennsylvania have a newspaper, called the School News.  It is edited by "Samuel Townsend, a Pawnee Indian boy." Editor Townsend furnishes for each number of his papers a short editorial and more or less brief items of local interest, but the journal is largely given over to correspondence from the other Indians.  Having several of the numbers at hand, we are able to show a little of what this newspaper enterprise promises.  
Among the copies that we have nothing is more readable than
(What Robert W. Stewart, a Creek Indian boy, writes about the 22d of February.) 
George Washington.
This is the birthday of George Washington, one of the bravest and noblest men that ever trod a deck.  He was the first President of the United States.  He was also the man that led our people in time of wars.  He showed them that they had to conquer or lose their country or lives one.  George Washington led the army seven years in the midst of destitution and hunger.  But he did not give up.  He stood as firm as a rock.  So beings this is the birthday of that great leader we must keep it as a holiday, but being we have had so many holidays already, we will have to keep on with our studies today, and have our holiday some other time.  
What is there in literature that better illustrates the traditional Indian stoicism that this Creek boy's view of the holiday question?  It is pretty near a solution of the civilized boy's problem of how to keep his cake and eat it too.
The unfortunate editor finds criticism as plenty as other editors do.  Thus he says: 
One day we heard a lady saying she don't like the School News because it grew larger she likes the little one best.
And yet elsewhere is a letter from a correspondent which says:
I have the honor to take the liberty of correspond to you and request you that I wish to say a few words.  in which I have see and read your news papers that you sent to your many friends, which they are very anxious for the better, and improvement of your paper highly in spirit when the baby newspaper come to them.  Informed you, the praise I have heard from many society, which I have associated with, and very delightful to over hear than say: How wonderfully improving of your newspaper is, and the work also.
This is about the usual editorial fate - adverse criticism is sure to be met by some agreeable words from somewhere else. 
Among the brief local items of the number which preceded the inauguration was this:- 
This sentence was taken from one of the boy's letter to his home?- "We are going to have a new Washington, and her name is Mr. Garfield."
Other briefs are
70   SUPPLEMENT TO THE CONNECTICUT COURANT.
glance at a few of the hundreds of foreign
papers provided in the palatial reading-room;
you write your letters on the Casino paper;
you saunter into the famous concert-room,
where, in one of the most splendid and luxurious
halls ever yet built, you hear an orchestra
composed of picked performers; you
listen to the music of the great masters of
the present as of the past—and for all this
you pay not one penny!
A POLICE DOG.
A Volunteer in Behalf of Order.
(N.Y. Sun.)
Late on a warm August afternoon some
five years ago, while the captain of the
Church street police station was leaning negligently
back in his chair behind the desk, a
chunky-built brindle dog of solemn mien
walked gravely into the room, and sat down
in the middle of the floor with the air of a 
dog whose right to such a liberty was entirely
beyond question.
"Whist! Get out!"
The captain yelled those syllables at the
dog, but the animal never moved. Then the
official shied a small paper weight at the dog,
who looked up with an expression of grave
disapproval and settled himself in his former
position, and paid no more attention to the
man behind the desk. After one or two
more attempts at dislodgment, the captain fell
into a reverie and left the dog in peace.
Later the dog aroused himself and trotted into
the rear room where the policemen congregate.
He walked about quietly until he
found a position to his liking under the table
in the center of the room. He lay down here
and went to sleep.
At midnight the fourth section of the [sec????]
[????] The men marched
[????]
tion at the foot. When the roll was called
the sergeant named the dog Pete, and bade
him go with the men. He followed them out,
went around from one post to another, returned
with the platoon in the morning, and
went to sleep under the table.
Relays of men were called during the day,
but the dog did not move. At 6 o'clock the
fourth section of the second platoon was
again called out. The dog marched in with
the men and took up his position at the foot
of the line.
"By George!" said the captain, "there's
that pup again. Well, don't feed him, doorman,
and he'll soon go away."
But he didn't go away. He has never been
fed in the station, and he has always acted
thoroughly at home.
"There's one peculiar thing about Pete,"
said the sergeant at the desk yesterday. "He
moves and acts exactly like a policeman. He
never runs or jumps or plays, but simply
strolls along. He's fond of janitors' daughters,
and will stand stock still in a shadowy
doorway for hours at a stretch. Not a man
in the precinct has ever seen him eat, and
I'm pretty sure that the general public never
saw him drink. And, then, what a clever
dog he is! In the winter of '79, on the 10th
of January, if my memory serves, Pete was
walking along Greenwich street, on his way
from post to post, when he saw three men at
the basement door of the bonded warehouses,
Nos. 98, 100 and 102. A moment
later, and the men had forced the
door, entered the building, and closed
up their work so that a passing glance
could not detect that anything had been tampered
with. Pete lay down by the door and
growled. After a while Officer Dougherty
came along, and, patting the dog on the
head, walked on, expecting the dog to follow
him. Pete never moved, but growled louder
than before, with his eyes fixed like augers
on that door. Dougherty tried to get him to
move, but it wouldn't do. At last the officer
saw that something was up. He examined
the door, then rapped for assistance, and the
building was searched. Two of the burglars
were captured. The other one escaped.
About 3 o'clock one morning last winter
Pete was trotting along Broadway, when he
discovered a broken pane of glass in a
clothing store near Cedar street. He stopped
at once and barked like mad. Every man in
the precinct knows Pete's voice. Officer Donnelly
ran to him and found that there had
been a light robbery. Whether the dog
frightened the thieves away or not we never
knew. Another time the dog discovered a
fire at 240 Fulton street. Pete has never
missed his turn on the second platoon, and
has never gone out with any other than the
fourth section in five years.
PERFECTLY PARALYZING.
The Intellectual Conversation Between
Two Giddy Young Things on the Cars.
(Burdette's Roaming Letter.)
On the way to Buffalo two "young people"
got on the train somewhere east of Cleveland.
They were going back to school. They were
not silly, ignorant country young people. By
no maner of means. They represented seminary
and college culture, for the young man was
on his way back to Cornell. They dropped
into a seat opposite the pilgrims, and they
talked, and the passengers in the immediate
vicinity listened to this highly intellectual interchange
of pulsing thought and throbbing
sentiment;
"Say!" exclaimed the impetuous youth, "I
heard something about you."
"Oh you!" she replied; "what was it?"
"Shan't tell."
"That's real mean. Who told you?"
"Oh, I know," he asserted; "it paralyzed
[????]
"Down there at Chautauqua, that time.
Oh, that paralyzed me. Te-he, te-he."
"What," she exclaimed, in tones of intense
surprise, as though it was the first time she
ever heard of such a place—"Chautauqua!"
"Aw, yes, you know. Out there with—"
"With whom! T-he."
"Oh, pshaw! Te-he, te-he."
"I don't know what you mean,"
"Oh, no you don't! Well, it paralyzed me."
"Well, I don't care anyow; it aint so."
"Well, I got it pretty straight. It just paralyzed
me."
"Who told you?"
"You'll never tell I told you?"
"No, indeed I won't."
"Well, I got it from Will Blank. It just
paralyzed me."
"Oh, I know what you mean now. Well,
what of that? Te-he, te-he."
"Aw well, a good deal of it. Te-he. Te-he."
"Why, that was nothing. Te-he. Te-he."
"Aw, that just paralyzed me."
"I don't believe you know anything about
it, anyhow. Te-he. Te-he."
"Yes I do know all about it. Just paralyzed
me, I tell you."
"Well, what did he say about the other."
"Oh, he told me all about that."
"What did he think?"
"I won't tell you."
"Oh, please do."
"Ah, you're too anxious."
"Indeed, I think I ought to know."
"You'll get mad if I tell you." (Then, suddenly
remembering that he hadn't made the
remark for thirty seconds—) It just paralyzed
me."
"No, I won't get mad."
"Yes, you will."
"No, I won't."
"Yes, you will. It'll paralyze you."
"No, I won't get mad. Not at you."
"Oh pshaw! Won't you?"
"Indeed I won't. I will be thankful to you.
I'll do something for you some time."
"Oh hush, you paralyze me," he sighed.
"Well tell me, won't you?" she pleaded.
"If you are real sure you won't get mad."
"Indeed and indeed I won't. What did he
say about it?"
"Well he said he didn't care. It paralyzed
me. (Then with a sudden inspiration of genius
he added—) And don't you forget it."
"Are you sure he didn't?"
"He said he didn't. Oh, I was paralyzed
Te-he-he."
"Well I'm glad."
"Yes, I thought you would be."
"Why?"
"Oh, because. Te-he."
"Well why did you think so?"
"Well because."
"But why? Te-he."
"Oh because."
"Well, you must have some reason?"
"Oh, I know. It just paralyzed me, I tell
you. Te-he-he."
At this interesting point in the conversation
the passengers got out at Silver Creek to conceal
their emotion. The jester was weeping.
The man on the wood-box was swearing under
his breath. The fat passenger was purple
in the face, and the sad passenger, lifting
his hands to heaven, said.
"Immortal gods, dwellers on high Olympus!
Did I ever in all my callowest days profane
the sacred quiet of the day with such colossal,
heaven daring, maddening, soul-destroying
imbecility? No, a thousand times no, by
all the voiceless gods that guard the awful
gates of eternal silence, no, by thunder I 
never did!"
"You bet your life you did," said the woman
who talks base, and without breaking
the dead-lock the senate adjourned.
A Romance of Our Own Day.
(Kansas City Times.)
CHAPTER I.
Pitou was in trouble. His cheek was wan
[????] He bit his moustachios
nervously and gazed [????]
of the shop window. The sun was shining.
The birds twittered merrily in the trees. The
human tide poured down the street, some
laughing, all happy. But Pitou was sad.
Nobody came to do business with him.
Nanine entered. She was Pitou's daughter.
She was also sad. There were traces of tears
about her.
"Where are you going my child?" asked
Pitou.
"Nowhere, papa," replied Nanine, "I am
waiting."
"Waiting? And for whom?" inquired Pitou.
"Jacques," answered Nanine.
"Ah!" said Pitou.
CHAPTER II.
Jacques was Nanine's lover. He was also
in love with Julie, the daughter of Pierre.
Jacques was a pleasant gentleman, but he
was poor. He was ambitious to link his destiny
with a mademoiselle of financial ability.
Jacques stalked gloomily down the boulevard.
He intended to visit Nanine, but Pitou's
shop wore a deserted appearance. The people
passed it by and surged in great swelling billows
into Pierre's shop. Jacques was quick
to detect this. He was a man of the world.
"Mon dieu! I had a narrow escape," he said
to himself as he passed Pitou's door and entered
that of Pierre.
CHAPTER III.
"You have come, exclaimed Julie, as Jacques
clasped her to his bosom.
"And you love me?" asked Jacques, giving
a hasty glance at the crowd of patrons in the
shop.
Ere she could reply, Pitou and Nanine stood
in their presence.
"Monsieur, you are a rascal!" said Pitou.
"You have broken my Nanine's heart."
"No, Monsieur," said Jacques, "it is you
who have done this. Look around you.
This is Pierre's shop. All is thrift and prosperity.
Wealth pours in. Customers come
leagues to buy of Pierre. Return to your
own shop and look around you. You see deserted
space, goods unsold,and bankruptcy
staring you in the face. Is it not so?"
"Monsieur is right," said Pitou, bowing his
head.
"Leave me with Julie," said Jacques. "Go
back to your shop. Advertise in the daily
papers as Pierre has done, and you may yet
prosper, and Nanine may yet fine a husband."
CHAPTER IV.
Pitou went. Next morning he had a
double half column in the Times. That week
he sold sixty thousand francs' worth of dry
goods, and bought a corner lot in Mulkey's
addition. In two months Nanine married a
plumber, and now lives in a palatial residence,
and is the happy mother of twins.
"Ah," says Pitou, "I did well to follow
Jacques's advice."
Pitou's head is level. Well, yes. We
should smile.
A Fearless and Peculiar Mayor.
Mayor E. V. S. Besson of Hoboken presented
his annual message to the common
council on Monday night. The document
made a sensation among the aldermen and
the audience, and has since then constituted
the principal topic of conversation in local political
circles. After speaking of the financial
condition of the city, the mayor says:
"I do not think there is a worse police department
in the United States than we have
in this city of Hoboken. For a greater number
of incapables on its force I think it defies
competition. We have there old age, the poor,
the blind, the deaf, the obese, the confirmed
invalid—all represented and drawing pay
with the promptest regularity. "We have a
chief,"the mayor continues referring to Chief
Donovan, "who receives $1,800 a year, certainly
not for being useful, for he does nothing;
certainly not for being ornamental,
for he won't even wear the uniform which
the rules of the department require him to
wear; consequently, I must presume, for being
the pet of the police commissioners, who,
serving gratuitously, are supposed to be indulged
by a generous public in this idosyncrasy.
"The only thing that arouses him from his
pampered lethargy is a reward for a horse
thief from Bergen county, or something of
similar character. He does no police duty.
These are facts obtained during my two years'
service in the board of police commissioners,
and my observations before and since then.
If ever a man had a sinecure he has it. I
have no personal feeling against the man. I 
endeavored when in the board to make him
perform his duty. I frankly acknowledge
that I signally failed."
Speaking of the members of the department,
the mayor says: "Some of the appointments
last year were absolutely disgraceful,
two men having been constituted policemen
who are notorious felons." The mayor
concluded his attack upon the police by denouncing
them as a lot of "duffers."
Mr. Besson is a republican, but is regarded
as a reformer, and was elected by democratic
votes on that issue.
Our Neighboring Volcano.
Advices from the Sandwich Islands report
that the famous volcano Mauna Loa is still in
eruption, and has been continuously so since
the early part of October. The inhabitants
say that the present eruption exceeds in
grandeur, extent and activity any that they
can remember, or of which there is any record.
The American residents say that the
spectacle is magnificent and well worth a
voyage thither. The principal crater, some
16,000 feet long and 9,000 to 10,000 feet
wide, is constantly belching forth smoke,
steam and flame, and occasionally throws up
vast rocks, while the lava pours down the
sides of the mountains, nearly 14,000 feet
high, in broad streams. Some of the eruptions
have lasted thirteen months, and it is
thought that the present one will be fully as
long, for it has steadily augmented from the
outset. It has been compared with the action
of 1859, when three new craters were opened
on the side of the mountain, the loftiest being
ten thousand feet above the sea level, though
the two lower were the more violent. From
one of these rose a column of liquid fire five
hundred feet high. There are now six craters
active, and it is said that the chief one
throws out occasionally a stupendous mass of
flame six hundred feet in altitude. Several
of the rivers of lava are five or six miles wide,
and these actually form cascades, and in some
instances are so voluminous as to run up hill.
The lava has also forced its way through subterranean
outlets, and tumbled, with a hissing,
roaring sound into the sea.
New Stenographic Machine.
The stenographic machine which was presented
on March 11 to the Société d' Encouragement
meeting, under the presidency of M.
Dumas, is a small instrumet, about 1 1/2 feet
long and 1 foot wide, placed on a stand 2 1/2
feet high, on which it is easy to play with
both hands. The number of elementary signs
is only six, which by mutual combination
give seventy-four phonetic letters. It has
been worked with an astounding velocity,
reproducing the words pronounced by a man
reading a passage from a book. The limit of
velocity is stated to be 200 words in a minute,
which is more than sufficient, no speaker
having ever uttered more than 180. The
signs are very neatly printed on a paper
band passing automatically under the types.
They can be read by any person conversant
with the peculiarities of the system, which
requires the teaching of a very few months.
The work of the stenographer is more difficult,
but in a little more than a year he can 
be educated. Women and persons who have
on acute and correct hearing can practice it
with success. Blind people, generally having
very delicate hearing, will be most
useful, the reading and translation being done
by other people. The same machinery is
available for every language in existence.
The system is so perfect that it can be used
for reproducing a language that is neither
spoken nor understood by the operator. But
under such circumstances the orator must
speak slowly and in a very distinct manner.
This machine was worked by a young lady
belonging to the stenographic staff of the
Italian senate, where the machine is in constant
use.—Nature.
Mr. Field's Memory.
The late Mr. Fields possessed a remarkable
memory. His knowledge of English literature
was so clear and available that he
was often called upon to settle disputed questions
of authorship. Several years ago a gentleman,
thinking to puzzle Mr. Fields and
make sport for a company at dinner, informed
them, prior to Mr. Fields's arrival, that he had
himself that morning written some poetry
and intended to submit it to Mr. Fields as
Southey's, and inquire in which of his poems
the lines occurred. At the proper moment,
therefore, after the guests were seated, he
began: "Friend Fields, I have been a good
deal exercised of late trying to find in Southey's
poems his well-known lines running thus
—can you tell us about what time he wrote
them?"
"I do not remember to have met with them
before," replied Mr. Fields, "and there were
only two periods in Southey's life when such
lines could possibly have been written by
him."
"When were those?" gleefully asked the
witty questioner.
"Somewhere," said Mr. Fields, "about that
early period of his existence when he was having
the measles and cutting his first teeth; or
near the close of his life, when his brain had
softened and he had fallen into idiocy. The
versification belongs to the measles period, but
the expression evidently betrays the idotic
one."
The funny questioner smiled faintly; but
the company roared.
RUSSIAN CITIZENSHIP.
Following is the oath administered to all
Russians, even boys of 12, at the accession
of the new czar:—
I, the undersigned, vow and swear by Almighty
God that I will and am in duty bound to faithfully
and truly serve and in all things obey his Imperial
Majesty, my true, hereditary and most gracious
Lord and Emperor, Alexandrowitch, Ruler of all
Russians, and the legitimate successor of his Imperial
Majesty and heir to the Russian throne; to obey
him in everything; not to spare my life or the last
drop of my blood in his service; to guard and defend
to the best of my knowledge and conscience
all rights and prerogatives that belong to the high
sovereignty, might and powers of his Imperial
Majesty, either by virtue of laws now subsisting or
those hereaft r to come into effect; and to endeavor
with all my strength and ability to further on
every occasion all that may be required for the
faithful service of his Imperial Majesty and for the
welfare of the state; and should anything occur
that may redound to the injury or disadvantage of
the interests of his Imperial Majesty, not only to 
make the same known immediately, but also to use
all efforts and all my strength to turn it aside and
to prevent; firmly to preserve every secret confided
to me; to discharge conscientiously the duties
of every office intrusted to me, not only in accordance
with this general oath and pledge, but
also pursuant to the special instructions, regulations
and decrees that may from time to time be issued
by his Imperial Majesty as soon as the same
are brought to my knowledge; not to act in violation
of my oath or the duties of my office either
from self-interest, friendship or enmity; and so to
conduct myself and to act as is fitting for a faithful
subject of his Imperial Majesty and as I can answer
for before God and the Judgment Seat; so help
me God, spiritually and bodily. In confirmation of
my oath I kiss the Holy Evangels and the cross of
my Redeemer. Amen."
The Tobacco Question.
I only wish the regulations were far more
numerous and more stringent. I wish our
railroad directors would label certain cars
"For the unclean," and then insist on the
most rigorous separation, forbidding chewer
or smoker to enter any other car, under
some heavy penalty. How I wish they would
do this.—Meta Lander in the Independent.
If the duty of preaching and practicing
total abstinence can be shown in the case of
whisky, it can in the case of tobacco. I
doubt whether one in a hundred of the ministers,
deacons, or Sunday school teachers
who use tobacco in this year of our Lord 1880
do it without some secret misgivings. The
misgivings may be feeble and vague, but
there is encouragement in them for this reform.
And if we ever are rid of the fumes
of tobacco the work will certainly begin by
disinfecting the clothing and cleansing the
breath of church members. That task would
be half done, moreover, if we could get the
unembellished facts about tobacco squarely
before them.—J. B. Marsh in the Congregationalist.
Conversation between two mason's assistants
(Anglice, hod carriers). Patrick—"Phat's
the news from Oireland, Mike?" Michael—
"Worrus and worrus! The dirthy blaguards
are giving us ivery thing we axes for!" Both
—"Bad ones to the loikes av 'em, the thaving
opprissors!"—Boston Transcript.
"Henry is so practical," said Mrs. Young-wife.
"When mother went into the country
last year, he sent all her things after her the
very next day; he said she might want some
of them, you know. And it's kind o' funny,"
she went on, "mother did want them,
for she has never come back to live with us
since. Wasn't it queer!"72    SUPPLEMENT TO THE CONNECTICUT COURANT.
A MAUDLE-IN BALLAD.
(From Punch.)
My lank limp lily, my long lithe lily,
   My langued lily-love, fragile and thin.
With dank leaves dangling and flower-flap chilly,
That shines like the shin of a Highland gilly!
   Mottled and moist as a cold toad's skin!
Lustrous and leper white, splendid and splay!
   Art thou not utter? and wholly akin
   To my own wan soul and my own wan chin,
And my own wan nose tilted to sway
   The peacock's feathers, sweeter than sin,
That I bought for a halfpenny, yesterday?

My long lithe lily, my languid lily;
   My lank limp lily-love, how shall I win—
Woo thee to wink at me? Silver lily,
How shall I sung to thee, softly, or shrilly?
   What shall I weave for thee—which shall I spin—
Rondel, or rondeau, or virelay?
   Shall I buzz like bee, with my face thrust in
   Thy choice, chaste chalice, or choose me a tin
Trumpet, or touchingly, tenderly play
   On the weird bird-whistle, sweeter than sin,
That I bought for a halfpenny, yesterday?

My languid lily, my lank limp lily,
   My long lithe lily-love, men may grin—
Say that I'm soft and supremely silly—
What care I, while you whisper stilly:
   What care I while you smile? Not a pin!
While you smile, while you whisper—'Tis sweet to
decay!
   I have watered with chlorodine, tears of chagrin,
The churchyard mould I have planted thee in,
Upside down, in an intense way,
   In a rough red flower-pot, sweeter than sin,
That I bought for a halfpenny, yesterday.

DEATH IN THE HOUSE.
(Colonel Waring in May Scribner's.)
In a very large majority of cases, water-closets
are flushed, not as they should be,
from independent cisterns containing water
drawn upon for no other purpose, but
through valves connected with the main
water-supply of the house. The use of such
"valve" closets on the cellar or basement
floor is not open to serious objection; but
their use should be prohibited on [?ll] higher
floors. All who are accustomed to use stationary
wash-basins will have frequently noticed
that when the faucets are opened for
drawing water there is a strong inward suction,
caused by the emptying of the pipes by
the opening of faucets below. This same
suction occurs under corresponding circumstances
when the valve in the water-closet is
opened. When it does occur, the foul atmosphere
of the closet bowl—and too often the
foul smearing of its walls—are dra n directly
into the pipes, to mingle with the supply
from which drinking-water is taken. Serious
epidemics of typhoid have been directly
traced to this source of contamination.
Its undetected agency in producing disease
has probably been very great.
Under the water-closet, for the protection
of the ceilings below, it is a common practice
to introduce a "safe"—a leaden try to receive
leakage and overflow. In a large majority
of existing work, the outlet to this tray
is directly into the main trap below the water-closet,
and furnishes an escape for its exhalations.
To make a water-closet "first-class,"
it is usually considered necessary to
inclose it with tight ornamental carpentry,
whereby the space under the seat, more often
than not fouled and stained by slopping
and leakage, becomes another unventilated
seat of foul decomposition, whose gaseous
products find ready access to the spaces within
partitions, and diffuse themselves behind
walls and between ceilings and floors, tainting
the atmosphere of the whole house, until
an unaccustomed nostril detects the closet
odor at the first opening of the street door.
The defects in house-drainage enumerated
above are not confined to houses of the
worst, nor even of the medium class, but are
prevalent in the very best houses in New
York—almost without exception. They are
defects in the presence of which even the best
house is far from being a safe residence.
Other faults—such as the unclean condition
of wase pipes—might be enumerated, which
are almost as common, and the influence of
which, while less marked, is still most serious.
Add to the above, wet cellars, damp foundations,
the use of the cellar as a source of the
air to be heated for the warming of the
house, and the general lack of ventilation, especially
when steam heating is resorted to,
and some idea may be formed of the reason
why this great city is subject to a death-rate
which, in the light of what is now known, is
the disgrace of its authorities and the shame 
of its intelligent citizens.

How Carlyle Talked at Jeffrey's.
(From Mr. Nicoll's New Book on Carlyle.)
The public, he said, had become a gigantic
jackass; literature a glittering lie; science
was groping aimlessly amidst the dry, dead
clatter of the machinery by which it means
the universe; art wielding a feeble, watery
pencil; history stumbling over dry bones, in
a valley no longer of vision; philosophy lisping
and babbling exploded absurdities, mixed
with new nonsense about the infinite, the absolute
and the eternal; our religion, a great
truth groaning its last; truth, justice, God,
turned big, staring empty words, like the address
on the sign, remaining after the house
was abandoned, or like the envelope after the
letter had been extracted, drifting down the
the wind.
"And what men we have to meet the
crisis! Sir Walter Scott, a toothless retailer
of old wives' fables; Brougham, an eternal
grinder of commonplace and pretentious
noise, like a man playing on a hurdy-gurdy;
Coleridge, talking in a maudlin sleep an infinite
deal of nothing; Wordsworth, stopping
to extract a spiritual catsup from mushrooms
which were little better than toadstools; John
Wilson, taken to presiding at Noctes, and
painting haggises in flood; the bishops and
clergy of all denominations combined to keep
men in a state of pupilage, that they may be
kept in port wine and roast beef; politicians
full of cant, insincerity and falsehood; Peel,
a plausible fox; John Wilson Croker, an unhanged
hound; Lord John Russell, a turnspit
of good pedigree; Lord Melbourne, a monkey;
'these be thy gods, O Israel!' Others occupied
in undertakings as absurd as to seek to suck
the moon out of the sky; this windbag yelping
for liberty for the negro, and that other
for the improvement of  prisons—all sham and
imposture together—a giant lie—which may
soon go down in hell-fire."

BIRDS RIDING ON CRANES.—Speaking of
the great numbers of small birds which inhabit
Western Asia, as compared with Europe and
North America, Dr. Van Lennep explains the
circumstance by the fact that "even those of
feeblest wing have an easy road from Palestine,
Syria, and Mesopotamia, by the Isthmus
of Suez, and over the narrow Red Sea, to
their winter quarters in tropical Africa, while
nature has provided them with extraordinary
meads of conveyance from Asia Minor southward
across the Mediterranean. . . . The
swallow, and many other birds of similar
powers of flight, are able to cross over the
entire breadth of the Mediterranean especially
by taking advantage of a favorable wind.
But many birds are quire incapable of flying
over a surface of 350 miles from headland to
headland across the Mediterranean without
alighting, and would require many days, and
even weeks, to perform the trip through
Syria and Palestine. Such are the ortolans,
darnagas, bec-figs, wren, titmouse, smaller
thrushes and finches, with a hundred other
diminutive specimens of the feathered tribes
. . . . and as the severity of the winter
would be fatal to them, not only in Asia
Minor but even in Syria and Palestine, He
who is ever mindful of the smallest of His
creatures has provided them with means of
transportation to a more genial clime. Many
of them, indeed, find their way downward
from Palestine into Arabis and Egypt, but
this would be difficult, if not impossible where
lofty mountains and broad seas intervene, and
to meet such cases the crane has been provided
. . . . Most of these birds are migratory.
In the autumn numerous flocks may
be seen coming from the north with the first
cold blast from that quarter, flying low, and
uttering a peculiar cry as if of alarm, as they
circle over the cultivated plains. Little birds
of every species may then be seen flying up
to them, while the twittering songs of those
already comfortably settled upon their backs
may be distinctly heard. On their return in
the spring they fly high, apparently considering
that their little passengers can easily find
their way down to the earth. As Dr. Van
Lennep has "spent almost a life-time in the
east," I conclude he has been an eye-witness
of the above acts, and therefore his testimony
is conclusive.—Nature.

HOUSE-QUAKE—A SPRING IDYL.
    A weary wight,
    This seventh-day night
Seeketh her pillow;
    Her limbs she drags,
    Lead, run in rags,—
Her wreath the willow!

    Your page would scorn
    The screed forlorn
This hand could write you;
    Her bat-winged dreams,
    And gloomy themes,
Would sure affright you.

    Her wits snuffed out
    With dusty rot,
And house-quake panic;
    Her heart and head
    Fit but for bed,—
Work inorganic!
—Dora Goodale in Springfield Republican.

The Great Eastern.
The New York Journal of Commerce says:
—A few days since a correspondent asked us
if a pilot was sent from the country to bring
over the Great Eastern. We wrote out an affirmative
answer, but afterwards suppressed
it on the statement obtained from a South
street house that the pilot was only sent to
meet her. We now learn that our first impression
was correct. Mr. Craskie, American
counsel at Southampton, sent to Messrs.
Moller & Sands, then agents of the Bremen
line of American steamers, (Washington and
Hermann) who wrote to the commissioners
of pilots, asking that a pilot be designated to
visit England and come over in the great
steamer. Mr. Michael Murphy (known in all
our waters as Admiral Murphy) was selected
and he sailed hence May 15th, 1860. On the
17th of June at 8:15 the Great Eastern left
Southampton for New York, and arrived
off the Lightship at 7:20
June 28th. Mr. Murphy was put in charge
of the steamer about longitude 64, and when
he reached the lightship did not anchor, but
stopped the engines and let her float waiting
for the tide to serve. At 3 o'clock p. m , he
crossed the bar, came up the bay, meeting
many gaily dressed steamers full of curious
people, who had gone aboard of them for
this purpose, and brought his huge charge to
the foot of Hammond street, North river.
Admiral Murphy had charge of the steamer
on all her excursions. On the 30th of July,
1860, she went to Cape May with 2,300 passengers,
returning the next day. On August
2d, at 8:15 p.m., she crossed the bar bound
for Hampton Roads and Annapolis. August
5 at 6 p. m., she left Hampton Roads and arrived
at Annapolis at 5 p. m. On August 11
she sailed for this city, where she arrived the
next day. August 16, 1860, she saled for
Halifax and Liverpool. Her draft on her
first voyage was given to the pilot as 26 feet.
The agents to whom she came were Grinnell,
Minturn & Co. We trust all interested will
cut this out and preserve it.

Be just and temperate and a follower of
the gods; but be so with simplicity, for the
pride of modesty is the worst of all.—Marcus
Aurelius.