SEPT. 4 
fittrarn fStisttUang. 
GOOD-BYE, SWEET DAY. 
Good-bye, sweet day, pood-bye! 
X have bo loved thee, but I cannot hold thee; 
Departing like a dream, the shadows fold thee: 
Slowly thy perfect beauty fades away; 
Good-bye, sweet day! 
Good-bye, sweet day, good-bye! 
Dear were thy golden hours of tranquil splendor. 
Sadly thou yieldest to the evening tender, 
Who wert so fair from thy lirst morning ruy ! 
Good-bye, eweet day! 
Good-bye *b weet day, good-bye ! [glances. 
Thy glow and charm, thy smiles and tones and 
Vanish at last, and solemn night ad\ atiees. 
Ah ! couldst thou yet a little longer stay ! 
Good-bye, sweet day ! 
Good-bye, sweet day, good-bye! 
All tby rich gifts my grateful heart remembers, 
The while I watch thy sunset’s smoldering em- 
boi’B 
Die in the west beneath tho twilight gray 
Good-bye, sweet day! 
- *--*--* - 
A NARROW ESCAPE, 
“ TnERE, that,’ll do now, Miss Gertie, dear, you 
look just lovely." 
Poor old nurse, according to her, I was always 
lovely. Whether arrayed In silks or cottons, ball- 
dress or morning-gown, her verdict respecting 
mo remained the same. 
As I surveyed myself In the glass I felt a con¬ 
scious blush rising to my face, 1 wanted to look 
my very beat to night, and I knew that my white 
dress and pearl ornaments became me well. 
“ Give me a kiss, nurale,” 1 cried, “ and then go 
and get ready while I show myself to papa, ilow 
do I do, papa ?” I demanded, bursting upon him 
In all the splendor of my attire. 
“ Eh, my Uttle girl,” he said, looking 'up from 
the book he was reading, “are you going now?" 
“Yes; 1 promised to be tho first arrival, you 
know ; and, please, I want your candid opinion on 
my appearance. Nurse thinks I look lovely." 
“ I am afraid nurse la a partial critic," he re¬ 
turned with a fond smile. “ You look very nice 
Indeed, darling. You are growlug wonderfully 
like your mother." 
l knew that this was the highest praise ho could 
give me, and forgetful alike of my dignity and my 
extensive train, 1 ran to him and clasped my arms 
round his neck. 
•• You dear old papa! You’re sure you don’t 
g lud my leaving you-qulte sure ? And you won’t 
el lonely without me, will you?" 
“No, my child—no. 
As I drove along with nurse in her prim black 
bonnet seated opposite to me, my heart beat high 
with nervous anticipation. I was going to my 
first party; for though I was eighteen, papa and 
1 had lived such retired lives that till lately I had 
known nothing of the gaieties usual to girls of my 
age. Six months previously, however, the Mor¬ 
tons, some old friends of my father’s had settled 
m the neighborhood, and at their house 1 had 
begun to appear In society. Already on tho 
strength of a few musical evenings aud a garden- 
party or two, 1 felt myself quite a dissipated per¬ 
son. 
When we reached Holme Lodge, the large, com¬ 
fortable, old country mansion was ablaze with 
light, and from the open door streamed an inviting 
flood of warmth aud brilliance. 
in the hall 1 was seized upon by I.oule and Lottie 
Morton, the twin sisters. 
“Gome upstairs to our room,” cried Lottie; 
“ we shall have time for a chat before the people 
arrive." 
The sitting-room, specially appropriated to the 
girls’ use, was a pretty, cosy apartment. A splen¬ 
did wood fire was burning on the tiled hearth, and 
near by a little table was set forth with a dainty 
repast of coffee aud delicious cakes. 
Alter we had examined and commented on each 
other's costumes, Louie bogan filling our cups 
just as a young lady entered the room. 
She was a mend staying on a visit—Isabella 
Saloul by name, and by birth half Italian and hall 
English. 
She looked remarkably well, In a dress of heavy 
saffron-tinted brocade, and necklace, ear-rings, 
and bracelets or dull gold, and as I gazed at her I 
comprehended how rarely lovely she was. 
1 was engaged to Rupert Morton for the first 
waltz; but we had only taken a couple of turns 
round the room when he whispered: 
“ Do you particularly wish to finish this dance ? 
if not, will you come Into the conservatory ? it Is 
cool and pleasant there," 
X was about to moke some laughing rejoinder, 
but a look in his gray eyes stopped me, and I 
merely bowed assent. 
“ Gertrude," he said, softly, as we stood by a 
marble basin wherein a tiny fountain sent up a 
sparkling cascade of silvery drops, “ do you guess 
why l asked you to come here ?” 
I glanced up at him saucily. 
“ Certainly, because It is so cool and pleasant"’ 
“Ah! that was only Che pretext, the excuse. 
Surely you can guess my real reason, darling. 
You know l love you, do you not? 
I strove to cover my burning cheeks with my 
hands; but ne gently removed them, and held 
them in hhs own as he bent his head to the level of 
my downcast eyes. 
•• Have you not a word to say to me? Can you 
not give me one word of hope ?” 
1 could not at first speak, hut he read his answer 
In my silence. 
“ Rupert,” l murmured presently, raising my 
head from Its resting place on nis shoulder, “do 
you know I—I thought—1—I was afraid that you 
liked Miss Salonl.” 
“You wero indeed mistaken, No man could 
THE RURAL NEW-YORKER. 
help admiring her; hut believe me, beyond admi¬ 
ration I have never given her a thought.” 
The rest of the evening sped swiftly by. If I 
had been happy before, 1 was ten times happier 
now. i danced every dance, and at supper Rupert 
contrived to secure a secluded corner, where he 
detained me so long that I mortally offended one 
partner who sought me high and low In vain. 
I was to remain at Holme Lodge, and go home 
the next day, nurse having brought everything 
requisite for my stay, and placed ready before she 
returned. 
Having exchanged my ball-dress for a comforta¬ 
ble dressing-gown, and my satin shoes for fur- 
lined slippers, t sat by the fire In ray bed-room, 
dreaming bright dreams, and weavlDg fairy fan¬ 
cies. I loved and was beloved. Was not that the 
htght of human bliss? Could any other joy com¬ 
pare with it ? Truly is it written: 
Thero’tt iiotUinkr half so sweet in life, 
As love’s young dream," 
It was long ere I got into bed, but once there I 
fell Into a deep slumber, aud neither memories of 
the past nor plans for the future disturbed It. 
Suddenly i awoke—awoke with a full sure con¬ 
sciousness of the presence Of some one or some¬ 
thing terrible In the room. Who or what It was 1 
could not tell, and I dared not attempt to find out. 
I lay with my face turned to the wall, every limb 
stiff and stiff, and the blood In my veins curdling 
with fear. 
At last au icy linger touched me; and, as though 
under some mesmeric Influence, I slowly moved 
my head. 
The fire had died out, but a night-lamp was 
dimly burning, and by Its light I saw—l saw a 
loosely-robed figure, with a cloud of raven hair 
falling almost to Its knees; luridly glowing eyes, 
set in a deathly pallid face; and la one upraised 
baud a gleaming stiletto—Jewelled handled and 
finely pointed. 
I could utter no cry; I could make no move¬ 
ment. I remained spellbound and dumb, my 
eyeballs staring and my Ups blanching, knowing 
that I was at the mercy of a mad woman, and 
recognizing in that mad woman Isabella Salonl. 
Again she touched me; and, though I shuddered, 
I could not draw away. 
“Y*ou sleep soundly, she said, “but you have 
awaked at last. The sleep of death is the soundest 
of all sleeps, for there ts no awakening from It! 
And so he told you he loved you—you, not me! 
What do you know of love ? What does he know 
of love? It is l who love—I—I—11" and her voice 
rose shrill and high. "Iam going to kill you!" 
she continued, after a moment's pause, “lie can¬ 
not love you then. Ho will forget you, and it will 
be my turn.” 
But the spell was broken. With, a piercing, 
echoing cry for help, 1 flung aside the bed-clothing 
and sprang on to the floor. 
There came a sharp, fierce blow, an agonizing 
pain, and then darkness, oblivion. 
It wa3 twilight when I came to my senses. The 
curtains were drawn, and a bright lire crackled 
cheerfully In the grate. 
vaguely wondering as to what had happened, I 
attempted to sit up, but the only effect of the ex¬ 
ertion was a low moan of anguish. 
A gentle voice addressed me soothingly, and 
Mrs. Morton leaned over me, and, slipping her 
arm under the pillow, lifted me up, aid gave mo 
some cooling beverage to drink. 1 fell asleep di¬ 
rectly, and when I awoke again gray day’s light 
was creeping in at the window, and nurse was sit¬ 
ting by uxy side. 
“ Thank Heaven!’’ she ejaculated, fervently, as 
l feebly raised my hand. “ Ah! but you’re better 
now, my lamb.” 
“ Have I been ill ?” I whispered. 
“ A Uttle, dearie,” she answered, tenderly strok¬ 
ing my hair. 
“ But—but what was It ? Why am I not at 
home?” 
•* Hush! my pretty. You mustn’t talk any more 
now. Lie stall, and another time you shoU hear 
all about it." 
Ah. me: What weary days, what weary weeks, 
those were that l had to lie still. Waking and 
sleeping, 1 was haunted by half-delirious visions 
of that dreadful night. I could not bear to be left 
alone for even a few minutes. A flitting shadow 
in the corner, a fold of drapery, would nearly send 
me into hysterics. 
At last when the birds were blythely carolling a 
welcome to the Spring, and trees and hedgerows 
were bursting Into leaf, I was carried from my 
bed to a sofa In the adjoining room, and from that 
time recovery was more rapid. 
Harvest was just over when Rupert and I were 
quietly married at the village church. The Win¬ 
ter foUowlng we spent abroad. Papa joining us at 
Nice lu October, and accompanying us on the re¬ 
mainder of our travels. 
Isabella Salonl Is tu a private asylum near Lon¬ 
don. Insanity, It appeared on Inquiry, was hered¬ 
itary In her family, though the fact had always 
been kept as secret as possible. Poor, poor girl I 
I only think of her now with Intense pity and 
compassion. 
THE LEANING TOWER OF PISA. 
The city of Pisa In Tuscany is one of the most 
interesting places In Central Italy. The city Is 
built on the Arno, which divides It Into two nearly 
equal parts. The cathedral la a very handsome 
structure, and with Its attendant buildings the 
Baptist ry, and the Campo Lanto, or cemetery, af¬ 
ford examples of some or the finest specimens of 
early Gothic architecture. But most remarkable 
of all, perhaps, Is the belfry of the cathedral, or, 
as it la better known, tile Leaning Tower of Pisa. 
It la u> the existence of the structure named that 
the city of Pisa chieriy owes its fame, and the 
leaning tower was originally placed In the cate¬ 
gory of the “ Seven Wonders of the World,” and 
reaches an elevation of about iso feet. This sin¬ 
gular structure stands in au enclosed square along 
with the principal cathedral of Pisa, and within a 
few feet of that building, as a belfry, for which It 
was originally erected. At the period In which 
the cathedral was built, viz., tbe year mo, it was 
customary to erect the belfries apart rrom church¬ 
es. Of this peculiarity of early ecclesiastical arch¬ 
itecture there are many Instances to be found on 
the continent of Europe, especially lu Italy. But 
the tower to which we call attention, irrespective 
of its betng, in connection with the cathedral, a 
noble specimen of medieval architecture, has 
always rendered the town of Pisa famous from 
the peculiarity of Its inclining at au aDgle which, 
to a stranger passing under It, would seem to 
threaten Its instant fall. Indeed, there Is consid¬ 
erable difference of opinion amongst scientific 
observers as to whether the structure depends for 
Its stability on the well-known law of gravity 
having been compiled with in Its erection, or upon 
the great tenacity of Its materials. 
It la described as “consisting of eight circular 
Btories, of white marble, ornamented with rows of 
columns and gradually narrowing In width from 
top to bottom. 
But If opinions are divided as to the cause of the 
stability of the structure, still more are they 
divided as to the cause of its inclination from the 
vertical line. Some attribute this Inclination to 
the subsidence of the foundation, or a sinking of 
the earth upon which It rests; whllo others con¬ 
tend that the tower was built expressly with Its 
present Inclination as a specimen of the skill of 
the architect, by whom the structure was designed, 
t 'pon this question we cannot venture to more 
than hazard a conjecture; for our part we should 
be more Inclined to adopt the latter hypothesis 
were the instances of such designs on the part of 
mediaeval architects more numerous than they are. 
But, In view of the comparative variety or such 
constructions, it seems to U3 to be traveling out 
of one's way to attempt to account for so singu¬ 
larly an apparent violation of the laws of physics, 
as that presented by the leaning tower of Pisaj 
upon the assumption of a set purpose on the part 
of the architect. We must, however, In candor, 
admit that the balance of opinion Is rather against 
our view than otherwise. 
A scientific observer, remarks that the name of 
“ this Leaning Tower” does not convey a true no¬ 
tion of the form of the building, it is, he remarks 
intact, a “ twisted" tower, there belDgan irregu¬ 
lar curvature In the building, But he conjectures 
that this “ twist” was due to the subsidence of 
the foundation during the erection, and an attempt, 
on the part of tbe architect to “ right" tho build¬ 
ing as the work proceeded. 
In conclusion It may interest some of our read¬ 
ers to learn that “ it was from the summit of this 
celebrated leaning tower of Pisa that Galileo 
made, In the seventeenth century, a series of ob¬ 
servations, rrom which he deduced the principles 
of the gravitation of the earth."—Sidney Journal. 
-» ♦ ♦ 
VENTILATION. 
Summer heat, outdoor life, and open windows 
are natural ventilators, and need no hints and no 
comment. 
Close-shut windows, artificially-heated rooms, 
winter cold, these are the conditions under which 
ventilation is neglected, being too often a penalty 
rather than a desideratum. 
“Bad Ventllatton v. Draughts ” gives In three 
words the popular Information on the subject. 
The question to deeldo is—which is the less ot> 
jecttonable of the two evils ? and it 13 decided 
simply upon the grounds or personal Idiosyncrasy 
and personal taste. 
How should It be otherwise ? one man suffers 
from continual twinges of rheumatism ? can any 
deprivation of tills Intangible oxygen be to rum go 
obnoxious as a draft of cold air laden with rheu¬ 
matic pains? That man’s neighbor Is a robust 
sportsman who considers all aches and pains with 
the half-contemptuous scepticism commonly be¬ 
stowed by Ignorance upon the unknown. Can any 
pain be worse, he asks, than the living death of a 
stuffy room ? it is known as a scientific fact, that 
persons In a depressed state of health bear depri¬ 
vation rrom oxygen far better than the strong and 
vigorous, and that old people seem quite at ease In 
a room that to their grandchildren Is lnsupport- 
ably hot and close. 
Drafts are not ventilation, though, under pop¬ 
ular guidance, ventilation generally ends in drafts. 
There Is nothing incompatible between a close 
room and a current of air. Bad ventilation Is an 
oscillation between the two. A fast-closed room, 
with no apparatus for the Inlet or outlet of air, 
was, some years back, a very common form of 
class-room for children. Towards the end of a 
couple of hours the children's wits deserted them, 
and the teacher's temper followed; the room was 
hot and close, though Its inhabitants were flushed 
and chilly; then came half an hour’s recreation, 
and for that half hour, whether In the presence or 
absence of the children, all doors and windows 
were dung open wide, and the room was falsely 
said to be “ventilated," ready tor another two 
hours’ suffocation In the afternoon. Whatever 
this may be. It Is not ventilation. 
Popular theories of ventilation are based upon a 
misapprehension that “ hot air ascends." But, to 
make use of a common illustration, it does so only 
in the same way that water In a pall ascends If a 
lump of lead be dropped Into it. The lead, being 
heavier than the water, gravitates towards the 
surface of the earth, or the bottom of the pall, 
and displaces its own bulk of water. Just so the 
force of gravitation draws the cold air of a room 
down to the door and keeps it there, the results 
being a draft on the floor, though the room may 
be close, and cold feet, though the atmosphere 
may be overheated. 
To make an aperture near the celling where the 
hot air should escape, and to make another near 
the floor where cold air should enter, was not so 
very long ago the received method of ventilating a 
room. “Should escape” expresses well the fact. 
Air, cold or hot, has laws of Its own, and obsti¬ 
nately refuses to follow the coarse ot arrows, 
573 
that guide It so easily (on paper, at least) through 
all manner of ingenious ventilators. The next 
step was to make two apertures near the celling— 
one for exit, one ror inlet. It was a, step in ad¬ 
vance. Both commonly served as Inlet ventilators, 
spite of their labels. In this way plenty of fre 9 h 
air entered the room, though In a sufficiently un 
pleasant manner. Air behaves much os water 
would do in a like situation. Given a hole In the 
wall, and outside a volume ot water under press 
ure, one would look for a water-spout striking on 
the head of any person who happened to be sitting 
beneath. We do not look for an alr-spout, and, 
when It comes, we are surprised at the down 
draught from the ventilator. 
An open window Is the simplest of all ventila¬ 
tors. It almost Invariably serves for Inlet, be It 
said, whether tt he opened at top or bottom. In¬ 
capable of subdivision, how shall the current be 
directed upwards? Open the window at the bot¬ 
tom (a sash window understood), and fit into the 
frame a piece of wood about six inches wide. 
Then shut the window down on the wood. Air 
enters between the upper aud lower sash, and the 
current la directed upwards by the frame of the 
lower sash that projects over the upper, or you 
can procure a board about is Inches deep, fitting 
close to the wall at the bottom or the window, 
sloping forwards Into the room. A triangular 
piece »f wood fits In at tho sides, and a sort of shaft 
is made, behind which the window can be opened 
without fear of draught. It Is rather unsightly 
for a dwelling room, but may be serviceable on a 
lauding or staircase. Again, you can open the 
window at the top, and nail over the opening a 
piece of perforated zinc some Inches deep. That 
Is a contrivance for subdividing the current, and 
tt materially diminishes the draught, its advan¬ 
tages are that the zinc la Inexpensive and a fix¬ 
ture, so that it cannot get out of order. The plan 
may wisely be tried In those modest households 
where the sleeping rooms are constantly over¬ 
crowded. 
Sometimes, especially In the country, a brick 
may be removed from the wall, and piece of wood 
sloping forward-a frame. In fact, similar to chat 
described for the window—may be neatly con¬ 
cealed by a picture or engraving, a wooden Ud 
shuts the shafts. A contrivance for ventilation, 
only visible on rare occasions. Is to cut in the 
lower part of the frame of a sash wLudow three or 
tour oblong holes, t wo or three inches long and as 
wide as the window frame permits. They can be 
closed at will If a small piece of tin be fitted as a 
cover to each. Nothing but bitter cold win make 
this small opening unbearable. This or any 
other opening can be filled with cotton wool. The 
wool must be lightly pulled, and renewed occa¬ 
sionally. A question of practical 1 mport Is often 
asked, How can one know when the air or a room 
la too Impure to breathe ? The. answer Is simple. 
Common observation shows that all our senses 
were given for some practical end, an i It would be 
hard to believe that tbe sense of smell is Intended 
only for a mild pleasure, as when we smell a rose 
or a hunch of violets. Fortunately, no such belief 
is required of us. No chemical experiment can 
detect the Impurity of air more certainly or more 
exactly than It Is detected by the olfactory 
nerves, though of course this sense, Uke any 
other, can he cultivated or neglected, come 
straight out of the fresh air Into the room you 
wish to test, and you will not fall to discover the 
tact If ventllatton be needed. There is no place 
tor doubt—the room smells close, or It does not. 
Scientific men could not alter the fact or suggest 
for a close room any other remedy than a supply 
of fresh air. 
♦ ♦ » 
MAGAZINES FOR SEPTEMBER. 
The Atlantic Monthly.— Contents: The Stiff- 
water Tragedy, XX III.—XXVIII.; Twoscore and 
Ten; Sir Walter Scott; Political Responsibility ot 
the individual; The Perpetuity of Song; Au 
Serteux ; irnaware ; intimate Life of a Noble Ger¬ 
man Family. Part 1.; Women In Organizations; 
Each Side the Bridge—A Dutch Painting; Remin¬ 
iscences ot Washington—VI.; Mrs. McWilliams 
and the Lightning; West Wind; Oxrord and 
Cambridge ; Progress of the Presidential Canvass; 
Such Stuff as Dreams are Made of; Music; Recent 
American Flotlon; Goldwln Smith’s Cowper; Mr. 
White’s Books; The Contributors’ Club. 
The Genius of Scott.— In novel-writing there 
are many things he has done well which other 
men have done better, but no one maker of fiction 
has combined so many rare qualities as he. There 
are alwaj's plenty ot men cleverer than he, but he 
has no rival In a sort of majestic abundance of 
power. In fact, his prose Is epic. For that sort 
of composition there Is no need of precise and 
superfluous detail; what is required is a sort of 
grandeur and massive strength, such a 3 Scott 
alone has possessed In modern times. The form 
that he chose, in accordance with the taste of the 
day—for to sit down to compose an epic poem 
would have been like sacrificing a bull to Jupi¬ 
ter—is one that other dexterous craftsmen have 
worked in a more intricate fashion; so that his 
novels hear the same relation to modern stories 
that oue of Nelson’s ? 2 -gun frigates bears to a 
mastless, steel-clad ram. Heuce It is that some 
people are uicffued to look upon him as old- 
fashioned ; hut there are certain things that never 
go out ot fashion, even if they undergo seasons of 
neglect, or even if they are weighed down by ac¬ 
knowledged deficiencies. It ts easy to learn that 
the Middle Ages were something very different 
from what Scott thought them to be, and that 
there Is inexactness Lu his accounts of the cru¬ 
sades and the crusaders, hut It will be a loDg time 
before tho completes! collection ot details will 
bring before us those remote times with anything 
like the vividness of Scott's portrayal. The siege 
of Troy was doubtless something very unlike 
Homer’s account ot it, but what Hector and Helen 
and Achilles have doue for Homer, Scott’s char¬ 
acters will do to keep his fame fresh when all the 
