Newspaper of Chicago Daily Tribune, June 1, 1873, Page 6

Newspaper of Chicago Daily Tribune dated June 1, 1873 Page 6
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6 NEW YORK. Remarkable Effect of the May-Sum mer—-The General Out-of- Town Exodus^ George Mac Donald to Become a Citizen of Amerioa-vThe Metropolitan Mania for Practical lokes. Idlosyncracles- of Cotint do. Gur otvski—A Manhattan Fugi tive in London. From Our Oxen Correspondent, New Yobs; May 29,-1878. The sudden, though not unexpected, arrival of summer before the close of May, has changed the aspect both of external and of human na ture. It has made the city delightful and beau tiful, and, by the contradiction running through our kind, it has induced residents to busy them selves with departure when they have most reason to remain. - THE BESULT OF EABLY STiIMEB. Many metropolitans had been made so pain lolly conscious of tho backward season that they had extended their winter recreations to an un usual length. They had expected to give par ties and receptions throughout this entire mouth; hut the sudden elevation of the mer cury has compelled them to abandon their social intents. The fashionable houses in tho fash ionable avenues and cross-streets are al ready closing and tho occupants hieing abroad, to the springs or the sca-eide. It is a pity that Manhattan, which has not looked so charming in many months, should be deserted when it has just put on its fairest face. • But it is always so here. The pleasantest season is tho season during, which the fewest of the natives stay in town. It really seems as if everybody had either gone or was going to Europe, except the comparatively few who are packing np for Saratoga, Newport, and Long Branch. The social season, so far as the city is concerned, is hopelessly at an end. There are always a hundred thousand or so strangers on this Island; and they still fill the theatres and concert-halls; but permanent residents sur rendered city gayetiea and city dissipations the very moment that the thermometer marked 85 degrees. A SPSCQESy BECEPTIOy. As an example of how unwilling persons are to spend an evening within doors in warm weather, 1 may mention that Dr. Holland gave a reception, a few night since, to George MacDon aid, prior to the lattor’a return to Europe. Near ly all the noted literary people were invited, and yet two-thirds of them sent regrets. They were afflicted with what is called the 'spring fever, or they were getting ready to leave town. At the first reception given bj Dr. Holland to Mr. Mac- Donald, last October, his drawing-rooms were crowded with poets, essayists, cntica, story writers, and journalists. The other evening the number was alarmingly reduced. William Cullen Bryant, Parke Godwin, the Bov. Dr. Henry W. Bellows, Edmund Clarence Stedman, Wbitelaw : Beid, Noah Brooks, B. Watson Gilder, Miss Kate Field, Mrs. E. li. Youmans, Mrs. Henry M. Field, Mrs. «T. W. Draper, Mrs. Lulu Gray Noble, Miss Adeline Traf ton, and many others were there; but Bret Hart©, Bichard Henry and Elizabeth Stoddard, Miss Edna Doan Proctor, John Hay, Mrs. Mary Biapes Dodge, Frank B. Stockton, Mrs. Lucia Gilbert Bnnkle, and forty or fifty other distin guished guests bidden to the entertainment, were conspicuous by their absence. 1 THE HACDOKALDS. [ Mr. and Mrs. Mac Donald, and one of then: numerous children, enjoyed the occasion, bat regretted the need of their return. They will soon come back to this-country,—perhaps to re side permanently. They are most enthusiastic admirers of America and. her institutions, and says that the few months they have spent in tho United States have caused them to think of this as a new home. Mr.. Mac Donald might have turned his lecturing to much account, hod he not suffered during his sojourn from ill health. His farewell lecture, on ** Hamlet/* last week, netted him ovor S6OO, and was, therefore, a substantial testimonial on behalf of his ad mirers and friends. Ho certainly needs to make money, being purely a literary man, with eleven living children. He may not have filled his purse by the children of his brain; and the children of Nature, when given in excess, are admirably calculated to diminish' any ordinary income. A VILE SOCIAL COKTAGIOir. 'Jbec»3r; ?or practical] ofes. tflf 2 ou nave seeliLhe account of the opera-hoax lately practised upon - hundreds of persona, inducing them to go in full dress on a certain evening to tho union League Club. This is only one of many such. Again and again, 'within a few months, invi ■ tatlons to formal parties, claiming to bo given by wealthy families, have been sent out, and carriages have rolled up to the doors, — where the families had expected nobody,—until, long after midnight. Such jokes as these are ~ •• social outrages, and some of the gentlemen upon whom they have been played have been trying H» to find the offenders, that they might take per mf-boh&I redress. Sothern, the actor, who is an ' incorrigible, and by no means delicate jester, and who has been considered the author of numerous such hoaxes, has written a card, denying all knowledge of and responsibility for them. The guilty parties are said to bo some of the . members of the Stock Board, many of whom are mere boys in feelingjand habit, without good taste or good sense. The names of the individual jokers hava been carefully concealed. If they had • not been, we should have heard, ere this, of sundry slapped faces, knock-downs, and callings, Is the vicinity, of Broad street. It would no a good thing to make an example of a few men ca pable of the meanness and indecency which must be tho cause of tho shameful pranks that have been committed on respectable citizens here for some months past. AN ECCENTHIO CHASACTEB —was Count Adam de GurowsM, mentioned in my! last letter os a contributor to the Few York Tribune. In Washington, whore he resided much of the time, everybody knew him, and almost everybody disliked him. He was a man _ of. strong and independent character, full of - generous impulses, and very warm-hearted when • ms heart was once reached. But he was so whimsical, inconsistent, irritable, hot-tempered, hardly any one could agree with him. He was constantly . involved in quarrels, and ho was seldom on speaking terms with more than one-quarter of his intimate acquaintances at tho same time. The persona representing - this quarter were ceaselessly changing, but tho . fractton_romained nearly the same. Quroweki . became reconciled to his foes as suddenly and as - unaccountably as he broke with his friends. On -- Monday morning ho .would ho.-threatening to . shoot somebody: and on, Wednesday afternoon 'he would meet tiio man lie had threatened to shoot, and, seizing him uy the hand, express eternal devotion to him. The recipient of such extraordinary demonstrations would have no idea why the Count had cither grown angry, or, after growing angry, had been reconciled. Of course, after keeping up these eccentricities for a term of vears, nobody cared what Gnrowski ■ did or said, so long as he abstained .from per sonal assaults. These he very rarely indulged in; but he was ever on the eye of making them. Sometime before his death, ha was considered crazy, though in many things ho was supremely sane. He was ono of tho lions and characters of ■ tho Federal City; and ho has been sorely missed ever since his demise. He was foil of all man ner of contradictious. Generally rude to the last degree, ha sometimes showed remarkable, delicacy. While ho excited bo much aversion that many persons shnnned him, he seemed to: exercise a species of fascination upon not a few. men and women. Some of the cleverest and most interesting women in Washington were among hi a most ardent admirers, and submitted to his whims and petulance with a patience that was incomprehensible. The secret charm of Gnrowski was cno of the most mysterious things —and his mysteries were,, countless— -in hia_ whole nature and history. Gnrowski was, not, os was often sup posed, a spurious nobleman. .Ho was a genuine Count, a Foie by birth, the oldest son of Count Hid s'aus Gnrowski, of ancient descent and great wealth. His father, having taken parkin tno insurrection of Kosciusko in 1704, lost the greater part of his estates ;’’and, Adam, not Being bom nnta eleven years after, was forced, more or less, to shift for himself. From his earliest years, the yonng Count was a ferocious patriot, and was twice expelled from the gym- -laaaia of Warsaw and Kaliaz by order of “the Grand Duke Constantine, for rearing tho pro hibited Polish costumes, and for singing anti-. Russian songs. “When he was 15 he went to Berlin, and studied in different Gorman univer sities for five years. Be turning to Poland, he was so openly and bitterly hostile to Busaia that 'ho was several'times thrown into prison, and was one of the principal instigators of the in surrections of 1830-’3l. He fought _as a volunteer in the first campaign,. and was afterwards . to Paris, as an agent of tho Polish revolutionists, to con fer with the French Bepublican leaders. After the suppression of the insurrection, Qurowski was sentenced to death and his estates confis cated.' He could not be conveniently executed, however, until ho was .caught, and ho was too wise to quit France for.tho sake of accommo dating ms would-be executioners. He remained In Paris for some years, and in 1835 published a book, “The Truth About Bussia.” favoring tho idea of Pan-Sclaviam, which so pleased tho Em peror Nicholas that he pardoned .the author, and invited him to St. Petersburg. The Count went, was employed in the private chancery of. tho Czar, and stuisequently in the Department of Public Instruction, where ho introduced va rious measures tending to Bussianizo Poland. Ho had the same disposition thou that ho showed afterward, and he became involved in so many quarrels with leading members of tho Imperial Court that he resigned his office. As the Emperor would not accept his resignation, he fled from St. Peters burg to Berlin, and, after wandering over tho Continent for five or six years, ho came in 1849 to this country, and was duly naturalized. He published ten or twelve books in French, Ger man, and English; was always restless, always odd, always incomprehensible, and justly re garded as one of the most peculiar characters of his time. ‘ . SALMAGUNDI. Notwithstanding tho length and severity of tho past winter, aud tho extraordinarily cold and backward spring, the mosquitoes hereabout have never entirely disappeared, and the warm weather has increased them most unpleasantly. A rumor is prevalent—-probably unfounded— that the Bov. Henry W. Bellows thinks of en tering the bosom of the Roman Catholic Church. W. B. Borrows, formerly of tho Everett House and Maison Doree, who rah away from his fam ily and his debts, last year, with a feminine affinity, has opened a very handsome restaurant, called the New York, in London, and is carrying on business after the American plan. The new Tribune building* wm be finished, it is thought, about this time next year; though, as calculations of this sort are somewhat uncer tain, it might be safe to add a few mouths in time. Three more large hotels in Broadway, above Twenty-third street, are seriously talked of. Tho more hotels there are here, the more hotels seem to be needed. It is said that nearly one-fifth of the wealthy men who fail in this city fail directly because of their building handsome and spacious houses in the country. Nothing swallows money qnite so readily as an ambitious country-seat. Colstoon. PIO NONO. A" Incident in the JLlfe of tlie Boman Pontiff* From Appleton's Journal* Among tbo bands of prisoners brought from the field of Montana by the Papal zouaves and their French allies, was an old, hazel-eyed, slim and sinewy veteran, named Giuseppe Critoni. He looked more like a bandit than a soldier, and he wore the red shirt of the Garib&ldi&ns. He was well known among tho rebels, and he was feared by the Papal gendarmerie as a very dan gerous man. He bad been in Borne previous to the disturbances of 1843, plotting in-favor of the revolutionists, and on many occasions since that memorable year, he had acted the spy for Maz ginl and Garibaldi. Critoni had a charmed life, so far as escaping keen and crafty policemen is concerned. He never was arrested until after tho Papal victory at Montana. In 186G he nar rowly escaped the dutches of Alberto M&ssnllo, the -shrewdest detective in the service of His Holiness, by putting on the disguise of & mendi cant friar. Critoni was a native of Viterbo, and in bis boyhood he played with and loved one Mas tai FerreUi, whom the veteran rebel often in later years called the most noble and gentle of boys. Critoni and ibis boy often practised sword-exercise together, and they became somewhat familiar with the use of the rapier and broadsword. Critoni’e cbtun be ing remarkable for his devotion to relig ious duties, his parents had him sent to an ecclesiastical training-school, while Critoni himself went to Ancona and joined his father in the banking business. After a lapse of over a decade of years Critoni revisited his native city, and, when he asked for Mastai Ferretti, was in formed that he had entered into holy orders, and was then a curate in one of the parishes of Viterbo. The meeting of tho two former play mates was as ardently enthusiastic as two South ern Italians could make it. Critoni had not been many days at Viterbo when he was seized with small-pox, which was prevalent there during his stay. In a critical stage of his malignant-dis ease,Critoni sent for the curate, Mastai Ferretti, who. after administering tbA ritoo ©f tUo Church, an rnl laH . hi mm .thfvorrt er. nfthfi “Seven Dolora.” a pious institution, established in nonor or the seven great afflictions which the Catholic Church attributes to the Mother of Christ. The members of the order wear two black scapulars, suspended from a cord worn around tho neck I and inside the clothes. It was this badge the I curate, Mastai Ferretti, placed upon Giuseppe | Critom’s neck, after having enrolled him a mem- I berof the “Sette Dolori.” Critoni recovered I and wont back to Ancona, promising ever to re tain the sacred insignia of the order to which ho belonged!. Time rolled on, and Mastai Ferretti went as a missionary to South America. Hence the intercourse of the rebel and the priest ended for over forty years. In turns, Critoni became & bankrupt broker, a journalist, a school master, and a revolutionist. In the last-named profession he remained until ho died. When, on a balmy spring evening in 1867, the Papal and French soldiers had marched in tri umph through tho Porta di Popolo and the Corso, greeted by the cheers of the pspalini, while lovely flowers and laurels were showered from the ad joining windows, the most important of the prisoners, among' whom Giuseppe Critoni was first, were brought, under De Ohorctte’s charge, to the dungeons of Castle St. Angelo. Before nightfall, a special courier from the Pope brought orders to the officer in charge of the castle to great the prisoners every privilege that prudence would allow. Consequently, the nauseous food and sour wine, usually supplied to tho incarcor- I ated in the dingy colls of Bt. Angelo, were snbsti- j tuted by good fare and wine of a generous flavor. On the second day of his confinement, Giuseppe Critoni became serionsly ill. In a few days an indubitable case of typhus foyer developed it self, and. tho physician advised that tho patient bo removed to the Santo Bpirito Hospital,—an institution founded by Pius IX. When his Holi ness had heard of Giuseppe Critom’s arrest, be seemed uncommonly interested in the news, —au old feeling seemed aronsed within him. Critoni recovered, and was sent back to Castle St. An gelo. Confinement again told on the old rebel’s constitution, and a relapse of tho dreadful fever ensued. Inis time.tno veteran’s heart 1011. He knew that death was upon him, and the chaplain approached his bedside more frequently than usual. The night upon which Giuseppe was warned that his hours were briefly numbered, the officer on duty in Castle Angelo was informed by the sentinel that two priests demanded entrance into the prison. As neither of them could give tho password of the night, tho sentinel referred them to Ida officer. - ■ “ Have them searched and then closely ques tioned by the corporal of the guard," was the officer’s direction. The clergymen were searched; hut no revelations of a treasonable nature were brought to light. The officer, coming forward, inquired upon what ground they sought acccse to the prison at that hour. Ouo of the priests, a corpulent and gray-haired old man, said that they had come to visit Giuseppe Cntoni, who lay at tho point of death. The mention of tho old rebel’s name by a priest at such an hour was suspicious, and tho officer bluntly refused admit tance. The younger of tho priests then said : “lamhere.ia .the name, of His Holiness tho Pope. He gave me permission, in person, to enter the prison to-night.” The officer replied that in such troubled times as those a verbal permit was not valid. “And by whose authority are you hero ?" tho officer asked the old gray-haired priest. “On tho authority which the holy Church has given mo.” . The officer was confused hy this indefinite an swer, and insisted that the parley should end, declaring that his orders were snch that ho could not converse unnecessarily with unknown priests or laymen who came to the gates of the castle' after the hour of the “Are Maria,” unprovided with the parole and an order from the General in-Ohief or the Pope. The old gray-haired cler gyman then requested the officer to give him a sheet of paper, which was duly furnished. The bid man, placing the paper on the door of the guard-house, wrote : Pass' the Pope and Mon signor Moriazzi. Pope Pius (In propria per sona). , , The officer read the curt communication, and THE CHICAGO DAILY TRIBUNE: SUNDAY, JUNE I, 1873. - stood confounded.. Tho Pope raised his hat; tho moon shone down on his silvery locks and hand some face. There was no more doubt. Tho officer fell on his knee and bogged the holy fath er to spare him the disgrace and penalty which his insolence deserved. Tho officer was not only excused, but promoted the next day. Morolikoa poor priest from Piedmont that the lord of the Vatican, Pio Nono, with Moriazzi, passed into the room whore Giuseppe Critoni, the rebel, lay dying. They confronted each other—each the dearest companion of tho-other’s youth, who wore playmates at a tune when their destinies were unknown, and when their prospects on tho life-path seemed equal. One was now Pius IX., Pope of Borne; the other Giuseppe Critoni, tho most trusted adherent of Mozzlm and Garibaldi, that Pope’s arch-enemies. But Plus IX. was nob the man to consider those things at that moment, for his heart being as open and lib eral as his purse, he could not forget the asso ciations of his childhood, andrecolloctions which no man can be worthy without revering.. “Do you remember mo, Giuseppe?” asked the Pope, while ho grasped the thin, sinewy wrist of the dying revolutionist. Tho raving was over, and the calm which precedes death, had set in. Giuseppe, looking up, said, “A priest, but I do not know you.” “It is, indeed, too long for you to remember my face,” said the Pope of Bomo, “Do you not recollect, Giuseppe, that in Viterbo, more than 40 years ago, you know a boy named Mastai Forretti ?” * , The old rebel strived to raise upon his pillow, and, opening wide his flickering eyes, he ex claimed, “Where is Maatoi Ferrotti—Pio Nono— il papa ?” “He is here, Giuseppe. lam ho, aud I wish you to speak to mo.” The dying man pressed the Pope’s hand, and then fumbled his shirt as if searching for something on his . bosom. At last he clutched something,. and gasped, “Mastai!” The Pope looked down and found between tho rebel’s fingers a scapular of the order of tho Seven Dolors. The promise had been kept nearly half a century, and tears rolled down the venerable Pontiff’s cheeks. Tho last words of the dying rebel wore, “ Not against you. Mastai, not you, which meant that it was not against the Pope, bat tho Papacy, ho had token up arms.. POISON. Slow and F&sS metbodN of Killing’. From the Sew York Suixday Xeics, The subject of poisons is one .of general in terest, while very erroneous and imperfect notions have been held with reference to it. Metallic salts may enter by the shin and pro duce violent disorders. The poison of serpents, and cad&verio virus (so dangerous in a simple scratch), are almost harmless in the stomach. A slice of melon, a plate of strawberries, a gloss of beer, a highly-spiced dish, a cigar, will some times produce all the symptoms of poisoning. It is well known that one patient may bo killed by a dose of chloroform hardly sufficient to make another insensible. The same dose of lauda num produces in one person vomitings and un easiness ; in another agreeable sleep. Persona in delirium or convulsions can bear without in convenience enormous doses of morphine or of chloral; so also with quinine in cases of fever, nicotine in smokers, alcohol in drunkards. The system may oven, to a certain point, bo habitu ated to certain mineral poisons, like arsenic. In the lower animals there are phenomena still more curious. * Slugs feed with impunity on leaves of bella donna, swallows on caterpillars or venomous in sects (e.g., cautharidos). Pigeons bear opium easily, and their pnpil does not dilate under tho influence of atropine. Goats do not appear to be incommoded by taking leaves of tobacco; frogs ore insensible to tho stings of bees. On the other band, frogs aro so sensitive to strych nine that they ore sometimes employed to detect the presence of this dangerous poison. Farther, dogs are very sensitive to tho action of ardent spirits, pigs to that of pepper; and other cases might bo given. Arsenic in pieces is much less active than powdered arsenic, and this again than arsenic in solution; while for rapidity and violence of effects, all are surpassed by arsenic In tho gas eous form, or orsonotted hydrogen. Gases aro known in which several ounces of mercury have passed through the alimentary canal without causing serious inconveniences. Mercurous chloride, little soluble, may bo dispensed in decigrammes, while mercuric chloride, in consequence of its solubility, cannot bo used, even in external implication, without tho greatest caution; and, in tho gaseous I state, the mercurial combinations bocomo still I more dangerous, as was shown some timo since in tho case of two young English chemists, who i died-from having respired the vapor of mercuro methyL Certain poisons, like prussic acid in concen- I trated eolation, kill almost instantaneously; strychnine takes only a few minutes ; with ar senic the timo may be reckoned in hours ; with phosphorus the agony may bo prolonged several days. Thoae are metallic substances which, taken into the system repeatedly in email quan tities, produce no inconvenience for months or even years, and only show their pernicious ac then appear suddenly. This is often observed in workshops where mon aro brought into daily contact with lead, mercury, or copper; and also in rooms tho walls of which aro covered with green paper containing arsenic. We may, in an attempt at classification, note two main groups of poisons. As types of tho one group may bo taken sulphuric acid, cans tie potash, nitrate of silver ; as types of tho other, strychnine and morphine. Let some drops of sulphuric acid drop on a piece of wood or sugar; and their substances soon take a yellow color; then, a brown; and in a fow minutes they .become black and completely carbonized. This is explained by tho extreme affinity of sulphuric acid for tho elements of water, hydrogen and oxygen, contained in sugar and in wood ; seizing them, it leaves the third element, tho carbon, in tho state of a dart mass without consistence. The effect of sulphuric acid in the animal system is quite similar ; the skin of the lips, the mncuons surface of tho mouth, of tho (Esophagus, of tho stomach, aro burnt and disorganized in a few seconds. Wo may as easily understand tho action of caustic potash if we allow some of it to act, in concentrated solution, on a piece of deerskin • tho akin immediately contracts, becomes parent and gelatinous, and finally dissolves. In troduced into the system caustiepotash produces a similar perforation of the most resistant mem branes. Again, add some solution of nitrate of silver to the white of an ogg (albumen). The two substances combine, in part, to produce coagu lation. Now, as albumen is abundant in tho animal system, and especially in tho. blood, wo may expect that this salt of silver will produce in the blood vessels the 'same coagulation ac companied with obstruction and other evils in the circulation. This is what actually occurs. In these throe cases tho action is immediate and local; the disorders are, at least in their origin, confined to the organs with which tho poison comes into contact. We observe ulcera tions of the lips, the tongue, the pharynx, tho oesophagus, tho stomach. The poison is most frequently ejected in vomiting, along with pieces of the membrane, and blood, and thick, black masses ; the epigastric region being very sen sitive. This primary action, though of extromo violence, rarely causes immediate death ; it is followed by a reaction of tho whole system; a sharp inflammation, with fever, spreads to sur rounding organs; the patient feels burnin" thirst, which is the more intolerable that the act of deglutition has become so painful. Con sciousness is generally retained, and tho ner vous system is not affocted except in an indirect way. In the most favorable cases, the curative process is veiy slow, and often incomplete, on account of tho lesions and internal sores. If the issue is death, it rarely comes before the end of the first day ; sometimes not for several weeks. Oh post-mor tem examination, tho body sometimes shows a complete perforation of gastric membranes in some parts. We have thus given a brief sketch of tho phenomena of poisoning by corrosive poisons of the first group. How do those of the second differ? The direct local action is nil or insignificant. The introduc tion of the poison is first known by the taste, which is bitter or astringent. Vomiting is roro, and the ejected matter presents no nnuaual ap pearance. Tho region of the stomach is not sen sibly affected; but tho nervous system is, and that violently. There ensue frightful spasms, - or a profound torpor, or a general or partial paralysis. The issue, whether recovery or death, is generally very speedy. In the case of death, and the body being examined, there is found no appreciable anatomical alteration in the digestive passages; there is cerebral congestion, andmoro or less cadaveric rigidity. ’Chemistry detects the poison in the blood, in the nerves, in the brain, and especially in the organa of secretion, tho liver and tho kidneys, where it accumulates in order to elimination. ' -It would bei a mistake, however, to suppose that every poison'must do assigned to one or other of the two classes, or that they are in >. -reality quite distinct and -apartrrlu truth,~our~ - two groups of poisons only represent the oppo i site extremes of a long series of Intermediates. - The heat characterized caustics have an 1 action i which extends beyond'that of local homing. ‘ A ' part of them, penetrating the tissue, is often , carried along with the blood to a considerable i distance from the starting point. Thus the iodine i used in certain surgical operations has not a ■ purely local action; entering the circulation, it i produces, after elimination by the mucous sur i face of the stomach, all the symptoms of' acute; i gastritis. .• The cantharidiae applied in blisters afterward E reduces an irritation in the urinary passages y which it is eliminated. Mercury, rubbed on the shin causes an;irritation of the sali vary glands ; phosphorus produces fatty de generation of the liver, accompanied with Jaun dice. The paralysis and other affections of the nervous system caused by arsenic and lead, prove that these substances have an action extending beyond the digestive organs. The chemical alteration of the blood corpuscles by carbonous oxide and sulphuretted hydrogen is not sufficient to explain all the symptoms of poisoning by these two gases. A class of sub stances termed drastic, because of the intense ir ritation they produce, on mucous surfaces, do not owe this property simply to chemical affini ties, for they act thus only on living substances, capable of reaction. Poisons called “ narcotic” produce a diminu tion of sensibility, a relation m the functions of the nervous system. Morphine, paralyzing the functions of the brain, stupefies the senses; while curare, which is like strychnine in its special action on the motor nerves, is like mor phine, inasmuch, in placo of exciting them, it paralyzes them; the mind consciously receives impressions from without, by the sensitive nerves, while the will is unable to move a single muscle. Chloroform, ether, nitrous oxide, and other anaesthetics, stupefy precisely those nerves which curare does not alfect. Atropine, so often used in ophthalmic opor • ations, produces a dilatation of the pupils, while physostigmine has the opposite effect. Santo nine acta on the retina, so as to give all objects looked at a yellow color. Ipecacuanha root owes to the emetine it contains its special action on the stomach. Teratrine affects particularly tho mucous surface of tho nose, and, when inhaled in very small quantities, produces endless sneez- mg. The effects of opium, often contradictory, have been observed for a long time. Hark bow an exact knowledge of these baa been reached. Chemistry, first consulted, discovered in opium of various qualities, six substances quite distinct, which she has been able to isolate and produce separately, viz.: morphine, narcotine, codeine, narceine, pavaverino, and thebaine. Physiology, in a series of researches with these alkaloids, found that their action was various, in degree and kind. It is narceine' which has the most marked soporific action; morphine produces a less agreeable sleep; codeine nos tho'same prop* erty in a loss degree. On the other hand, papa verine { narcotine, and, above all, thebaine, have an exciting and -stimulating action, sometimes oven convulsive. The variable proportion of the six substances in different kinds of opium ex plains the different effects observed. Curare is the poison with which the American Indians prepare their arrows. When an animal is poisoned with curaro, examination of the blood after death shows it has died through as phyxia. Observe bow Claude Bernard has pro ceeded in order to discover its paralyzing action on the voluntary motor nerves. With a pair of bellows he produced artificial respiration in a poisoned animal, which thus continued to live, os appeared from tho boatings of the heart ana the color of tho blood; and yet it was incapable of making any voluntary movement. Its mem bers would retain whatever position might bo given them; and yet you might shake it, pinch it, bum it with a hot iron—all would be useless; except for the action of the heart, tho body was as if dead. Was the animal, then, insensible to pain, and in an esthetic state, like that ob tained from chloroform ? This would anpear a plausible conclusion, but 11. Bernard was not content to rest here. • “ Perhaps, he said, the animal feels pain ? bnfc if it fails to show this by some reaction—a move ment—a cry, may it not he because its par alyzed members no longer obey its will? To test this supposition, he repeated the experi ment, taking care, before introducing the poi son. to tie the arteries loading to tho right leg, bo that this limb, not being poisoned, might re tain its power of movement. He then observed that if the left and paralyzed leg were pinched, the right indicated pain by a quid: movement. It thus appears that tho animal poisoned with curare retains its perceptions of external im pressions, withont being able to show it.

Tho precaution of maintaining artificially the respiration (which would bo arrested by paraly sis of tho pectoral muscles) is, it may bo stated, unnecessary in the case of a frog, because this animal, owing to the fineness of tho skin, may oxiat a considerable time without pulmonary respiration. If the dose of curare be not too strong, the heart, on involuntary muscle, con tinues to act; and next day, the animal, which had been loft on the table apparently dead, will bo found briskly jumping about as if nothing had occurred. WHEN I DIE 16. 'When life eludes me, and I die, Will funeral-shrouded vessels ply A Bobbing sea; Or jagged, minor-keyed refrains And sombre-decorated trains _ _ CoroU’ries be? Will gloomy flags and pennons float At solemn half-mast—will remote Humanity Feel that a force hath disappeared, And left Earth nought but stark and biered Inanity ? Will I on stately staging lie. While lutes attune to'grief-ode’s cry And laureates rhyme? Will centuries effulge my fame— Will History shout out my name, To clockless time 7 65. t wonder, when I have to die, If, os the asking years flash by, I can reply (E’en while 1 feel the rattle’s thrill), “ I’ve been of earthly use,” and will That he 7 Anecdote of Dickons* Blanchard Jerrold, in bis oew book, “ A Bay with Charles Dickens,” quotes tho following an ecdote from the private journal of one of Dick ons* juvenile precocity as a newspaper reporter: Dickens began his career when a youth of 19, under his undo, John Henry Barrow, who start ed The Mirror of Parliament, in opposition to Hansard. Hansard always compiled his reports from the morning newspaper, whereas Barrow .engaged a special staff of able reporters, send ing each important oration in proof to its speaker for correction. When Stanley ful minated hia philippic against O'Connell, it fell to young Dickens' turn to report the last third of it. Tho proof of the whole speech was forwarded to Mr. Stanley. Her returned it to Barrow, with* tho remark that the first two-thirds were so badly reported as to be unintelligible, but that if the gentleman who had so admirably reported tho last third of his speech could bo sent to him, be would speak tho rest of it to him alone. Accordingly, at an hour appointed, young Dickens made h& appear ance at Mr. Stanley’s, note-book in hand. It was with evident hesitation that tho servant ushered him into tho library, the tables of which wore covered with newspapers. Presently tho master of the house appeared, eyed tho youth sus piciously, and said: “I beg pardon, but I hod hoped to see the gentleman who hod reported port of my speech,” Ac. /*lam that gentleman,” retorted Dickons, taming red in the face, and feeling his dignity somewhat offended. • •‘Oh, indeed I”, replied Mr. Stanley, pushing about the papers, and turning his back to con ceal an involuntary smile. v: ; It was not long before Sir James Graham stepped in; and then Stanley began his speech. At first he stood still; addressing one of the window-curtains as Mr. Speaker. Then he : walked np and down the room, gesticulating and declaiming with all the:. Are and force he had shown in the House of Commons. , Graham, with - newspaper before him, followed, and occasional ly checked him, when he had forgotten some mixing point, or had transposed one. proposition in the place of another. ‘ When the entire speech had been fully reported, Stanley returned the revise, with • Dickens*-corrected- edition of the parts of the 'speech which had been bungled, with a note to Barrow highly complimentary to the stripling reporter, and with a shadowy prediction of a great career for him in the future. - Dickens had totally forgot ten this incident, untiL many years after, he was invited to dine t with Lord Derby for the first time. Having- been shown with the other guests before dinner into the library, ho felt a strange ' consciousness of having been in it before, which he could not account for. He was in a state of bewilderment all dinner time; for‘he could not recall the circumstance which brought the re porting adventure to his mind. But, at all events, something did, and he reminded his host of it. Lord Derby was delighted to recognize in his new friend his boy-reporter, and told the story to a select few. who. with Dickens, had stayed after the rest of tne company had de parted. The Multifarious Batiste —American Goods Palmed Off as ■ Foreign. Algerine, and White Grena , dines—Charming Dresses. Recent Importations, and Redin' We hay© coma from llarcb to June at a bound, and are enduring Bummer-heat before wo have really laid aside our cloaks. We’ve no right to complain, though; for all tho weather wise and otherwise have predicted early and long-continued summer. On the whole, it is rather agreeable to feel a alight moisture on hands and face, arising from natural causes, since we have been so long condemned to arti ficial heat. Last Thursday, your correspondent had, and thoroughly enjoyed, a coal-fire in the grate; and to-day every window is open, and a muslin gown would be comfortable. All this, however, is only confirmatory of my remarks a few weeks ago in regard to the uselessness of preparing any sort of spring clothing. It ia wiser far to begin on cambric as soon as yon cease to make cashmere, and so succeed in being ready for one season. Batiste, which should be called is the favorite stuff of tho hour. It is sometimes silk and linen, sometimes cotton and linen, sometimes all linen, and sometimes all cotton. It includes in its variety almost every kind of cloth adapted to the next two or three months. Generally, it is reasonable in price, of good width, and tho dealers say it is fast driving gren adine (.colored I mean, for black is a standard ar ticle) out of the market. The batistes come in all the shades commonly known as ecru, and have satin stripes of silk, satin stripes of linen, lace stripes, polka-dots in silk, linen and tufted dots in wool. Those are all intended for polo naises and over-dresses above silk skirts or skirts of the same in plain goods. So many new stuffs appear expressly for polonaises as rather to decide the vexed question whether they will or will not last another year. Besides, there are more now and pretty polonaise-pat terns than there are upper-skirts; wherefore japons will, probably, have to retire to the back ground. One more device in batiste I forgot to men tion, —that is, pattern-suits, imported with tho trimming of heavy white embroidery, all ready to go on. A model (a picture of the suit made) for the costume is attached, and they are very pretty, and not very dear—922 a dress. There are not many of those drosses, and for that reason they will probably be popular. Many so-called linen. costumes are really batiste whose superior lightness and coolness have commended it greatly. The suits ore gen erally trimmed with fine pipings of white or Na poleon-hluo linen, and occasionally with brown and black. The season has been so late that trade has been extremely dull, and a glut of summer dresses having accumulated on the manufacturers’ hands has put down prices to a very reasonable standpoint. When a whole suit' of Unon, or batiste, or lawn can be purchased for from $9 to 915, and bo entirely satisfactory, one has no right to complain of high rates. Napoleon-bluo linen, about which there was so much talk early in the spring, has not proved a success. Tho color is so dark and so dead as to make even very fair skins look dull and sal low,—a result noVoir.au is anxious to attain. I believe it washes well; but as other things wash just ae well, and are a great deal prettier, few, except tho novelty-bewitched, will purchase it. It is a noticeable and pleasing fact that the daintiest and most graceful designs in percales and calicos ore on the American goods. Domes tic manufactures have so improved in taste and qualify of late that they deserve the highest praise. Many a lovely cambric and lawn,' which nears a foreign mark m the shops, is really the product of some busy New England city. eo christened, I suppose, because it has some thing Oriental about it—is an odd staff of silk, span and raw. It has alternate bayadere stripes of the spun silk and rough ones of the raw, and looks as if it would hold together about five minutes. The width is a yard and three-eighths, and the price from $3 to $5.50 a yard. The colors are chiefly white, and very pale tints, bordering on no color at all, though it sometimes has dashes of bright ness to make it look a trifle less bridoSke. Naturally, this is mainly used for the polonaises ovorbright-hned skirts for evening, and, if one could feel any security of its not falling imme diately into a thousand tags, it would be charm ing to wear. Some of it has a broad satin stripe, wreathed with a delicate brocaded vine, and is particularly suitable for carriage-wraps, of the burnous description, for very warm days. It will not bear trimming, other than a hand some white fringe for the edge, which, with entire fitness, may be simply hemmed like the redingotes. WHITE GRENADINES, even more seductive than usual, are extensively made into evening dresses for the spas and sea shore. Women are growing tired of paying more for having muslins done np than was the original cost of the gowns, and are taking refuge in the matonala that do not need subjection to the laundry, and that ore really better adapted to tho coolness of the night-air. Nothing is prettier than flowing robes of muslin, if yon do not care what yon spend for* them; but their price in the beginning is but a small part of the total expense of wearing them. . John McGovern, of crepe de Chino and grenadine, was composed in this wise: Tho.skirt was of rose-colored crepe, demi-train, and bad' two side-plaited flounces ton inches wide, each headed by a piped band of the crepe with a standing plaiting two inches wide. The polonaise was of white gren adine, with a broad brocaded satin stripe, also white. It' was very bouffant, and tho puffs were caught np by long sprays of wild roses and leaves. The waist had a V nock, and a vest of the crepe in folds, edged with Valenciennes. Tho bottom of the polonaise had only a two-inch hem. Tho sleeves were flowing from tho elbow, ' and a bunch of roses and leaves hold tho fullness in one large pleat at the hack. of white grenadine had a demi-train skirt, cov ojed with bias raffles to the waist behind, and to the knee in front. Each raffle was finished by & light white fringe, two inches wide, which merely overlapped the top of the next raffle. The apron had a fringe twice the width of that on the flounces, headed by three pipings of white satin, half an inch apart. The waist was cat in a single deep point before and behind, and corded with a single satin cord. A bios raffle surrounded the’ point behind, and ended at the under-arm seams: and the front., point was trimmed with the same fringe that was on the apron. The sleeves wore three loose puffs to the elbow, and a full, broad ruffle below, edged with fringe headed by the satin pipings. The heart-shaped neck was bor dered by throe bias folds of grenadine, with a deep fringe and a standing raffle of Honlton lace, which also served for tmderaleeves. to speak of those old-time garments—come hack this year in full force. The fashion of making an outer garment to every suit superseded them for a time almost entirely, hut they reappear in oveiy conceivable shape.* Most of them partake largely of the polonaise; are partially or quite tight-fitting; have Tong skirts much be puffod in the hack, and so heavily trimmed as to obviate any necessity for an over skirt. - Some of them are pretty, but more ugly, and all could well spare the greater part of the ornamentation. One thing is noticeable : they all have satin in the decoration, in the form of pipings, folds, bindings, etc. Examining some BECEKT niPOBTATIOSS of French dresses, one fact impressed me : that the skirts were all very dimply, even scantily trimmed, and that the trimming went straight round the skirt, instead of being after different models before and behind. This is a hopeful sign, and significant of on attempt, at least, to return to good taste and good sense. That there is a desire on the part of the sex to be allowed to • give lees time and thought to the subject of dress, almost every one will admit; but It can* METROPOLITAN MODES. gotes. From Our Own CorretpondenL New Yobk, May 29, 1873, PROTEIN GOODS, A CHABinNO DINNER-DRESS, AN EVENING DRESS SILK SACQUES — notrwell bff accompllshatwhfle the modesare as complicated as at present. That the regulation of the matter lies' largely with women, is true; hut that, to effect reform, there must be mutual agreement and effort, is also true; and the sim plest and easiest way out of the difficulty Is for the modes themselves to change. Then the but terfly will be as readily made to see the wisdom of the alteration as the grub; though generally the butterflies are the most obtuse of beings when the question of fashionable attire la at stake. - THE REDIXGOTE has fairly taken the town by storm. It appears on everybody, and in every imaginable hue and material. The fat and the slim, the tall and the short, the dark and the light, the. pretty and the plain, the old and the young, alike admire and wear it. Ido not remember another garment so' “ taking” with the entire sex. Having mn the garment of woolen stuffs, it is beginning to be fashioned in linen, batiste, per cale, pique, and even plebeian calico. Its simplicity of dressing renders it well adapted to washable goods, though, for myown part, I do not like it in any thin fabric. This article is, I think, in a measure responsible for Ihe button distemper which broke out early in the spring. The disease is dying out to a large extant, though buttons are still a prominent feature in all the new dresses. Some of the molds . used on the redingotes are really as large as small preserve-plates, and give the garments a posi tive and rather pronouce air. Oxydized and old silver buttons are not much worn, for which thanks are ; due to the expensiveness of the genuine thing, and the fact that the imitation wears badly. Nothing but the most unequivo cal lack of taste would ever induce a woman to load herself down with dozens ' of metal abominations in the way of buttons. 'What with metal chatelaines for urn brolly fan, vinaigrette, purse, card-easy. etc., etc., feminine promenaders present a sufficient ly bizarre appearance already, without covering themselves with unnecessary evidences of their mineral wealth. It would almost seem as if we were doing our best to return to the styles of the aborigines, and one almost expects the girls of the period to perambulate Broadway in pfimeval wampum, beads, silver, gold, and other orna ments of the so-called Indian tribes. It would sometimes be hard to tell which was the more artistic and truly beautiful, their costume-or ours. ■ Fubbebow. Fashion Items* From the Xeto York Evening Mail, Flowers have succeeded feathers as bonnet trimmings. —Suits of gray English waterproof cloth are tho correct costume for ocean travel. —Polonaises, with basque fronts are much worn. —Velvet is used as a trimming on all kinds of light materials, this spring. —We notice that the gray serge so much worn for suits last spring is now used only in over coats. —The new thing in fans is the “ Trianon.” It measures 18 inches from point to tip. The larger they are, the more stylish. —Nonnady caps of white Swiss over bine or pink silk are in great favor for breakfast toi lettes. —Hysteria must be a fashionable disease among ladies, else why the universal vinai grette. —The redingote has fairly taken the town by storm. Tho ladies, one and ail, are delighted with it. It is stylish, handsome, and becoming. —A new style of carriage has has made its ap pearance on the avenue; it is a cross between a dog-cart and an Irish jaunting-car. —Small diamonds have largely increased in price lately, owing to the fact that the diamond cutters find it pays them only to cut large ones. —The favorite boutonniere with society men la v a single pansy,—emblematic, no doubt, of the shrinking modesty so characteristic of tnafc class of the community. —The loose-fronted polonaises which have been introduced here look too much like morn ing wrappers to be liked for street wear, and are very common. —We are getting back in fashion further than over. Buffs are now worn so large that they have to be stiffened with wire. —The mania for old laces again rages; cold coffco produces the desirable tmt of age quickly and effectively. t —Ladies’ wearing apparel can be rendered un inflammable by a solution of sulphate of potash and alum. —lt is said that hereafter a band of music will be the correct thing at all our fashionable wed dings. —A new style of bracelet has lately come into, great favor. * It is made of a very fine thread of gold which, by a sort of knitting-machine, is, knitted into a tube. This is afterwards crushed' flat, forming a band. These are ornamented in every imaginable design. One firm in this city has ordered a thousand dozen of the bands from the manufacturer, for the purpose of working them up into handsome bracelets. MARIE TAGLIONI. Reminiscences ol the Great Oanienie ■—Slow Queens of the Ballet Hay Be Good and Grow Old—(From tbc Foot* Ijgrbtstotboßancinar-Scbooi—A BacJt Glance of Thirty Years. To the Editor of the Xeto York Her aid: A telegraphic flash and we are told (falsely) of Marie TagUoni'a death. “lait possible?”. .“I thought she died long ago.” “ A very great dan sense.” “ Well, well; ao they go. Who next ?". Snch wore the brief comments over the dinner table, and qnickly the last bribery at Albany effaced all thought of, probably, the most ex quisite dansense that ever lived. I did hot marvel U( at this indifference, for Taglioni is bnt a name in America. No. vete-' ran theatre-goer enthusiastically recalls the' divine grace that made her dancing the very poetry of motion, yet it was an indifference that grated harshly upon one who knows her to be the best of women and who is proud to call her friend. And if I lay a pansy at her rhythmic feet, it is to inspire in others respect for a great artist, who is on honor to womanhood. “Do yon know I have beard that Taglioni is in Don don ? ” said a woman of society early in the winter of 1871. • “She used to be very intimate with Lady Morgan, at whose house I'met her. frequently. She was charming, and I shall re new the acquaintance.” So to Bond .street my friend went forthwith, and. from Mitchell, the Queen’s bookseller, who is an conrant of every thing, from the last novel read by Victoria to the arrival of the last artist, she ob tained the necessary information. . A few evenings later, I was invited to a din ner party at this friends house. On entering the drawing-room I recognized all but one of. the guests. On a low chair sat a refined-looking woman of 65, dressed in black velvet and lace,, whose dominant characteristic seemed to.be hn obimßivencas, and who, in consequence, would at all times and in all places be unobserved un less by the rare few in search of ladies. “My dear,” whispered the hostess, “that is the great Taglioni. Come, you must bo presented ;”' and,’ leading me to the woman of whom,l had read so much, I then and there made her acquaintance.' I was in a dazed frame of mind; for to associate' age and gray hairs with a dansense is so utterly incongruous as to appear impossible. Per petual youth seems to be the prerogative, of the heroines of the ballet. In the mind of an' imaginative public to trip the light fan tastic too means to be always under 80, always lithe, always standing with' one foot in the air, always wearing a seraphic smile upon a yet more seraphic countenance. . The eternal fitness, of things forbids dansenses to bo ever fat and forty. You and the" imaginative public Indulge in the' delusion that'they do not die after the £ resole manner of mortals who walk on their eels, bntrbefore age lays bis tyrant band upon; them they perform their favorite pus in the most seductive manner, .and then, with a fare well waive of .inviting arms, vanish “ into thin' air.” Fancy a dansense with a headache, qy a com, or gout, or olive branches I Yet there I sat. talking with the greatest celebrity of the ballot, aged 65, and a grandmother! It was a shock to my nervous system for at least ten minutes. It was another shock to see her in a long dress and an arm-chair, instead of be holding her through on opera-glass, arrayed in tulle and revolving around the idiotic man in tights, whose highest aspiration in life is to spin on one leg like a teetotum. At last I re gained my ordinary composure, and, putting aside Terpsichorean dreams, was able to look at Madame Taglioni rationally. Winning in man ner, with the courtly air of a lady of the old school,—a school that we should do our best to revive,—she at once excited respect and regard; respect because of her graceful womanliness, regard because of sympathetic temperament. Of medium height, slight in figure, she gave the impression of a healthy, well-preserved woman, whose lease of life would not expire for fifteen or twenty years.. I felt persuaded that La Taglioni could never have been beautiful, either in face or figure; but I felt equally - persuaded of the fascination and genius of her art. We all know that beauty has never been fhe strongest magnet is 'attracting either individuala or the public It an incomprehensible magnetism that holds m, wJhug slaves at the feet of friends or genituT without which Venus would lore but for a and Apollo Eing to empty benches after one sssssiasasa ss ® ss m plaits at the side and covered with black lace at the back of the _head, is dark iron-gray; her teeth are gotxi, and the expression of her deh catelv-shaped mouth • denotes benevolence md anuabihty. Her voice is soft and low and there was something pretty in b„l attempts to apeak English with a gentleman who was enthusiastic in telling her how h. adored her thirty years ago, when he was a bov and how wild he became over that famous mu * oumrs-Taghom, Cerito, Carlotla Griai, and Lucille Grain—about which the operatic world will never cease to talk. “ Voa-air-very-goot, ” replied La Taglioni, with the sweetest of smiles and French accent" ‘ ‘l—have—not—speak—Anglxah— since—twenty- five—year—ven—l— was—here—be—fore. AJi I men men, quel dommage quo nous ne parlez pat Francois. Ma chore,. diles ce monsieur guefe suis detesperee." ■ ■ ■ 1 J Monsieur was mnch more desperate tlian Madame at the Impossibility of living Over again those palmy days of the ballet in the presence of his mature goddess, and retired to a comet where, in the ear of a youthful countryman, he relieved his pent-np feelings in superlative Ene lifln. .• “You think that man mad, perhaps,” said an elderly aristocrat, who never waa known to praise anything. “I assure you that the art of dancing has lived and died with Taglioni. You can have no conception of the wonderful poetry that woman put into every motion of her body of the intellect visible in her feet. A ballet with Taglioniin it was the subtlest of verge. There were meaning and feeling in everything she did. Never was there anything like it before her day never has there been anything like it since i believe the world will never see her like again.” “You are right,” chimed in a dowager | “Dancing to-day is a lost art. French saltation | is a nuisance. Where is the beauty of tours de force f Dancing without sentiment is nothing 1 more than gymnastics.” “True, true,” echoed a venerable connoisseur, and In the midst of that genuide hymn of praise La Taglioni sat. quietly conversing in French with a distinguished English actress who also could remember that night in 1847 when she danced for the last time in London, And why had La Taglioni returned as an old woman to the scene of her former conquests ? Ah I it waa a sad story. Years before she had retired to a villa on the Lake of Como. There she -had lived peacefully; there lived her only daughter, to whom, on her marriage with a Bus* sian prince, the mother gave baif her hardly* earned fortune. There she would have remained ' but for the Franco-Pmssian war which deprived her of the greater part of her income, and very nearly caused the death of her only son, a French officer. Severely wounded and sent to Germany, he was folia wed by his devoted mother, anti nursed back to life. “And after what was Ito do?” said La Taglioni, when our acquaintance ripened into friendship; “I still had money enough to live upon; and had I been alone 1 should nave gone back to my villa. But there was my son. I An officer in the army, you know, is with for* I tone. ‘ His salary is small; he must live like a ; gentleman. I had given my daughter a dowry; j' it is right that my son should he equally well 1 provided for, and so I have come here to teach dancing and repair the losses of the war.” Bach i was LvTagliom’s unselfish naive story. At an age when most mothers are tenderly cared for by grateful, loving children, she had come to a thoroughly anti-pathetic <uimate t among a people whose language she could neither speak nor un derstand. “it is not'the same London, of course,” she continued. “It is sad, you know, to realize the change. Then I was great; now lam forgotten. My - friends have passed away. I have issued cards; but the press, once so lavish of praise, has said nothing of my arrival. Ido not know how to make people acquainted with my purpose.” La Taglioni not heralded by the London press ? No friend to light her bat* ties ? It seemed incredible; yet it waa true ; and to one American, who told thin story to an editor, the great danseuse owed the laudatory articles published soon after, and owing to which grande dames sought her lor their recep tions and their children. “ How charming to take lessons of Hme. Tag* lioni I” I thought, and straightway went to her house in Upper Brook street. I found her in the drawing-room on the second story, conven ing with her pianist, a French woman. Kissing I me,- she said. hien. ma chere, tell me the j news.” “ The news is," I answered, “ that I want to take dancing-lessons of you. 1 wank La Taglioni to teach me how to curtsey. One of these days X shall he proud to say that I studied" with yon.” “ Que vous etes bien aimdbte,'' re-, plied the old lady, tapping me gently with that fan ah© always earned. “ And moreover,” E added, “ I want to see your feet. I want to se* how you use thorn.” A second tap of the fan and a quiet laugh were her reply to my imperti nences, and in a few minutes later I stood be fore the teacher, watching her pretty, little feet .going through the . shnplo movements of that rarest ofallthings—a grace-i fnl courtesy. “ Ah,” said she, when we sat downj to rest, “ I don’t know what is the matter with! people, but now-ardays they have no manners./ See now they salute one another. Nobody bows 2 everybody hods. Children show no respect for age. I think there should be a bow of deference to mature rears, but now, boys and girls nod to their grandparents; and, as for walking, there iai no such thing. People shuffle and hitch. The French have, lost the art they once possessed.; And when it comes to .teaching dancing, met there! "Well, well, I have patience, and if my pupils show a willing disposition Ido mv possi ble ; but the gaucherie of some I It is Incredi ble. I wonder where these children have lived, and how their parents can endure such actions £ Tho American young ladies please me most J because they are very pretty and quick] to learn. They are naturally more graceful than the French, and their readiness in seizing ideas pleases me. Bat ladies and gentlemen of! polish are rare. These are drawing-room man-* nors,” and La Taglioni went through the saluta tions and gait prevalent in society so inimitably as to make tho pianist and myself laugh] heartily. - Those were interesting mornings that I passed with La Taglioni. If it be something to say th&tj she taught me the gavotte, in which she was my| partner, and never lost her temper at my many] mistakes; that many a time we have waltzed to-) geiher, she as agile at 65 as most women are aft 35,1 can say it, and am glad to say it, for I) know few more satisfactory pleasures than asso-i dation with the great when they are good.; I] never , tired of observing La Taglioni’a aseof] her arms. They are long, bat no one knowa( ; it. The clever danseose never allowed them* { to fall. - They- wore always so beauti-j fully curved in some appropriate action as to< excite constant admiration. Thus can intellect defy physique; and one day when she went] through a fan-dance, composed by herself and set to the well-known air of Louis XIII..—* dance that consisted of nothing bnt walking, bowing, and fanning,—l understood why nothing) was apparent but consummate grace and refine ment. • Sitting one evening with La Taglioni in a box at the St. James Theatre, witnessing a French performance of Bardou’s :“Babagas,” the dansense exclaimed with a sigh, “Ah, how sad it makes me to think of the dancer's brief life- -At 40 she is passe. At 40 she must retire, 'll it not heartrending, whan at 40 a woman is in her intellectual prime and can then do what she never ‘before dreamed of ? How different the fate of the actress! Why, had I been aa actress instead of a dancer I might now be onj the stage, for I could play old women and, mffl there, I would play them well. It is a" graftal mo that my ballets caunot be perpetuated, thaw the things I did cannot be done by others; buff who canhand down shades, nuances, poses thriJ depend'upon inspiration? Well,, it has al| gone, and lam an old woman. I amready to goj when the good God calls me. Until then T shall teach on, deux, trots, (matre, un, deux: trots* quatre, and if all my pupils are as intelligent, and sympathetic aa—l shall have reason to 10" Joice.” ‘ ... ' The day of farewell came at last, and, puttma her arms around me, La Taglioni said, Ahs chert, I am fond of your countrywomen, •, and if I were younger I would gu with you to America. But it canned be. I have passed the ago when traveling agrees with the human constitution. I shall gu to Italy, and, returning hero next winter, reap tho harvest of the seed planted this season- Think of me as a friend, not as a teacher, for B am more of the former than I am of the latter. Do not forget me, and write to me.” I hare not forgotten La Taglioni; I ha™ thought of her as a friend; I have not written until now, and now it is no letter addreaeedw her, but to a public unknown to her—by whoa ehe is unknown. Let those who apeak lightly of this dear'lady's profession think of her geoj tie, sweet example, and ask if the dans ease ta*7 not be as true a woman as the best? The won“ would be tfie poorer for the loss of a goo*, daughter, an uncomplaining wife, a ing mother, a true friend, and a great Taglioni nobly wears her laurels and ber crowo of thorns. To-day she is reaping a golden nar* vest in London’s most appreciative society. - Earn Lines.

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