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Title: The Scrap Book. Volume 1, No. 2

Author: Various

Release date: April 24, 2010 [eBook #32119]

Language: English

Credits: Produced by Barbara Tozier, Bill Tozier, Christine D and
        the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE SCRAP BOOK. VOLUME 1, NO. 2 ***




Produced by Barbara Tozier, Bill Tozier, Christine D and
the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at
http://www.pgdp.net









            THE SCRAP BOOK.

  Vol. I.    APRIL, 1906.    No. 2.




A MARVELOUS RECEPTION.


Nothing is a success until it is a proved success. The ideas that seem
best frequently turn out the worst. If it were not for this fact, a fact
with which we are thoroughly familiar, we should feel that we have in THE
SCRAP BOOK the hit of a century. Indeed, it is difficult not to let
ourselves go a bit, even now, and talk about this new creation in
magazine-making in a way that would sound like high-pressure fiction.

Six weeks ago THE SCRAP BOOK was nothing but an idea. It had had a good
deal of thought in a general way, but nothing effectually focuses until
actual work begins. Filmy, desultory thought, in cloudland, counts for
little.

In the early conception of THE SCRAP BOOK it was as unlike this magazine
as a mustard-seed is unlike the full-grown tree. Rebelling as I did, and
still do, at the restraints of the conventional magazine, and realizing
the added strength that should come from the rare old things and the best
current things--the scrap bits that are full of juice and sweetness and
tenderness and pathos and humor--realizing all this, I undertook to
incorporate in MUNSEY'S MAGAZINE a department which I intended to call THE
SCRAP BOOK.

I had special headings and borders drawn for this department, with a view
to differentiating it from other parts of the magazine. I had sample pages
put in type, and more or less work done on the department. But it did not
fit MUNSEY'S MAGAZINE, and MUNSEY'S MAGAZINE gave no scope for such a
section. It was atmospherically antagonistic to a magazine which consisted
wholly of original matter. This was the beginning of THE SCRAP BOOK--the
thought nebula.

       *       *       *       *       *

It was as late as the middle of January when I came to my office one
morning and startled our editorial force by saying that THE SCRAP BOOK
would be issued on the 10th of February. Up to this time no decisive work
had been done on it. As I stated in my introduction last month, we had
been gathering scrap books from all over the world for some time, and had
a good deal of material classified and ready for use. It was an accepted
fact in the office that THE SCRAP BOOK would be issued sooner or later.
Indeed, the drawing for the cover was made more than a year ago. But no
one on the staff, not even myself, knew just what THE SCRAP BOOK would be
like or when it would make its appearance.

With a definite date fixed for the day of issue, however, and that date
only about three weeks away, intense work and intense thought were
necessary, and from this thought and work was evolved THE SCRAP BOOK as we
now have it. From the first minute, as it began to take shape, it became a
thing of evolution. Enough material was prepared, set up, and destroyed to
fill three issues of THE SCRAP BOOK, and display headings were changed and
changed--and a dozen times changed--to get the effect we wanted.

As it was something apart from all other magazines, we had no precedents
to follow, no examples to copy, either in the matter itself, the method of
treating it, or the style of presenting it. Our inspiration in producing
THE SCRAP BOOK was mainly, and almost wholly, our conception of what would
appeal most forcefully to the human heart and human brain--to all the
people of all classes everywhere. This, supplemented by our experience in
publishing, was our guide in evolving this magazine.

I have told you this much about the beginning and the development of THE
SCRAP BOOK because such information about the beginning of anything of any
consequence appeals to me individually, and I think generally appeals to
all readers. If THE SCRAP BOOK, therefore, is to make an important place
for itself in the publishing world, as certainly looks probable at this
time, it will perhaps be worth while to have the story of its inception
and evolution.

       *       *       *       *       *

While I have created in THE SCRAP BOOK a magazine for the public, as I
interpret the public taste--and this is always my purpose in anything I
publish--I find that in THE SCRAP BOOK I have unconsciously created a
magazine for myself. I mean just this, that for my own reading THE SCRAP
BOOK as it is, and THE SCRAP BOOK in its possibilities, has all other
magazines, every phase and kind of magazine the world over, beaten to a
standstill.

And why? Simply because THE SCRAP BOOK in its scope is as wide as the
world. It has no limitations, within the boundaries of decency and good
taste. It has as broad a sweep in the publication of original articles and
original fiction and original everything as any magazine anywhere. It has,
in addition, in its review phases, recourse to the best current things
throughout the world--the daily press, the weekly press, the magazines,
the pulpit, and the platform. And best of all, it has the vast storehouses
of the centuries to draw from--the accumulation of the world's best
thoughts and best writing.

  FRANK A. MUNSEY.




The Latest Viewpoints of Men Worth While.

    The Presidents of Harvard, Columbia, and Cornell Discuss
    Questions Bearing on the Practical Training of the Young Men
    of America--Maeterlinck Calls New York a City of Money,
    Bustle, and Noise--John Morley Offers Some Valuable
    Suggestions on the Reading of Books--Edward S. Martin
    Praises City Life--Ex-President Cleveland Speaks of the
    Relation of Doctor and Patient--And Other Notable People
    Express Themselves on Matters of Current Interest.

_Compiled and edited for_ THE SCRAP BOOK.


IS THE RICH YOUNG MAN HANDICAPPED?

  President Eliot, of Harvard, Tells of
  the Blessings of Poverty and the
  Penalties of Great Wealth.

Is wealth a hindrance to a young man starting out in life? Men who have
built their own fortunes are almost unanimous in answering yes. To have
nothing to begin with means, they say, illimitable opportunity, and
opportunity is the great developing factor; poverty means the stimulus of
real need, which impels men to take advantage of opportunity. To quote the
present Lord Mayor of London, Alderman Walter V. Morgan:

    The best thing that can happen to a young man is to be poor.
    Extreme poverty may sometimes hamper a youth's progress,
    but, in my opinion, he is far more likely to make his way in
    the world if he starts with the proverbial half-a-crown in
    his pocket than with a thousand-pound note.

Riches carry their own penalty. President Eliot, in a recent address
before the student body at Harvard, said:

The very rich are by no means the healthiest members of the community, and
to escape the perils of luxurious living requires unusual will-power and
prudence.

Great capital at the disposal of a single individual confers on its
possessor great power over the course of industrial development, over his
fellow men and sometimes over the course of great public events, like
peace or war between nations. It enables a man to do good or harm, to give
joy or pain, and places him in a position to be feared or looked up to.

There is pleasure in the satisfaction of directing such a power, and the
greater the character the greater may be the satisfaction. In giving this
direction the great capitalist may find an enjoyable and strenuous
occupation. For a conscientious, dutiful man a great sense of
responsibility accompanies this power. It may become so powerful as to
wipe out the enjoyment itself.

The most serious disadvantage under which the very rich have labored is
the bringing up of children. It is well-nigh impossible for a very rich
man to develop his children from habits of indifference and laziness.
These children are so situated that they have no opportunity of doing
productive labor, and do nothing for themselves, parents, brothers, or
sisters, no one acquiring the habit of work. In striking contrast are the
farmer's children, who cooperate at tender years in the work of the
household.

Among President Eliot's hearers were many young men to whom the blessings
of poverty were unknown.


TO TEACH TRADES TO YOUNG WORKERS.

  Dean Balliet Emphasizes the Importance
  of Trade-Schools in the Adjustment
  of Our Economic Problems.

A box of tools, and not a bundle of books, will be the burden of many a
school-child, if the trade-school system becomes firmly established. In
Germany the public trade-schools have proved very effective. In the United
States there has been an encouraging seven-year experiment at Springfield,
Massachusetts, and two schools have recently been established in New York
City.

The trade-school differs from the manual training-school. Manual training
is educational. "It develops the motor and executive sides of a child's
nature," to quote Dean T.M. Balliet, of the School of Pedagogy in New York
University. Also it fits young men for higher technical training. The
trade-school, on the other hand, teaches young people how to work at
actual wage-paying trades--how to be plumbers, electrical fitters,
carpenters, masons, ironworkers.

Dean Balliet, having made an exhaustive study of the system, not long ago
gave the following answer to an interviewer from the New York _Tribune_
who asked what the trade-school meant:

    The aim must be entirely practical, but not narrowly so.
    Students must be trained to perform specific kinds of
    skilled labor which has a commercial value. But the learning
    of a trade must include the scientific principles underlying
    it, and must not be confined to mere hand-training. In the
    case of the mechanical trades, instruction in drawing, in
    physics, and in mathematics applicable to the trade must be
    included.

    Trades frequently change, and the invention of a new machine
    may make a trade suddenly obsolete. Instruction must,
    therefore, be broad enough to make workmen versatile and
    enable them to adjust themselves to these changes. The
    apprentice system is gone. In a shop a man can at best learn
    only a small part of his trade, and that only the mechanical
    part. Shop-training, even where it is still possible, is too
    narrow to make a man versatile. If the one machine which he
    has learned to run becomes obsolete he is stranded. We need
    trade-schools for just such men, to enable them to learn the
    whole of their trade and to receive instructions in the
    principles underlying it.

    Years ago men read medicine in the office of physicians; now
    they go to a medical school. Lawyers read law in an office
    only; now they attend law schools. In like manner the
    learning of a trade in the shop is rapidly becoming
    obsolete, and trade-schools must take the place of the shop.
    The fact that some things can be learned only in the shop is
    no argument against the school. There are things in the
    training of a lawyer which can be learned only in an office.


A COLLEGE CAREER--IS IT WORTH WHILE?

  President Butler, of Columbia, Points
  Out That Self-Made Men Wish
  Their Sons to Go to College.

Business men are sometimes contemptuous toward the young college
graduate's bumptiousness and lack of practical knowledge. Educators, on
the other hand, give a strong argument, backed by statistics and
corroborating detail, to prove that a college education is the best
foundation in all the work of life. The subject has been discussed
probably since men of education first left the cloisters and went out into
the world.

President Nicholas Murray Butler, of Columbia University, presents this
brief for the college man:

    No doubt there are many who believe a college education is a
    hindrance to the necessary business wisdom of the age. There
    are merchants down-town who will tell you how they started
    at ten or fourteen to sweep out the office and rose, by
    virtues and industry, to become members of the firm. This is
    true. But you follow the career of the office-boy who began
    his utilitarian studies with a broom, and the college boy
    who began with his books, and you will find that when the
    office-boy reaches thirty he is still an employee, whereas
    the college graduate is probably at that age his employer.

    Statistics show that out of ten thousand successful men in
    the world, taken in all classes of life, eight thousand are
    college graduates. Look at the tremendous increase of
    educational effort all over the United States in the last
    few years. Why, I have parents come to me with tears in
    their eyes and ask me to tell them how they can get their
    boys through college with only the small sum of money they
    can afford to do it with. Even your self-made man isn't
    satisfied unless his son can go to college.


ATHENIAN CULTURE IS AMERICA'S NEED.

  President Schurman Would Like to See
  Here a Little More of "The Glory
  That Was Greece."

Jacob Gould Schurman, president of Cornell University, has taken to heart
the contrast between American culture of to-day and the culture of the
ancient Greeks. In an address before an association of teachers last
February, he charged that while our people "knows something of
everything," its knowledge is "superficial, inaccurate, chaotic, and
ill-digested." Furthermore, he says that we are indifferent to esthetic
culture and suspicious of theory, of principles, and of reason.

These are serious, fundamental charges. But let us hear President
Schurman's fuller statement of his case:

    If the American mind is to be raised to its highest potency,
    a remedy must be found for these evils. The first condition
    of any improvement is the perception and recognition of the
    defects themselves.

    I repeat, then, that while as a people we are wonderfully
    energetic, industrious, inventive, and well-informed, we
    are, in comparison with the ancient Athenians, little more
    than half developed on the side of our highest rational and
    artistic capabilities.

    The problem is to develop these potencies in an environment
    which has hitherto been little favorable--and to develop
    them in the American people, and not merely in the isolated
    thinker, scholar, and artist.

    If no American city is an Athens, if no American poet is a
    Homer or Sophocles, if no American thinker is a Plato or
    Aristotle, it is not merely because Americans possess only a
    rudimentary reason and imagination and sensibility, but
    because, owing to causes which are part of our national
    being--causes which are connected with our task of subduing
    a continent--the capacities with which nature has generously
    endowed us have not been developed and exercised to the
    fulness of their pitch and potency.

    Our work in the nineteenth century was largely of the
    utilitarian order; in the twentieth century we are summoned
    to conquer and make our own the ideal realms of truth and
    beauty and excellence which far more than material victories
    constitute the true greatness of nations.

Pedagogic methods might be employed to stimulate American culture.
President Schurman suggests that in the common schools greater emphasis be
laid upon art and literature. There remains, however, as he points out,
something greater than the intellectuality of the Greeks, and that is the
ethical consciousness of the Hebrews.

    Noble and exalted and priceless as reason and culture are,
    there is a still higher end of life both for individuals and
    nations. That end, indeed, was very inadequately conceived
    by the Greeks. In the creative play of reason and
    imagination, in their marvelous productions of speculation,
    science, and art, in their exaltation of mind above sense
    and of spirit above matter, in their conception of a
    harmonious development of all the rich and varied powers of
    man--in all these the Greeks have left to mankind a legacy
    as priceless as it is to-day vital and forever imperishable.

    But the Greeks, even the Greek philosophers, even the
    "divine Plato," have not given us enough to live by. It was
    the Jews, the outcast, oppressed, and much-suffering Jews,
    who first sounded the depths of human life, discovered that
    the essential being of a man resides in his moral
    personality, and rose to the conception of a just and
    merciful Providence who rules in righteousness the affairs
    of nations and the hearts and wills of men.

    If even our literary men now tell us that conduct is
    three-fourths of life, it is because Hebraism and the
    Christianity which sprang from Hebraism have stamped this
    idea ineffaceably upon the conscience of mankind. The
    selfishness and sensuality in us may revolt against the Ten
    Commandments and the Golden Rule, but the still small voice
    of conscience in us recognizes their authority and
    acknowledges that if they had might as they have right, they
    would absolutely govern the world. The most, the best, of
    greatness is goodness. The greatest man on earth is the man
    of pure heart and of clean hands.


NOTABLE NEGLECT OF INDUSTRIAL ARTS.

  A Plea for Arts and Crafts as the Logical
  Basis of a National Development
  of the Fine Arts.

In line with President Schurman's criticism of American culture is the
plea by Charles de Kay, the New York art critic, for more attention to the
industrial arts. His argument is that out of the arts and crafts the fine
arts naturally develop; that out of the artist-artisan comes the highest
class of artist, as, for example, Augustus Saint Gaudens, who began as a
cameo cutter. To ignore the industrial arts is, so to speak, to leave out
of count that solid middle class upon which alone the aristocracy of art
can safely rest. Writing in the New York _Times_, Mr. de Kay says:

    Plainly enough there is a field scarcely plowed at all in
    the arts and crafts. These arts in the Middle Ages, and
    latterly in Japan and India, absorbed and absorb the
    energies of the cleverest hands and brightest minds; but in
    America and England to-day are neglected for the fine arts,
    because the rare prizes in the latter, whether of fame or of
    wealth, dazzle the imagination.

    Fashion rather than taste has set easel paintings so
    absolutely in the forefront that with most people this
    represents art in its entirety, and though the appreciation
    of the minor arts of Japan has opened the eyes and enlisted
    the sympathies of thousands, this one-sided view of art
    holds on; so encouragement of native arts and crafts is
    slack and uncertain.

    Yet a democracy like ours, while the most difficult of all
    communities to rouse to a vivid sympathy with the industrial
    arts, owing to cheap processes and the influence exerted by
    traditions that began in aristocratic lands, is of all
    others that community where they are needed most.

    The huge engine of the public schools is forever milling
    over the raw material of the Union, educating the native
    children, assimilating to the commonwealth the young people
    of immigrant stocks. The higher education of taste and
    refinement ought to go hand in hand, but it is sadly
    deficient.

    No one should expect that the public-school system could add
    this to a task already appalling for its size and
    complexity. It can be coped with only by organizations apart
    from the existing schools, which might attempt for the
    youthful artisan what the art schools attempt for the
    training of architects, sculptors, and painters.

    It is the fate of democracies to waste energy and attack
    each problem by the wrong side. Commend us to a democracy to
    put the cart before the horse every time! In the arts we
    have been doing this imbecile trick steadily, persistently,
    for a hundred years, trying to foster the fine arts while
    our minor arts and crafts are too contemptible for
    criticism.

    Is it not about time to show that even a democracy can learn
    something? Certainly if we can convince this community that
    the most crying need is a thorough regeneration of the
    industrial arts, the object will be attained. For though
    democracies are often clumsy, when they once strike the
    right path they rush forward to the highest places with a
    speed and an irresistible force no other communities attain.


BELGIAN DRAMATIST CRITICIZES NEW YORK.

  Money, Bustle, and Noise Are the Principal
  Things Named as Characteristic
  of Our Young Nation.

Maurice Maeterlinck, the Belgian dramatist and mystic philosopher, is by
no means dull in his appreciation of practical conditions. People who know
him say that he is not in the least lackadaisical or spiritually remote,
but is simple and frank and full of interest in every-day occurrences. A
short time ago he was asked to express his opinion of America. He
replied--to quote from the _Theater Magazine_:

    I should be afraid to live in a city like New York. I
    understand that money, bustle, and noise are its chief
    characteristics. Money is useful, of course, but it is not
    everything. Bustle and noise, also, are necessary adjuncts
    of human industry. But they do not add to man's comfort nor
    satisfy his soul's cravings.

    America is too young a nation to seek the beautiful. That
    may come when you Americans grow weary of being rich. Then
    you will, as a nation, cultivate art and letters, and--who
    knows?--one day you will surpass the Old World in the
    splendor of your buildings, the genius of your authors. You
    are a great people, but your highest powers are still
    slumbering.

    At present you are too busily occupied in assimilating the
    foreigner, too busily engaged in affairs purely material, to
    leave either time or taste for either the beautiful or the
    occult. When America does take to beautifying her own home
    she will astonish the world.


WHAT "PUNCH" HAS MEANT TO ENGLAND.

  London's Famous Funny Paper is Really
  Funny to Those Who Know How
  to Appreciate Its Jokes.

Sir Francis C. Burnand has resigned the editorship of London _Punch_ after
a service of twenty-three years. It is hard to think of him as old, but,
being in his seventieth year, doubtless he had begun to find the cares of
his position somewhat irksome.

Eminent as was his fitness for the editorship he held so long, he started
out in life with no notion of becoming a humorist. Amateur dramatic
performances took much of his time at Cambridge. After leaving the
university, he became a barrister. Converted to the Roman church, he
studied for the priesthood, but abandoned this prospective future in order
to devote himself to the stage. Though he did not become an actor, he
wrote many stage pieces--plays, librettos, etc.; at the same time he was
writing jokes for the humorous papers, and when he was twenty-five years
of age he became a regular contributor to _Punch_. Says the New York
_Evening Post_:

    The resignation of Sir Francis C. Burnand, for twenty-five
    years editor of London _Punch_, reminds one how little it
    has been subject to the vicissitudes of journalism. As if
    by fore-ordination, the admirable parodist, Owen Seaman,
    takes the head of the historic table, and _Punch_ will, if
    anything, be more _Punch_ than ever. Others may change, but
    _Punch_ retains a kind of Olympian uniformity. From its
    first number, sixty-five years ago, to the last, its outward
    appearance and inward savor are practically identical.
    England has been in conspiracy to provide it with talent.

    During the editor's term of office the paper lost such
    artists as Charles Keene, Du Maurier, and Sir John Tenniel;
    but it also saw the rise of Mr. Linley Sambourne's forceful
    caricature, of Mr. Raven-Hill's delightful rusticities, of
    the nervous and most expressive art of the lamented Phil
    May. In fact, barring an inclination to overindulgence in
    rather trite doggerel, _Punch's_ jorum has rarely been more
    tasty than in the past quarter century. Its only serious
    rival in the comic field has been _Fliegende Blätter_.

    There is, of course, the prevailing American view that
    _Punch_ is dull. Dull it is, in the sense that the best fun
    of the most jocose family may be merely tantalizing to the
    outsider. A nudge to the initiated may be sufficient to
    recall jokes proved by a thousand laughs; the uninitiated
    needs a clue. Now, _Punch's_ family is London--a family
    whose acquaintance is tolerably worth while--and probably no
    one who has not imaginatively made himself familiar with the
    mood of London has any business with _Punch_ at all. It is
    the homesickness for London that extends the subscription
    list to the bounds of the empire; it is the desire to know
    what London thinks of itself, of the provinces, of the
    world, that makes readers for _Punch_ in every land. It
    represents London in the mood of intellectual dalliance as
    thoroughly as _Fliegende Blätter_ does non-Prussian Germany.
    This representative quality gives to these two comic papers
    something of the solemnity of institutions.


THE OLD JOURNALISM COLORED BY THE NEW.

  Norman Hapgood Declares that Yellow
  Journals Have Shaken the Newspapers
  Out of Their Old Rut.

"Yellowness," in the newspaper sense, means sensationalism; sensationalism
means exaggeration; exaggeration means wrong proportion and the distortion
of truth. On the other hand, it is pointed out that yellowness means
interest; interest means closer attention from a larger audience; the
larger audience means wider editorial influence.

Aside from the main arguments for and against yellowness, there are
noticeable effects which the new journalism has had indirectly upon the
old. Speaking recently before the League for Political Education, in New
York City, Norman Hapgood, the editor of _Collier's Weekly_, attributed
the increased boldness and popular tone of the conservative newspapers to
the influence of yellow journalism:

    Yellow journalism has its faults, but it was the first to
    shake the newspapers out of the old rut and give them new
    vigor. Before the advent of this class of journals there was
    no organ among the conservative press to speak down to the
    people. It was the consequence of a growing democracy and
    had for its purpose the establishment of a press wherein the
    laboring classes would have expression.


HOW TO ASSIMILATE THE BEST IN BOOKS.

  John Morley, the English Statesman and
  Scholar, Tells the Secret of Making
  One's Reading Pay.

When a man knows books as thoroughly as John Morley knows them, his
opinions as to what and how to read are worth having. Mr. Morley has
revised and put together as an article for _The Critic_ several of his
extemporaneous addresses on books and reading. From this article the
following paragraphs have been culled and condensed with care to select
those passages which contain practical advice for people who desire to
make their reading count for something:

    The object of reading is not to dip into everything that
    even wise men have ever written. In the words of one of the
    most winning writers of English that ever existed--Cardinal
    Newman--the object of literature in education is to open the
    mind, to correct it, to refine it, to enable it to
    comprehend and digest its knowledge, to give it power over
    its own faculties, application, flexibility, method,
    critical exactness, sagacity, address, and expression.

    Literature consists of all the books--and they are not so
    many--where moral truth and human passion are touched with a
    certain largeness, sanity, and attraction of form. Poets,
    dramatists, humorists, satirists, masters of fiction, the
    great preachers, the character-writers, the maxim-writers,
    the great political orators--they are all literature in so
    far as they teach us to know man and to know human nature.

    What I venture to press upon you is that it requires no
    preterhuman force of will in any young man or woman--unless
    household circumstances are more than usually vexatious and
    unfavorable--to get at least half an hour out of a solid
    busy day for good and disinterested reading. Some will say
    that this is too much to expect, and the first persons to
    say it, I venture to predict, will be those who waste their
    time most. At any rate, if I cannot get half an hour, I will
    be content with a quarter.

    Multiply the half-hour by three hundred and sixty-five, and
    consider what treasures you might have laid by at the end of
    the year, and what happiness, fortitude, and wisdom they
    would have given you during all the days of your life.

    You may have often heard from others, or may have found out,
    how good it is to have on your shelves, however scantily
    furnished they may be, three or four of those books to which
    it is well to give ten minutes every morning, before going
    down into the battle and choking dust of the day. Perhaps it
    matters little what it may be so long as your writer has
    cheerful seriousness, elevation, calm, and, above all, a
    sense of size and strength, which shall open out the day
    before you, and bestow gifts of fortitude and mastery.

    If a man is despondent about his work, the best remedy that
    I can prescribe to him is to turn to a good biography; there
    he will find that other men before him have known the dreary
    reaction that follows long-sustained effort, and he will
    find that one of the differences between the first-rate man
    and the fifth-rate lies in the vigor with which the
    first-rate man recovers from this reaction, and crushes it
    down, and again flings himself once more upon the breach.

    A taste for poetry is not given to everybody, but anybody
    who does not enjoy poetry, who is not refreshed,
    exhilarated, stirred by it, leads but a mutilated existence.
    I would advise that in looking for poets--of course after
    Shakespeare--you should follow the rule of allowing
    preferences, but no exclusion.

    Various mechanical contrivances and aids to successful
    study are not to be despised by those who would extract the
    most from books. The wise student will do most of his
    reading with a pen or pencil in his hand. He will not shrink
    from the useful toil of making abstracts and summaries of
    what he is reading.

    Again, some great men--Gibbon was one, and Daniel Webster
    was another, and the great Lord Stafford was a third--always
    before reading a book made a short, rough analysis of the
    questions which they expected to be answered in it, the
    additions to be made to their knowledge, and whither it
    would take them.

    Another practise is that of keeping a commonplace book, and
    transcribing into it what is striking and interesting and
    suggestive. And if you keep it wisely, as Locke has taught
    us, you will put every entry under a head, division, or
    subdivision. This is an excellent practise for concentrating
    your thought on the passage, and making you alive to its
    real point and significance.


ARE WE SURFEITED WITH WIT AND HUMOR?

  Jerome K. Jerome Says that the American
  Sense of Humor Has Been Overfed
  by Brilliant Humorists.

More great humorists have arisen in the United States during the last
seventy-five years than in any other country. Among the professionals are,
or have been, Artemus Ward, Josh Billings, Petroleum V. Nasby, Mark Twain,
and George Ade. Who of these have been and who still are there is no need
of saying. But certainly the constellation is brilliant with these names
alone, though the lesser stars have been many.

Have we had too much humor? Are we sated? Jerome K. Jerome, after several
months of personal observation, answers yes. Near the end of his recent
tour of the country he said:

    It seems to me that the American people have been surfeited
    with humor. So many brilliant men have written their jokes
    for so long that they have become jaded. I thought at first
    that the American sense of humor was radically less subtle
    than ours in England, but now I know better. It is simply
    overfed.

    Mark Twain is, I think, the only living humorist of the old
    American school, and he, like _Falstaff_, is growing old.
    But the subtle touch that England likes still and America
    liked once is still his. You laugh with him now, I think,
    more from a sense of duty than a sense of the ridiculous.
    You have grown tired and need coarser fare to stimulate your
    appetite. And I've discovered the cause of it, too. It is
    the comic supplement of the Sunday papers.

The New York _World_ takes exception to Mr. Jerome's remarks, and answers
him as follows:

    In the name of Punch and the Prophet, figs! The history of
    American humor is a chronicle of development to a present
    pitch of refinement and subtlety with which the work of the
    earlier humorists suffers by comparison. It is the history
    of the evolution of the pun into the witticism.

    Could Petroleum V. Nasby get a hearing to-day? Or the
    Danbury News Man, or "Peck's Bad Boy"? Would not a Burdette
    writing for the more exacting twentieth-century perception
    find his occupation gone? Even an Artemus Ward and a Josh
    Billings appealing to latter-day readers would perceive the
    essential need of a purification and refinement of method if
    they were to hold their audience under anything like the old
    spell.

    Progress from broad lines approaching buffoonery to
    delicacy, from the obvious and the apparent to the elusive,
    is observable in all humorists who hold their public. It was
    seen in Eugene Field. It is discernible in Mark Twain, whom
    Mr. Jerome cites as a survival of the "old American school."
    Between "The Innocents Abroad" and "Pudd'nhead Wilson" and
    "The Man Who Corrupted Hadleyburg" is all the contrast of
    the changed taste of a new generation. _Falstaff_ is not now
    the fashion.


WOMAN'S REAL PLACE IN LITERARY WORK.

  An Unkind Frenchman Says That Her
  Limitations Must Always Keep
  Her in a Secondary Role.

We have often been told by Mrs. Charlotte Perkins Gilman that woman, as a
type, ranks higher in almost every respect than man; and there are many
people of both sexes who agree with her. Nevertheless, the champions of
feminine superiority may find it hard work to shout down the glorifiers of
masculine achievement.

Here is a Frenchman, Georges Pellisier, a literary critic, who argues that
woman cannot write great literature, because she is intellectually as well
as physically inferior to man. He assigns to her the secondary literary
rôle of acting as mistress of the literary salon--a position which, he
thinks, has a valuable influence. He expresses his views as follows, in
_La Revue_ (Paris), the translation being that of the _Literary Digest_:

    Philosophy, criticism, and history are beyond her mental
    scope, and I know of none who has made a lasting impression
    in these domains. Philosophy requires a force of abstraction
    and a power of application rarely possessed by women, the
    power of reflection being, with them, as one of the greatest
    of them has admitted, "rather a happy accident than a
    peculiar or permanent attribute." Naturally impulsive, they
    fail to follow out the logic of their ideas.... In the
    domain of criticism woman is too much the slave of first
    impressions, or preconceived notions, which must be
    admitted, however, to be generally very vivid and often very
    just.

    Her personal preferences, nevertheless, obscure her views
    and misguide her opinions, while she lacks almost wholly the
    faculty of weighing her judgments.... A proper study or
    understanding of history is impossible without the
    philosophic and the critical faculties, and, above all, a
    disinterested love of truth. Woman colors events according
    as passion or sentiment sways her. The real historian must
    totally efface both himself and his bias; and this, woman,
    of her nature, is incapable of doing....

    There remain to her the drama, poetry, and the novel. In
    dramatic art, no woman has produced anything of lasting
    note, the reason being that the dramatist must, perforce, be
    without egotism and be capable of detaching the Ego from the
    action of the play--a thing impossible in woman.

In poetry this critic allows to woman but "the shadow of a name"; for few
women, he argues, have written verse that endured. "The principal defect
she evinces in poetry," he says, "is a lack of artistic execution."
Woman's best work, he thinks, has been done in romance, though he refuses
to class any woman with the master-novelists. Even this small credit he
awards grudgingly and carpingly. He cannot ignore success, but he tries to
belittle it.

    Apart from the fact that they may indulge in solecism and
    anachronism without being severely called to task by the
    critics, their composition is faulty. Even Georges Sand was
    not above suspicion. There is palpable in their novels an
    incoherent notion of logical plot, while their imagination
    is subjected to no salutary discipline. Their work lacks
    vigor, and in its weakness, not an unattractive quality in
    woman herself, there is something commonplace that is not
    redeemed by elegance. Above all, woman's temperament recoils
    from a depiction of the stern reality of life.... She has no
    sense of proportion, and for her the beautiful and the
    pretty are interchangeable terms.


RACE SUICIDE MAY PROVE A BLESSING.

  Welfare of the Offspring Is Much More
  Important Than Their Number, Says
  This Cincinnati Professor.

Dr. Charles A.L. Reed, of the University of Cincinnati, has published an
address on "The American Family," in which he makes this strong statement:
"We see in a declining birth-rate only a natural and evolutional
adjustment of race to environment--an adjustment that insures rather than
menaces the perpetuation of our kind under favoring conditions." Thus he
argues that "race suicide" may prove a blessing, since, as a matter of
fact, it implies an intelligent regard for the rights and necessities of
children rather than an aversion to motherhood:

    If reduced to its last analysis, it does not indicate a
    loss, but rather a development, if not an actual exaltation
    of the maternal function. American women recognize,
    subconsciously, possibly, certainly not in definite terms,
    but they nevertheless recognize, the force of the law
    enunciated by Mr. Spencer that whatever conduces to the
    highest welfare of offspring must more and more establish
    itself, since children of inferior parents reared in
    inferior ways will ever be replaced by children of better
    parents reared in better ways.

A much greater danger, according to Dr. Reed, is overpopulation. As
influences inimical to the American family he classes "everything that
tends to the early and wide dispersion of its members," such as--

    The development of residential schools, the extension of
    far-reaching transportation facilities, the diversification
    of industries, the industrial employment of women, the
    popularization of hotels and apartments for residential
    purposes, and, finally, the development of clubs for both
    men and women at the expense of the home.


WORTH WHILE TO LIVE IN A LARGE CITY.

  The Real Blessings of Urban Life Have
  Been Too Much Neglected By
  the Apostles of the Country.

City life has been more or less maligned--unintentionally. Unhealthful
crowding, lack of the inspiration of outdoor life, and greater immorality
are the principal charges. Lately, however, people have begun to believe
that the city is little if any more immoral, proportionately to its
inhabitants, than the country; that the absence of outdoor life has
compensations, especially when one can spend part of the year in the
country; that most of the dangers of crowding can be averted by improved
sanitary methods and a greater number of parks. Edward S. Martin, writing
in _Appleton's Magazine_, states the case attractively:

    After all, there is an unrivaled attraction about human
    society, and it is considerably wholesome. It takes superior
    people to thrive on solitude even with quiet thrown in.
    Feebler folk have been known to regenerate even in the
    blessed country. It is no more possible in these days to
    stop the country people from coming to town than to stop the
    rivers from flowing to the sea.

    The cities offer the best opportunities to the people who
    are qualified to improve them. The cities are the great
    markets for talent and skill, as well as for commodities.
    They would be badly off if the energy that makes them hum
    were not perpetually re-enforced out of the great country
    reservoirs. The country would be a worse place if the
    superfluous vigor that is bred there had not the cities in
    which to spend itself.

    To get to some town is the natural and legitimate aspiration
    of a considerable proportion of the sons and daughters of
    American farmers. But as the waters that run to the sea are
    carried back by the process of evaporation, so there must
    be, as our cities grow greater, a return current out of them
    countryward for the people for whom town life is no longer
    profitable, and whose nerves and thews need nature's
    medication.

    There is such a current as it is. People who get rich in
    town promptly provide themselves with country homes, and
    spend more and more of the year in them as their years
    increase and their strength declines. But for the people who
    don't get rich, the combination, or the transition, is not
    so easy. A due proportion of the people who are game to
    stand more noise, canned food, and struggle in their lives,
    and who ought to get to town, will get there.

    The other process--to get back into the country the
    families, and especially the children, who have had more
    continuous city life than is good for them--needs a good
    deal of outside assistance, and gets some, though not yet as
    much as it requires.


MAKING MONEY IS A RELIGIOUS DUTY.

  John D. Rockefeller Recounts His Own
  Early Struggles and Shows to Young
  Men the Virtues of Economy.

It may be, as sometimes has been said, that more is to be learned from the
mistakes of other men than from their successes. If that be true it is
because the reasons for their mistakes can hardly be concealed. Whether or
not successful men betray the secrets of their successes, however, usually
rests with themselves. In studying success, it is the occasional intimate
disclosure that bears value rather than the superficial record.

John D. Rockefeller has addressed to the Bible class over which his son
presides a pamphlet entitled "First Ledger of a Successful Man of
Affairs." In it he tells of the ledger he kept as a young man, in which
all his receipts and expenditures were most carefully recorded; and
starting with this reminiscence he gives his advice to the young men of
to-day. He begins with the dictum that "it is a religious duty to get all
the money you can"--that is, "honestly and fairly"--and he sings the
virtues of rigid economy. Speaking of his own efforts to "get a footing,"
he says:

    If you all feel as I did when I was just starting in, I feel
    sorry for you. But I would not be without the memory of that
    struggle. And, discussing the struggle for success, what is
    success? Is it money? Some of you have all you need.

    Who is the poorest man in the world? I tell you, the poorest
    man I know is the man who has nothing but money, nothing
    else in the world upon which to devote his ambition and
    thought. That is the sort of man I consider to be the
    poorest in the world. Money is good if you know how to use
    it.

    Now, let me give you a little word of counsel. Keep a
    ledger, as I did. Write down in it all that you receive, and
    do not be ashamed to write down what you pay out. See that
    you pay it away in such a manner that your father and mother
    may look over your book and see just what you did with your
    money. It will help you to save money, and that you ought to
    do.

    It is a mistake for any man who wishes for happiness and to
    help others to think that he will wait until he has made a
    fortune before giving away money to deserving objects.


LET DOCTORS TELL WHAT THE MATTER IS.

  A Plea by Grover Cleveland for a Greater
  Degree of Confidence Between
  Physician and Patient.

Our only living ex-President, Mr. Cleveland, gave a bit of advice to the
doctors a few weeks ago. Speaking before the New York State Medical
Society, in session at Albany, he pleaded the rights of the patient to
know what his physician was doing to him. He humorously represented
himself as attorney for the great army of patients in their appeal to the
powerful minority of doctors:

    In all seriousness I desire to concede without the least
    reservation on behalf of the great army of patients that
    they owe to the medical profession a debt of gratitude which
    they can never repay, on account of hard, self-sacrificing
    work done for their benefit and for beneficent results
    accomplished in their interest.

    But at the same time we are inclined to insist that while
    our doctors have wonderfully advanced in all that increases
    the usefulness and nobility of their profession, this thing
    has not happened without some corresponding advance in the
    intelligent thought and ready information of their patients
    along the same lines.

    We have come to think of ourselves as worthy of confidence
    in the treatment of our ailments, and we believe if this was
    accorded to us in greater measure it would be better for the
    treatment and better for us. We do not claim that we should
    be called in consultation in all our illnesses, but we would
    be glad to have a little more explanation of the things done
    to us.


FOOD AS A PRIME FACTOR OF CHARACTER.

  What We Eat May Be More Important
  Than Where We Live or Who
  Our Parents Are.

Food makes the man; not heredity, not environment. Thus speaks John
Spargo, socialistic lecturer and author. The badly fed or underfed baby
quickly departs from the normal; imbecility, crime, pauperism all are
directly or indirectly due to the lack of food or its poor quality during
the plastic years.

Without accepting the doctrine that food is the sole factor in evolution,
some profit may be drawn from a more extended statement of Mr. Spargo's
views given in the New York _World_:

    The nervous, irritable, half-ill children to be found in
    such large numbers in our public schools represent poor
    material. They are largely drawn from the homes of poverty,
    and constitute an overwhelming majority of those children
    for whom we have found it necessary to make special
    provision--the dull pupils found year after year in the same
    grades with much younger children.

    In a measure the relation of a child's educability to its
    physical health and comfort has been recognized by the
    corelation of physical and mental exercises in most
    up-to-date schools, but its larger social and economic
    significance has been almost wholly ignored. And yet it is
    quite certain that poverty exercises the same retarding
    influences upon the physical training as upon mental
    education.

    There are certain conditions precedent to successful
    education, whether physical or mental. Chief of these are a
    reasonable amount of good, nourishing food and a healthy
    home. Deprived of these, physical or mental development must
    necessarily be hindered. And poverty means just that to the
    child. It denies its victim these very necessaries with the
    inevitable result--physical and mental weakness and
    inefficiency.

    Important as are the factors of proper housing and sanitary
    and hygienic conditions--matters which have occupied an
    ever-increasing amount of attention on the part of public
    officials as well as philanthropists in recent years--it is
    now generally confessed by science that, important as they
    are in themselves, they are relatively unimportant in the
    early years of child life.

    "Sanitary conditions do not make any real difference at
    all," was the testimony of Dr. Vincent before the British
    Departmental Committee. "It is food, and food alone." That
    the evils of underfeeding are intensified when there is a
    unhygienic environment is true, but it is equally true that
    defect in the diet is the prime and essential cause of the
    excessive death-rate among the children of the poor, and of
    those infantile diseases and ailments which make for
    defective adults, moral, mental, or physical, should they
    survive.


DR. W.S. RAINSFORD A FORCEFUL FIGURE.

  Fearless Utterances of the Rector of a
  Famous Institutional Church in
  New York.

Militant Christianity has for many years had no more energetic champion
than the Rev. Dr. William S. Rainsford, rector of St. George's Church, New
York City. When he took charge of the church in 1883, as a young man
thirty two-years of age, its congregation had greatly fallen off. In
twenty-two years of untiring work he built up the parish until it
contained more than seven thousand members, included in a varied system of
parochial activities.

Dr. Rainsford, who has resigned his charge owing to ill-health, used to be
a man of great physical vigor, a fact which emphasizes this suggestion of
the New York _Sun's_:

    The physical exhaustion which sent Dr. Rainsford abroad and
    now compels his retirement from duties so arduous seems to
    be a calamity afflicting clergymen more than other
    professional men and men of affairs. Is this because the
    emotional strain is so much greater in the case of a
    clergyman?

Dr. Rainsford--who was born in Ireland and educated in England--was
fearless in his pulpit utterances. In one sermon he said:

    It is vain to cry out against a thing that a vast proportion
    of mankind believes is not wrong. You can't make an Irishman
    believe it is wrong to have beer with his dinner; you can't
    make an Englishman believe it. And perhaps that is why I do
    not believe it is wrong to have it with mine.


LESSONS THAT MAY BE LEARNED FROM BIRDS.

  A Careful Study of the Turkey Buzzard
  May Teach Us the Secret of Flight,
  Says John P. Holland.

John P. Holland, the inventor of the submarine war-ship, said some very
interesting things at a recent banquet. The element that occupies his
attention is not air, but water. He dreams of a time when his shark-like
boats will make war on the sea a thing of the past. Yet he also has hopes
of air-ships. His advice to Professor Bell was to forget about his kites
and other artificial devices, and to study the turkey buzzard, which knows
more about flying than all the colleges on earth.

    The thing that beats you all, said Mr. Holland, is the
    humble turkey buzzard. There is an incomprehensible mystery
    which it is for mighty man to solve--how that bird can soar,
    circle, and sweep over a radius of half a mile without an
    apparent movement of its wings. Solve that mystery, and man
    will conquer the air.

It is not surprising that two men so practical as Professor Bell and John
P. Holland are joining the ranks of the air-ship enthusiasts. The air-ship
is not altogether a thing of the future. It is here now. Last month the
French government bought a couple for military purposes. The Wright
brothers, in Dayton, Ohio, have flown twenty-five miles on their machine
and carried with them a load of pig-iron besides. And at the recent
automobile exhibitions in New York, two flying-machines were put on
exhibition and sold.

Both Bell and Holland were called fools and dreamers thirty years ago,
because they believed it possible to send words along a wire and travel
under the sea. To-day they are regarded as practical men of
affairs--wealthy and honored. It is a striking fact that both of these
veteran inventors are looking for bigger things from the future than those
which they dug from the past. The air-ship age, they say, is at hand, and
the human race may get ready to fly.


CHINA IS SEEKING WESTERN LEARNING.

  Eminent Oriental Commissioners Travel
  Through the United States to Study
  Our Prosperity.

Their excellencies Tuan Fang and Tai Hung Chi, imperial Chinese
commissioners, came to the United States with open eyes to learn the
advantages of Western civilization. The fact of their coming was in itself
significant evidence of an existing state of affairs in China which the
Chinese minister to the United States, Sir Chentung Liang Cheng, explained
in the following words:

    It has been a fervent wish that China would wake from her
    sleep and join in the march of modern progress. The day of
    her awakening is at hand. The unrest of our people proves
    it. Large bodies move slowly, but when they begin to move
    they gain momentum; and when China gets started in the
    channels of progress it will be impossible to stop her. She
    has always looked to the United States in every crisis of
    her national career. I have no doubt that the result of the
    coming of the Imperial Commission will bring the two
    countries into closer relations.

This little speech was delivered a few weeks ago at a banquet in New York,
where a number of representative Americans were gathered to meet the
visitors. Tuan Fang spoke the same evening--using the Chinese language,
his remarks being translated by his secretary, Alfred Sze, who is a
graduate of Cornell University, class of 1901.

This translated address included the following passage:

    Since our arrival in this country we have had every
    opportunity to see the material side of your great nation.
    All business and manufacturing establishments have thrown
    their doors wide open to us, and afforded us ample
    facilities to look into the American way of doing things.

    Your government has likewise given us the same unrestricted
    facilities, for all of which we are very, very grateful. It
    is needless to say that we are deeply impressed with the
    vast resources of the country and the marvelous energy of
    its people. We are pleased to note, however, that in the
    midst of this wonderful material expansion you have not lost
    sight of the moral upbuilding of the country. We are,
    therefore, glad to meet here this evening representative
    Americans who are engaged in this beneficent labor.

This commissioner, Tuan Fang, is a considerable man in his own country. As
viceroy of two important provinces--Fu-Kien and Che-Kiang--his influence
is far-reaching. What he said about his experiences in the United States
was, perhaps, not so important as his definite tribute to American
missionaries. The missionary is often charged with arousing hostility by
violating native customs; but the viceroy said:

    We take pleasure this evening in bearing testimony to the
    part taken by American missionaries in promoting the
    progress of the Chinese people. They have borne the light of
    Western civilization into every nook and corner of the
    empire. They have rendered inestimable service to China by
    the laborious task of translating instructive books into the
    Chinese language.

Truly, after listening that evening to these representatives of cultured
China, the hearers could share the feeling of John W. Foster, the
toastmaster on this occasion. Mr. Foster, one of the ablest of American
diplomats, said:

    When I meet a Chinese gentleman I have the impulse to stand
    uncovered in his presence and to make a profound bow, out of
    respect to his great empire and race, antedating in their
    existence and civilization all others of which we have any
    record, with achievements unsurpassed in literature, in
    philosophy, in art, and in useful inventions.




Love-Letters of the Great.

  Passion, Tenderness, Sweetness, Reverence, All the Deep Tones of Love,
  Make Beautiful the Letters Written by Various
  Great Men to Their Wives.


Men of genius and power--kings, commanders, poets, painters--belong not to
themselves, but to the world. Greatness destroys privacy; and many a
person of note has lived to see described in print the most minute of his
little, unsuspected peculiarities. This invasion of the right to be let
alone is inevitable. Even love-letters do not escape.

It is only a few years since the love-letters of the Brownings--Elizabeth
Barrett and Robert--were given to the world. As models in the expression
of deep and tender affection it will be long before they are displaced.
Yet specimens of the love-letters of other eminent men and women are full
of tenderness, passion, reverence.


QUEEN VICTORIA'S ROMANCE.

Prince Albert, the husband of Queen Victoria, having occasion to make a
trip to Europe, wrote to the queen:

    MY OWN DARLING: We got over our journey thus far rapidly and
    well, but the tide was so unmannerly as to be an hour later
    than the time calculated, so that I cannot sail before
    three. I have been an hour here, and regret the lost time
    which I might have spent with you. Poor child! you will,
    while I write, be getting ready for luncheon, and will find
    the place vacant where I sat yesterday. In your heart,
    however, I hope my place will not be vacant.

    I at least have you on board with me in spirit. Try to
    occupy yourself as much as possible. You are even now half a
    day nearer to seeing me again; by the time you get this
    letter it will be a whole day; thirteen more and I am again
    within your arms. To-morrow Seymour will bring you further
    news of me. Your most devoted

    ALBERT.


LEIGH HUNT AND HIS MARIANNE.

Leigh Hunt carried his versatility into his love-letters to Miss Marianne
Kent, his future wife. Below is an example written when he was nineteen:

    MY DEAREST MARIANNE: I am very uncomfortable; I get up at
    five in the morning, say a word to nobody, curse my stars
    till eleven at night, then creep into bed to curse my stars
    for to-morrow; and all this because I love a little
    black-eyed girl of fifteen, whom nobody knows, with all my
    heart and soul. You must not suppose I love you a bit the
    better for being fifty miles out of my reach in the daytime,
    for I travel at a pretty tolerable pace every night and have
    held many a happy chat with you about twelve or one o'clock
    at midnight, though you have forgotten it by this time.

Here follows a stanza of poetry, after which he proceeds:

    You see, lovers can no more help being poets than poets can
    help being lovers. I shall see you again and will pay you
    prettily for running away from me, for you shall not stir
    from my side the whole evening. If you are well and have
    been so at Brighton, you are everything I could wish you.
    God bless you and yours. You see I can still pray for
    myself. Heaven knows that every blessing bestowed on you is
    a tenfold one bestowed on your

    H.


THE KINGLY LOVE OF CHARLES I.

In a way which proved him an adept in the art, Charles I wrote to the
Princess Henrietta Maria, daughter of Henry IV of France, when she was
coming to join him:

    DEAR HEART: I never knew till now the good of ignorance, for
    I did not know the danger thou wert in by the storm before I
    had assurance of thy happy escape, we having had a pleasing
    false report of thy safe landing at Newcastle, which thine
    of the 19th of January so far confirmed us in that we were
    at least not undeceived of that hope till we knew certainly
    how great a danger thou hast passed, of which I shall not be
    out of apprehension until I have the happiness of thy
    company.

    For indeed I think it not the least of my misfortunes that
    for my sake thou hast run so much hazard. But my heart being
    full of admiration for thee, affection for thee, and
    impatient passion of gratitude to thee, I cannot but say
    something, leaving the rest to be read by thee out of thine
    own noble heart.

    CHARLES R.


NAPOLEON TO HIS FIRST LOVE.

Napoleon Bonaparte, in a passionate letter to Josephine, said:

    I have received your letter, my adorable friend. It has
    filled my heart with joy. I hope that you are better. I
    earnestly desire that you should ride on horseback, as it
    cannot fail to benefit you.

    Since I left you I have been constantly depressed. My
    happiness is to be near you. Incessantly I live over in my
    memory your caresses, your tears, your affectionate
    solicitude. The charms of the incomparable Josephine kindle
    continually a burning and a glowing flame in my heart. When
    entirely free from all harassing care, shall I be able to
    pass all my time with you, having only to love you and to
    think only of the happiness of so saying and of proving it
    to you? I will send you your horse, but I hope you will soon
    join me.

    I thought I loved you months ago, but since my separation
    from you I feel that I love you a thousandfold more. Each
    day since I knew you have I adored you yet more and more.
    Ah! I entreat you to let me see some of your faults; be less
    beautiful, less graceful, less affectionate, less good,
    especially be not overanxious, and never weep. Your tears
    rob me of reason and inflame my blood.

    Believe me that it is not in my power to have a single
    thought that is not of you, or a wish that I cannot reveal
    to you. Quickly reestablish your health and join me, that at
    last before death we may be able to say "We were many days
    happy." A thousand kisses, and one even to Fortuna,
    notwithstanding his spitefulness.

    BONAPARTE.


THE FIDELITY OF WASHINGTON.

The following letter from George Washington to his wife is a beautiful
example of love that was as fresh after twenty years as at the first, and
illustrates perfectly the sane balance of his great mind:

    My Dearest Life and Love: You have hurt me, I know not how
    much, by the insinuation in your last that my letters to you
    have been less frequent because I have felt less concern for
    you. The suspicion is most unkind. Have we lived almost a
    score of years in the closest and dearest conjugal intimacy
    to so little purpose that on the appearance only of
    inattention to you, and which you might have accounted for
    in a thousand ways more natural and more probable, you
    should pitch upon that single motive which alone is
    injurious to me?

    I have not, I own, wrote so often to you as I wished and as
    I ought, but think of my situation and then ask your heart
    if I be without excuse. We are not, my dearest, in
    circumstances most favorable to our happiness; but let us
    not, I beseech you, idly make them worse by indulging in
    suspicions and apprehensions which minds in distress are but
    too apt to give way to. Your most faithful and tender
    husband,

    G.W.


BRIEF BUT SINCERE "OLD NOLL."

Oliver Cromwell seemed to have similar difficulties when he wrote:

    MY DEAREST: I have not leisure to write much; but I could
    chide thee that, in many of thy letters, thou writest to me
    that I should not be unmindful of thee and thy little ones.
    Truly, if I love you not too well, I think I err not on the
    other hand much. Thou art dearer to me than any creature;
    let that suffice. I rest thine

    OLIVER CROMWELL.


POE'S HEART IN A TIME OF TRIAL.

In the midst of his trials, Edgar Allan Poe, the famous American poet,
wrote to his wife:

    MY DEAR HEART, MY DEAR VIRGINIA: Our mother will explain to
    you why I stayed away from you this night. On my last great
    disappointment I should have lost my courage but for you, my
    little darling wife. I shall be with you to-morrow, and be
    assured until I see you I will keep in loving remembrance
    your last words and your fervent prayer. May God grant you a
    peaceful summer with your devoted

    Edgar.


THE LOVE OF BISMARCK.

Bismarck, the man of iron, to the last day of his life was tenderly
devoted to his wife, using the most endearing terms in writing to her.
While he was in Paris, during the early days of their married life, he
wrote to her:

    They say that here one may see the most beautiful women in
    the world--women whose charms are a scepter more powerful
    than a king's. I have seen them all, my little heart, and
    now I know why you hold me in such unbreakable chains; for
    there is none of all these fair ones so richly dowered as my
    darling with all that gives a woman empire over the hearts
    of men.




An Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge.

BY AMBROSE BIERCE.


    Among living American writers of short stories, Ambrose
    Bierce is un-excelled in strength and fine simplicity. Born
    in 1842, he served during the Civil War, and was brevetted
    major for distinguished services. He went to California in
    1866, and his name became familiar to readers of Pacific
    Coast journals. His contributions, however, quickly won a
    hearing throughout the country and in England, whither he
    went in 1872, remaining for a few years and writing for
    English periodicals. Later he returned to California, and
    more recently he removed to Washington.

    The keenest, most incisive, most telling contemporary
    criticism was found in the column he used to contribute to
    the San Francisco _Examiner_, "Prattle: A Transient Record
    of Individual Opinion." Of his verse, at least one poem,
    "The Passing Show," is deserving of a permanent place in
    literature. More verse, more fiction, would be welcome from
    his pen. He has produced less than those who read the
    following story will wish, for the reason, perhaps, that he
    has freely given so much of his time to teaching others how
    to write.

    It is natural, considering the experiences through which he
    passed at the time of life in which conscious impressions
    are most vivid, that Mr. Bierce should turn frequently to
    the incidents of war. The very restraint of his style makes
    his war pictures the more impressive--adds to their potency
    as arguments for peace. "An Occurrence at Owl Creek
    Bridge"[A] is Mr. Bierce at his best. Powerful, grim,
    pathetic, it dips deep into the well of the human soul.

A man stood upon a railroad bridge in northern Alabama, looking down into
the swift waters twenty feet below. The man's hands were behind his back,
the wrists bound with a cord. A rope loosely encircled his neck. It was
attached to a stout cross-timber above his head, and the slack fell to the
level of his knees. Some loose boards laid upon the sleepers supporting
the metals of the railway supplied a footing for him, and his
executioners--two private soldiers of the Federal army, directed by a
sergeant, who in civil life may have been a deputy sheriff. At a short
remove upon the same temporary platform was an officer in the uniform of
his rank, armed. He was a captain. A sentinel at each end of the bridge
stood with his rifle in the position known as "support"--that is to say,
vertical in front of the left shoulder, the hammer resting on the forearm
thrown straight across the chest--a formal and unnatural position,
enforcing an erect carriage of the body. It did not appear to be the duty
of these two men to know what was occurring at the center of the bridge;
they merely blockaded the two ends of the foot-plank which traversed it.

[Footnote A: This story is taken from "In the Midst of Life," a volume of
Mr. Bierce's tales--Copyright, 1898, by G.P. Putnam's Sons, New York.]

Beyond one of the sentinels, nobody was in sight; the railroad ran
straight away into a forest for a hundred yards, then, curving, was lost
to view. Doubtless there was an outpost farther along. The other bank of
the stream was open ground--a gentle acclivity crowned with a stockade of
vertical tree-trunks, loopholed for rifles, with a single embrasure
through which protruded the muzzle of a brass cannon commanding the
bridge. Midway of the slope between bridge and fort were the spectators--a
single company of infantry in line, at "parade rest," the butts of the
rifles on the ground, the barrels inclining slightly backward against the
right shoulder, the hands crossed upon the stock. A lieutenant stood at
the right of the line, the point of his sword upon the ground, his left
hand resting upon his right. Excepting the group of four at the center of
the bridge, not a man moved. The company faced the bridge, staring
stonily, motionless. The sentinels, facing the banks of the stream, might
have been statues to adorn the bridge. The captain stood with folded arms,
silent, observing the work of his subordinates, but making no sign. Death
is a dignitary who, when he comes announced, is to be received with formal
manifestations of respect, even by those most familiar with him. In the
code of military etiquette, silence and fixity are forms of deference.

The man who was engaged in being hanged was apparently about thirty-five
years of age. He was a civilian, if one might judge from his habit, which
was that of a planter. His features were good--a straight nose, firm
mouth, broad forehead, from which his long, dark hair was combed straight
back, falling behind his ears to the collar of his well-fitting frock
coat. He wore a mustache and pointed beard, but no whiskers; his eyes were
large and dark-gray and had a kindly expression which one would hardly
have expected in one whose neck was in the hemp. Evidently this was no
vulgar assassin. The liberal military code makes provision for hanging
many kinds of persons, and gentlemen are not excluded.

The preparations being complete, the two private soldiers stepped aside
and each drew away the plank upon which he had been standing. The sergeant
turned to the captain, saluted, and placed himself immediately behind that
officer, who in turn moved apart one pace. These movements left the
condemned man and the sergeant standing on the two ends of the same plank,
which spanned three of the cross-ties of the bridge. The end upon which
the civilian stood almost, but not quite, reached a fourth. This plank had
been held in place by the weight of the captain; it was now held by that
of the sergeant. At a signal from the former, the latter would step
aside, the plank would tilt, and the condemned man go down between two
ties. The arrangement commended itself to his judgment as simple and
effective. His face had not been covered nor his eyes bandaged. He looked
a moment at his "unsteadfast footing," then let his gaze wander to the
swirling water of the stream racing madly beneath his feet. A piece of
dancing driftwood caught his attention and his eyes followed it down the
current. How slowly it appeared to move! What a sluggish stream!

He closed his eyes in order to fix his last thoughts upon his wife and
children. The water, touched to gold by the early sun, the brooding mists
under the banks at some distance down the stream, the fort, the soldiers,
the piece of drift--all had distracted him. And now he became conscious of
a new disturbance. Striking through the thought of his dear ones was a
sound which he could neither ignore nor understand, a sharp, distinct,
metallic percussion like the stroke of a blacksmith's hammer upon the
anvil; it had the same ringing quality. He wondered what it was, and
whether immeasurably distant or near by--it seemed both. Its recurrence
was regular, but as slow as the tolling of a death-knell. He awaited each
stroke with impatience and--he knew not why--apprehension. The intervals
of silence grew progressively longer; the delays became maddening. With
their greater infrequency the sounds increased in strength and sharpness.
They hurt his ear like the thrust of a knife; he feared he should shriek.
What he heard was the ticking of his watch.

He unclosed his eyes and saw again the water below him. "If I could free
my hands," he thought, "I might throw off the noose and spring into the
stream. By diving I could evade the bullets, and, swimming vigorously,
reach the bank, take to the woods, and get away home. My home, thank God,
is as yet outside their lines; my wife and little ones are still beyond
the invader's farthest advance."

As these thoughts, which have here to be set down in words, were flashed
into the doomed man's brain rather than evolved from it, the captain
nodded to the sergeant. The sergeant stepped aside.


II.

Peyton Farquhar was a well-to-do planter, of an old and highly respected
Alabama family. Being a slave-owner, and, like other slave-owners, a
politician, he was naturally an original secessionist and ardently devoted
to the Southern cause. Circumstances of an imperious nature, which it is
unnecessary to relate here, had prevented him from taking service with the
gallant army which had fought the disastrous campaigns ending with the
fall of Corinth, and he chafed under the inglorious restraint, longing for
the release of his energies, the larger life of the soldier, the
opportunity for distinction. That opportunity, he felt, would come, as it
comes to all in war time. Meanwhile he did what he could. No service was
too humble for him to perform in aid of the South, no adventure too
perilous for him to undertake if consistent with the character of a
civilian who was at heart a soldier, and who in good faith and without too
much qualification assented to at least a part of the frankly villainous
dictum that all is fair in love and war.

One evening, while Farquhar and his wife were sitting on a rustic bench
near the entrance to his grounds, a gray-clad soldier rode up to the gate
and asked for a drink of water. Mrs. Farquhar was only too happy to serve
him with her own white hands. While she was gone to fetch the water her
husband approached the dusty horseman and inquired eagerly for news from
the front.

"The Yanks are repairing the railroads," said the man, "and are getting
ready for another advance. They have reached the Owl Creek Bridge, put it
in order, and built a stockade on the north bank. The commandant has
issued an order, which is posted everywhere, declaring that any civilian
caught interfering with the railroad, its bridges, tunnels, or trains,
will be summarily hanged. I saw the order."

"How far is it to the Owl Creek Bridge?" Farquhar asked.

"About thirty miles."

"Is there no force on this side the creek?"

"Only a picket post half a mile out, on the railroad, and a single
sentinel at this end of the bridge."

"Suppose a man--a civilian and student of hanging--should elude the picket
post and perhaps get the better of the sentinel," said Farquhar, smiling,
"what could he accomplish?"

The soldier reflected. "I was there a month ago," he replied. "I observed
that the flood of last winter had lodged a great quantity of driftwood
against the wooden pier at this end of the bridge. It is now dry and would
burn like tow."

The lady had now brought the water, which the soldier drank. He thanked
her ceremoniously, bowed to her husband, and rode away. An hour later,
after nightfall, he repassed the plantation, going northward in the
direction from which he had come. He was a Federal scout.


III.

As Peyton Farquhar fell straight downward through the bridge he lost
consciousness and was as one already dead. From this state he was
awakened--ages later, it seemed to him--by the pain of a sharp pressure
upon his throat, followed by a sense of suffocation. Keen, poignant
agonies seemed to shoot from his neck downward through every fiber of his
body and limbs. These pains appeared to flash along well-defined lines of
ramification and to beat with an inconceivably rapid periodicity. They
seemed like streams of pulsating fire heating him to an intolerable
temperature. As to his head, he was conscious of nothing but a feeling of
fulness--of congestion. These sensations were unaccompanied by thought.
The intellectual part of his nature was already effaced; he had power only
to feel, and feeling was torment. He was conscious of motion. Encompassed
in a luminous cloud, of which he was now merely the fiery heart, without
material substance, he swung through unthinkable arcs of oscillation, like
a vast pendulum. Then all at once, with terrible suddenness, the light
about him shot upward with the noise of a loud splash; a frightful
roaring was in his ears, and all was cold and dark. The power of thought
was restored; he knew that the rope had broken and he had fallen into the
stream. There was no additional strangulation; the noose about his neck
was already suffocating him and kept the water from his lungs. To die of
hanging at the bottom of a river!--the idea seemed to him ludicrous. He
opened his eyes in the darkness and saw above him a gleam of light, but
how distant, how inaccessible! He was still sinking, for the light became
fainter and fainter until it was a mere glimmer. Then it began to grow and
brighten, and he knew that he was rising toward the surface--knew it with
reluctance, for he was now very comfortable. "To be hanged and drowned,"
he thought, "that is not so bad; but I do not wish to be shot. No; I will
not be shot; that is not fair."

He was not conscious of an effort, but a sharp pain in his wrists apprised
him that he was trying to free his hands. He gave the struggle his
attention, as an idler might observe the feat of a juggler, without
interest in the outcome. What splendid effort!--what magnificent, what
superhuman strength! Ah, that was a fine endeavor! Bravo! The cord fell
away; his arms parted and floated upward, the hands dimly seen on each
side in the growing light. He watched them with a new interest as first
one and then the other pounced upon the noose at his neck. They tore it
away and thrust it fiercely aside, its undulations resembling those of a
water-snake. "Put it back, put it back!" He thought he shouted these words
to his hands, for the undoing of the noose had been succeeded by the
direst pang which he had yet experienced. His neck ached horribly; his
brain was on fire; his heart, which had been fluttering faintly, gave a
great leap, trying to force itself out at his mouth. His whole body was
racked and wrenched with an insupportable anguish! But his disobedient
hands gave no heed to the command. They beat the water vigorously with
quick, downward strokes, forcing him to the surface. He felt his head
emerge; his eyes were blinded by the sunlight; his chest expanded
convulsively, and with a supreme and crowning agony his lungs engulfed a
great draft of air, which instantly he expelled in a shriek.

He was now in full possession of his physical senses. They were, indeed,
preternaturally keen and alert. Something in the awful disturbance of his
organic system had so exalted and refined them that they made record of
things never before perceived. He felt the ripples upon his face and heard
their separate sounds as they struck. He looked at the forest on the bank
of the stream, saw the individual trees, the leaves and the veining of
each leaf--saw the very insects upon them, the locusts, the
brilliant-bodied flies, the gray spiders stretching their webs from twig
to twig. He noted the prismatic colors in all the dewdrops upon a million
blades of grass. The humming of the gnats that danced above the eddies of
the stream, the beating of the dragon-flies' wings, the strokes of the
water-spiders' legs, like oars which had lifted their boat--all these made
audible music. A fish slid along beneath his eyes and he heard the rush of
its body parting the water.

He had come to the surface facing down the stream; in a moment the visible
world seemed to wheel slowly round, himself the pivotal point, and he saw
the bridge, the fort, the soldiers upon the bridge, the captain, the
sergeant, the two privates, his executioners. They were in silhouette
against the blue sky. They shouted and gesticulated, pointing at him; the
captain had drawn his pistol, but did not fire; the others were unarmed.
Their movements were grotesque and horrible, their forms gigantic.

Suddenly he heard a sharp report and something struck the water smartly
within a few inches of his head, spattering his face with spray. He heard
a second report, and saw one of the sentinels with his rifle at his
shoulder, a light cloud of blue smoke rising from the muzzle. The man in
the water saw the eye of the man on the bridge gazing into his own through
the sights of the rifle. He observed that it was a gray eye, and
remembered having read that gray eyes were keenest and that all famous
marksmen had them. Nevertheless, this one had missed.

A counter-swirl had caught Farquhar and turned him half round; he was
again looking into the forest on the bank opposite the fort. The sound of
a clear, high voice in a monotonous singsong now rang out behind him and
came across the water with a distinctness that pierced and subdued all
other sounds, even the beating of the ripples in his ears. Although no
soldier, he had frequented camps enough to know the dread significance of
that deliberate, drawling, aspirated chant; the lieutenant on shore was
taking a part in the morning's work. How coldly and pitilessly--with what
an even, calm intonation, presaging and enforcing tranquillity in the
men--with what accurately measured intervals fell those cruel words:

"Attention, company! Shoulder arms! Ready! Aim! Fire!"

Farquhar dived--dived as deeply as he could. The water roared in his ears
like the voice of Niagara, yet he heard the dulled thunder of the volley,
and, rising again toward the surface, met shining bits of metal,
singularly flattened, oscillating slowly downward. Some of them touched
him on the face and hands, then fell away, continuing their descent. One
lodged between his collar and neck; it was uncomfortably warm, and he
snatched it out.

As he rose to the surface, gasping for breath, he saw that he had been a
long time under water; he was perceptibly farther down stream--nearer to
safety. The soldiers had almost finished reloading; the metal ramrods
flashed all at once in the sunshine as they were drawn from the barrels,
turned in the air, and thrust into their sockets. The two sentinels fired
again, independently and ineffectually.

The hunted man saw all this over his shoulder; he was now swimming
vigorously with the current. His brain was as energetic as his arms and
legs; he thought with the rapidity of lightning.

"The officer," he reasoned, "will not make that martinet's error a second
time. It is as easy to dodge a volley as a single shot. He has probably
already given the command to fire at will. God help me, I cannot dodge
them all!"

An appalling splash within two yards of him, followed by a loud, rushing
sound, _diminuendo_, which seemed to travel back through the air to the
fort and died in an explosion which stirred the very river to its deeps! A
rising sheet of water, which curved over him, fell down upon him, blinded
him, strangled him! The cannon had taken a hand in the game. As he shook
his head free from the commotion of the smitten water he heard the
deflected shot humming through the air ahead, and in an instant it was
cracking and smashing the branches in the forest beyond.

"They will not do that again," he thought; "the next time they will use a
charge of grape. I must keep my eye upon the gun; the smoke will apprise
me--the report arrives too late; it lags behind the missile. That is a
good gun."

Suddenly he felt himself whirled round and round--spinning like a top. The
water, the banks, the forest, the now distant bridge, fort, and men--all
were commingled and blurred. Objects were represented by their colors
only; circular horizontal streaks of color--that was all he saw. He had
been caught in a vortex and was being whirled on with a velocity of
advance and gyration which made him giddy and sick. In a few moments he
was flung upon the gravel at the foot of the left bank of the stream--the
southern bank--and behind a projecting point, which concealed him from his
enemies. The sudden arrest of his motion, the abrasion of one of his hands
on the gravel, restored him, and he wept with delight. He dug his fingers
into the sand, threw it over himself in handfuls, and audibly blessed it.
It looked like diamonds, rubies, emeralds; he could think of nothing
beautiful which it did not resemble. The trees upon the bank were giant
garden plants; he noted a definite order in their arrangement, inhaled the
fragrance of their blooms. A strange, roseate light shone through the
spaces among their trunks, and the wind made in their branches the music
of eolian harps. He had no wish to perfect his escape, he was content to
remain in that enchanting spot until retaken.

A whiz and rattle of grapeshot among the branches high above his head
roused him from his dream. The baffled cannoneer had fired him a random
farewell. He sprang to his feet, rushed up the sloping bank, and plunged
into the forest.

All that day he traveled, laying his course by the rounding sun. The
forest seemed interminable; nowhere did he discover a break in it, not
even a woodman's road. He had not known that he lived in so wild a region.
There was something uncanny in the revelation.

By nightfall he was fatigued, footsore, famishing. The thought of his wife
and children urged him on. At last he found a road which led him in what
he knew to be the right direction. It was as wide and straight as a city
street, yet it seemed untraveled. No fields bordered it, no dwelling
anywhere. Not so much as the barking of a dog suggested human habitation.
The black bodies of the trees formed a straight wall on both sides,
terminating on the horizon in a point, like a diagram in a lesson in
perspective. Overhead, as he looked up through this rift in the wood,
shone great golden stars, looking unfamiliar and grouped in strange
constellations. He was sure they were arranged in some order which had a
secret and malign significance. The wood was full of noises, among which
he distinctly heard whispers in an unknown tongue.

His neck was in pain, and lifting his hand to it, he found it horribly
swollen. He knew that it had a circle of black where the rope had bruised
it. His eyes felt congested; he could no longer close them. His tongue was
swollen with thirst; he relieved its fever by thrusting it forward from
between his teeth into the cool air. How softly the turf had carpeted the
untraveled avenue--he could no longer feel the roadway beneath his feet!

Doubtless, despite his suffering, he had fallen asleep while walking, for
now he sees another scene--perhaps he has merely recovered from a
delirium. He stands at the gate of his own home. All is as he left it, and
all bright and beautiful in the morning sunshine. He must have traveled
the entire night. As he pushes open the gate and passes up the wide white
walk he sees a flutter of female garments; his wife, looking fresh and
cool and sweet, steps down from the veranda to meet him. At the bottom of
the steps she stands waiting, with a smile of ineffable joy, an attitude
of matchless grace and dignity. Ah, how beautiful she is! He springs
forward with extended arms. As he is about to clasp her he feels a
stunning blow upon the back of the neck; a blinding white light blazes all
about him, with a sound like the shock of a cannon--then all is darkness
and silence!

Peyton Farquhar was dead; his body, with a broken neck, swung gently from
side to side beneath the timbers of the Owl Creek Bridge.




THE GIANT AND PYGMY OF BOOKLAND.


The extremes of bookland which meet in the British Museum are each
remarkable products of the art of book-making. Difficulties would seem to
attend the perusal of either of them, though of a widely different sort.
Here is to be seen the largest book in the world--an atlas of the
fifteenth century. It is seven feet high. When a tall man consults it, his
head is hidden as he stands between its generous leaves. Its stout binding
and ponderous clasps make it seem as substantial as the walls of a room.

The smallest book in the world is a tiny "Bijou Almanac"--less than an
inch square, bound in dainty red morocco, and easily to be concealed in
the finger of a lady's glove.

These two extremes of the printer's art might well stand at the beginning
and the end of the amazing thirty-seven miles of shelves filled with books
which belong to the great English library.




The Great Southwest.

BY CHARLES M. HARVEY.

  The Marvelous Development, Agricultural, Industrial, and Commercial, That
  Is Now in Progress in the States of Texas and Arkansas and
  the Adjoining Territories.

_Revised from_ MUNSEY'S MAGAZINE _and brought up to date by the author
for_ THE SCRAP BOOK.


    EDITOR'S NOTE.--In the growth of interest in the great
    States west of the Mississippi River the Southwest has until
    lately been commonly neglected. Gold sent men rushing first
    to the mountain States. Then grain led them to the prairie
    States. With the more fertile wheat lands fully occupied,
    there has of late been a tendency to the Canadian Northwest.
    But at the same time a remarkable development, commercial
    and industrial, as well as agricultural, has been going on
    in the Southwest. The progress made in Texas during the last
    few years is simply astounding.

Unknown to the great mass of the people of the United States, a new empire
is being planted in the Southwest. Much is written about the thousands who
are crossing the Canadian frontier and settling in Manitoba, Assiniboia,
and Alberta; but very little is heard about the tens of thousands from the
Northwest and the Middle West, from the East and Europe, who are moving
into Arkansas, Oklahoma, the Indian Territory, Texas, New Mexico, and
Arizona.

The officials of the railways running into this latter region could tell a
little of this story if they wished to. Last year, from April to November,
something like a million dollars was paid into the treasuries of the
Atchison, Topeka and Sante Fé, the Chicago, Rock Island and Pacific, the
Iron Mountain, the Missouri Pacific, the St. Louis and San Francisco, and
the Missouri, Kansas and Texas railways, for fares by seekers of homes in
the Southwest. About one-third of these prospectors become permanent
settlers. The money put into farms, into manufacturing industries, and
into business of various sorts in that region, according to the estimates
of railway officials and of immigration agents, has amounted during the
past twelve months to fully two hundred million dollars.


The Empire State of the Future.

Consider for a moment the State of Texas--as she was, as she is, and as
she will be. Admitted to the Union in 1845, newly baptized with blood in
her struggle against the Mexicans, she then contained little more than a
hundred thousand inhabitants. To-day she has three and a half millions,
and ranks fifth among the States, having passed Missouri since the last
census. Only New York, Pennsylvania, Illinois, and Ohio are now ahead of
her. If all these States continue to advance in population at the same
rate as in recent years, she will pass Ohio before 1920, Illinois by 1930,
and Pennsylvania by 1940. Before 1950 she will have outstripped New York
and will be the Empire State of the Union.

In spite of her more than twenty-fold increase during the past six
decades, Texas is still, comparatively speaking, a sparsely settled
region. She has as yet a mere fraction of the population her generous soil
could support. Remember that she is larger than France or Germany, larger
than two Italys or two Great Britains. When she became a State she had
two square miles of land for each of her inhabitants. She now has about
thirteen people to each square mile. The State of New York has one hundred
and sixty people to the square mile, and is steadily growing in
population. Massachusetts has three hundred and seventy-five to the square
mile, and is steadily growing. Belgium has five hundred and ninety to the
square mile, and is steadily growing. England has six hundred and
twenty-five to the square mile, and is steadily growing. If the present
ratio of increase continues, think of the incalculable growth that the
coming years will bring to the great Southwestern State!

If Texas were peopled as densely as New York State, she would have
forty-two million inhabitants--more than ten times what she has. Settled
as closely as Massachusetts, she would have one hundred millions; as
closely as England, one hundred and sixty-six millions. This American
State is destined to rank with the powers of the world.

Remarkable as was the showing that Texas made at the last census, other
portions of the Southwest could point to a still more phenomenal gain.
While the population of the Lone Star State advanced thirty-six per cent
between 1890 and 1900, that of Arizona rose one hundred and five per cent,
that of the Indian Territory one hundred and seventeen per cent, and that
of Oklahoma no less than five hundred and forty-four per cent in the ten
years.


Texas Now Leads in Railways.

From 1870 till 1904 Illinois had a larger number of miles of railway than
any other State. In 1904 Texas passed Illinois. On March 1, 1906, the
great Southwestern State had approximately twelve thousand miles of main
railway track, or over two hundred miles in excess of Illinois.
Pennsylvania, Iowa, Ohio, Michigan, and New York, in this order, stand
below Illinois in railway mileage, New York's total at the same date being
a little short of nine thousand miles.

In recent years, about half of the country's entire new railway mileage
has been built in the Southwest. The increase of mileage between 1897 and
the end of 1903 was twelve and a half per cent for the United States. It
was ten per cent in the Middle States, seven per cent in the Rocky
Mountain region and on the Pacific Slope, and three per cent in Ohio and
Indiana. It was twenty-seven per cent in the section comprising Arkansas,
Oklahoma, the Indian Territory, Texas, and New Mexico. There could
scarcely be a more significant index of advancing wealth, population, and
industry.


The Land of Corn and Cotton.

The Southwest at this moment is enjoying a prosperity unexampled in its
annals. Last year's yield of corn, wheat, and cotton proved better than
was expected early in the season, the corn crop being particularly good.
Land values have doubled in much of this region during the past five
years; though prices are still so much below those prevailing in Missouri,
Iowa, Minnesota, Ohio, Illinois, and Indiana that the inrush from those
States continues to be large.

Traveling salesmen report better business in Oklahoma, Texas, and their
neighbors than in any other part of the West. More visitors came to the
St. Louis Exposition from the Southwestern States and Territories than
from any other part of the country, in proportion to population--which was
a good test of that region's financial condition.

Before the Civil War, when the South was proclaiming cotton to be king,
cotton's realm was in the Atlantic seaboard States. But Texas now produces
nearly a third of the country's entire crop. Her recent average has been
about three million bales; last year the yield was a little less than
that. The Indian Territory and Oklahoma are beginning to figure
prominently in cotton production. Cotton accounts for much of the
prosperity of the Southwest. More and more the farmers of that region are
raising other crops for a living, and using the proceeds of their
cotton-fields as a surplus fund.


What Statehood Will Mean.

Statehood, of course, will give a new impetus to the growth of the
Territories of the Southwest, attracting settlers and capital. It is
practically certain that Oklahoma and the Indian Territory are shortly to
become a State under the name of Oklahoma. The political future of New
Mexico and Arizona is more problematical, being a subject of controversy
at Washington as this is written. It is variously proposed to admit each
Territory separately, to admit New Mexico while excluding her sister
Territory, or to unite them into a single State, probably under the title
of Arizona. The question will have been settled before this reaches the
reader, unless its settlement is postponed to a later session of Congress.

The State of Oklahoma will start with a population of fully a million and
a half--about equal to that of California, and considerably above that of
such commonwealths as Louisiana, South Carolina, or Maryland. If New
Mexico and Arizona should be united, they will have about half a million
inhabitants. In area they will form the second State in the Union,
inferior only to Texas.


The Growth of the Gulf Ports.

Through the growing popularity of the Gulf ports as outlets for the
country's merchandise, the Southwest is bound to be a great gainer. As
compared with 1904, there was a larger gain in the exports by the ports of
the Gulf of Mexico in 1905 than the Atlantic ports showed.

This gain is due to several causes. More and more the great railways are
establishing terminals at the Gulf outlets. From the chief productive
centers of the Mississippi Valley the distances to these points are
shorter than to the Atlantic, and the grades are easier. In population,
productivity, and general industrial and commercial importance, the
southern end of the vast Mississippi Valley is growing with
disproportionate rapidity. The Southwest's pull on the population center
of the United States is shown by the fact that during the decade ending
with 1900 that point moved fourteen miles westward and three miles
southward.

The center of the country's production of wheat and of oats, and the
center of the total area in the country's farms, are now west of the
Mississippi. The center of the production of cotton, now on the western
verge of the State of Mississippi, and the center of the production of
corn, now in the western part of Illinois, will cross the big river before
1910. More than sixty-five per cent of the country's exports already
originate west of the Mississippi.


Galveston and the Panama Canal.

For all the region between the Mississippi and the continental divide of
the Rockies, the Texas ports, chiefly Galveston, will be the natural
outlets to the sea. In aggregate value of merchandise exports Galveston
has left Charleston, Baltimore, Philadelphia, and Boston far behind. In
the last calendar year she stood third among American ports in the value
of her merchandise shipments, New York and New Orleans being the only two
ahead of her. She has gained so rapidly on New Orleans in recent years,
and the Crescent City led her by so slight a margin in 1905, that for the
twelve months ending with next December it seems safe to predict that the
Texas seaport will take second place.

Much has been said of the benefits which the Panama Canal will bring to
the United States by giving us a short cut to the Pacific littoral of our
own continent, to the west coast of South America, and to Asia and
Australia. Undoubtedly the isthmian waterway will open new markets to
Galveston and other Texas ports, and will be a powerful influence in
enabling the Southwest to score further industrial and commercial
conquests.


    He who allows his happiness to depend too much on reason,
    who submits his pleasures to examination, and desires
    enjoyments only of the most refined nature, too often ends
    by not having any at all.--=Chamfort.=




ALL KINDS OF THINGS.

    A Strange Scene in a French Law-Court--A German Botanist's
    Hunt for a Mysterious Native Tribe--The Pranks of a Famous
    Joker--The Mileage of the Blood--Tiny Republics of
    Europe--Average Weights of Men and Women at Various
    Ages--With Other Curious and Interesting Things Drawn from
    Many Sources.

_Compiled and edited for_ THE SCRAP BOOK.


HOW MELODRAMA WAS ECLIPSED BY TRUTH.

COINCIDENCES IN PARIS COURT.

  Official's Attempt to Convict His Unrecognized
  Son Was Interrupted by Wife
  He Deserted Many Years Before.

Coincidence--chance, play a tremendous part in human history. Fate is
another name for the same thing; so is luck. All these words are merely
our puny euphemisms for X, the unknown quantity.

Not a day passes but the story of a remarkable coincidence is brought to
public notice. A stranger incident never occurred, however, than this one,
the account of which we have unearthed in an old copy of the _Chronique de
Paris_.

A youth of about nineteen was brought to trial for having broken the
window of a baker's shop and stolen a two-pound loaf.

The Judge--"Why did you steal the loaf?"

Prisoner--"I was driven by hunger."

"Why did you not buy it?"

"Because I had no money."

"But you have a gold ring on your finger; why did you not sell it?"

"I am a foundling; when I was taken from the bank of a ditch, this ring
was suspended from my neck by a silken cord, and I kept it in the hope of
thereby discovering at least who were my parents; I cannot dispose of it."

The _procureur du roi_ (king's attorney) made a violent speech against the
prisoner, who was found guilty, and sentenced to imprisonment for five
years. Immediately upon this, a woman, more worn down by poverty than age,
came forward and made the following declaration:

    "Gentlemen of the Jury: Twenty years ago a young woman was
    married to a young man of the same town, who afterward
    abandoned her. Poor and distressed, she was obliged to leave
    her child to the care of Providence. The child has since
    grown up, and the woman and the husband have grown older;
    the child in poverty, the woman in misery, and her husband
    in prosperity. They are all three now in court. The child is
    the unfortunate prisoner whom you have just pronounced
    guilty; the mother is myself; and there sits the father!"
    pointing to the king's attorney.


THE FIRST SIGHT OF A WHITE FACE.

HUNTING DOWN THE SHY NEGRITO.

  How Albert Grubauer Won the Confidence
  of a Timid People Who Had Never
  Before Seen a European.

In the mountains of northern Malacca and southern Siam dwells a tribe of
dwarf Negritos who, until a few months ago, knew nothing of the white man
and his ways. From their hunting grounds they could almost see the foreign
ships steam through Malacca Straits. Certain conveniences obtainable only
from the whites had reached them through intermediate tribes; for example,
they had become well acquainted with the Swedish safety matches, yet no
white man had ever come in contact with them.

A German botanist, Albert Grubauer, not long ago set out to make
acquaintance with these shy people. With a few native servants he stole
quietly up into the mountains. For some time their patience was rewarded
only with disappointment, but at last one morning they came upon a party
of the little men. The Negritos dropped the bundles of rattan they were
carrying and concealed themselves in the under-growth.

The German and his men knew exactly what they were to do in such a case,
says the New York _Sun_, summarizing the story from the elaborate account
in a German scientific journal. They were not to go an inch in pursuit. No
weapon was to be shown. One of the men who could speak a little of the
native dialect aired his accomplishment in the gentlest way. The white man
was their good friend and had come to see them. And what wonderful
presents he had brought for his friends! The white man and his servants
extended their arms, which were loaded with bright cottons, strings of
beads, many colored necklaces, tobacco and other tempting articles whose
merits were extolled by the spokesman with all the eloquence he could
command.

They knew the natives were behind the bushes looking at the tempting sight
and listening to the exhortation. Then the visitors sat down, still
holding out the beautiful presents. Finally, an old man, the leader of the
party, stuck his head out of the bush. He broke off a green twig and held
it up. It was a sign of peace and the white man nodded to him. The ice was
broken. The Negrito approached the European, they shook hands, some of the
presents were distributed and the visitors became the guests of the little
mountaineers. They were passed on from one group to another till Grubauer,
after a considerable time, had completed his studies.


HOW THEY CONSTRUCT ENGLISH IN BELGIUM.

A REQUEST TO "TWIRL THE PAGE."

  American Postage-Stamp Collectors Are
  Amused, When Not Puzzled, by a
  Queerly Worded Circular.

"English as she is Japanned" occasionally appears on the shop signs of
Yokohama, Tokyo, and other Japanese cities, to amuse travelers from
America and England. But it is not necessary to search the Orient for odd
perversions of the language. As near a country as Belgium is the
birthplace of the following circular, which has lately been received by
many American philatelists:

    "Seek you good Correspondents extra-European? Want you
    Postage Stamps from Africa, America, Asia, Oceania? Sent
    immediately and advertisement for the ---- Extra-European
    Directory, 4,000 addresses of Philatelists, residing abroad
    Europa. Work's price, book in 8 deg. stitched, ---- The
    advertisements sind inserted opposite the country selected
    by you ... One Justificative copy gratis."

At the bottom of the page is the further instruction to English and
American readers to "Twirl the page, please."


PRACTICAL JOKING OF EUGENE VIVIER.

"A MOST GENTLEMANLY EMPEROR."

  How the Calf Which This Famous Hornplayer
  Put in His Apartment Became
  in Time an Ox.

Henry Sutherland Edwards, a London journalist, who died a short time ago,
published in 1900 a volume of "Personal Recollections" which is very much
alive with anecdotes of men of the past generation. Considerable space is
given to a man who is now almost unremembered--Eugene Vivier, the
hornplayer, "the most charming of men and the spoiled child of nearly
every court in Europe." Vivier is the man who said of Napoleon III, "He is
the most gentlemanly emperor I know."

"What can I do for you?" said this gentlemanly emperor one day, when
Vivier had gone to see him at the Tuileries.

"Come out on the balcony with me, sire," replied the genial cynic. "Some
of my creditors are sure to be passing, and it will do me good to be seen
in conversation with your majesty."

Vivier was a confirmed practical joker. Once, while riding in an omnibus,
he pretended to be mad.

He indulged in the wildest gesticulations, and then, as if in despair,
drew a pistol from his pocket. The conductor was called upon by
acclamation to interfere, and Vivier was on the point of being disarmed
when suddenly he broke the pistol in two, handed half to the conductor and
began to eat the other half himself. It was made of chocolate!

Vivier could not bear to see people in a hurry. According to him, there
was nothing in life worth hurrying for; and, living on the Boulevard, just
opposite the Rue Vivienne, he was much annoyed at seeing so many persons
hastening, toward six o'clock, to the post-office on the Place de la
Bourse.

He determined to pay them out, and for that purpose bought a calf, which
he took up to his apartments at night, and exhibited the next afternoon at
a few minutes before six o'clock on the balcony of his second floor. In
spite of their eagerness to catch the post, many persons could not help
stopping to look at the calf.

Soon a crowd collected and messengers stayed their steps in order to gaze
at the unwonted apparition. Six o'clock struck, and soon after a number of
men who had missed the post returned in an irritated condition, and,
stopping before Vivier's house, shook their fists at him. Vivier went down
to them and asked the meaning of the insolence.

"We were not shaking our fists at you," replied the enraged ones, "but at
that calf."

"Ah! You know him, then?" returned Vivier. "I was not aware of it."

In time Vivier's calf became the subject of a legend, according to which
the animal (still in Vivier's apartments) grew to be an ox, and so annoyed
the neighbors by his lowing that the proprietor of the house insisted on
its being sent away. Vivier told him to come and take it, when it was
found that the calf of other days had grown to such a size that it was
impossible to get it down-stairs.


ARTERIES AND VEINS AS A RACE-COURSE.

MILEAGE OF THE HUMAN BLOOD.

  One Little Red Corpuscle May Travel One
  Hundred and Sixty-Eight Miles
  in a Single Day.

The speed at which the blood circulates in the veins and arteries of a
healthy man is something surprising. All day long, year in and year out,
the round trips continue from the heart to the extremities and back again.
The red blood corpuscles travel like boats in a stream, going to this or
that station for such service as they have to perform; and the white
corpuscles, the phagocytes, dart hither and thither like patrol boats,
ready to arrest any contraband cargo of disease germs.

The mileage of the blood circulation reveals some astounding facts in our
personal history. Thus it has been calculated that, assuming the heart to
beat sixty-nine times a minute at ordinary heart pressure, the blood goes
at the rate of two hundred and seven yards in the minute, or seven miles
per hour, one hundred and sixty-eight miles per day and six thousand three
hundred and twenty miles per year. If a man of eighty-four years of age
could have one single blood corpuscle floating in his blood all his life
it would have traveled in that same time five million one hundred and
fifty thousand eight hundred and eight miles.


SOME MICROSCOPIC EUROPEAN REPUBLICS.

ONE IS IN THE LOWER PYRENEES.

  It Lies Between France and Spain, and
  Every Army in Europe Has Rumbled
  Pell-Mell Past Its Very Doors.

A republic without an army--without a navy--without even one
policeman--with only one square mile of territory, and a population of
fifty: who can tell what its name is, and where it is located?

Stranger still, it has stood in the midst of warring nations, and yet
remained as independent as the United States. It has heard the roar of
Napoleon's artillery. There are famous battle-fields on the north of it
and on the south. Great armies from France and Spain and England have
swung past it on all sides. Vast nations have arisen and gone down again
to oblivion, and yet this baby republic goes on for centuries--without
growth and without death.

Goust--which is the name of this wonderful little atom among the nations
of Europe--is situated in the Lower Pyrenees, between France and Spain.

For over two centuries and a half Goust has elected a president every
seven years, and its independence has been recognized by both France and
Spain.

There are two tiny republics in Italy--the famous little state of San
Marino, and the less-known islet of Tavolara. The latter did not become a
republic until recently. In 1830 the absolute dominion of the island was
conceded by Charles Albert, King of Sardinia, to the Bartoleoni family,
whose head became King Paul I.

He was likewise Paul the last, for on his death, in 1882, he requested
that his title should be buried with him and that the kingdom be turned
into a republic. A constitution was accordingly drawn up, and under its
terms a president, with a council of six, is elected every six years, all
adults, male or female, casting a ballot. No salary is paid either to the
president or the members of his council.


WEIGHTS OF THE SEXES AT DIFFERENT AGES.

MEN ARE FATTEST AT FORTY.

  Average Weights of Humanity Differ
  More Markedly in Relation to Age
  and Sex Than Is Supposed.

If all the men and women, boys and girls, and infants--black, white,
yellow, brown or red--in all parts of the world, could be weighed on the
same scales, the average weight would be nearly one hundred pounds
avoirdupois. Six-pound infants and three-hundred-pound giants contribute
to the average.

Upon the average, boys at birth weigh a little more and girls a little
less than seven pounds. For the first twelve years the two sexes continue
nearly equal in weight, but beyond that age the boys acquire a decided
preponderance. Young men of twenty average 135 pounds, while the young
women of twenty average 110 pounds each.

Men reach their heaviest weight at about forty years of age, when their
average weight will be about 140 pounds; but women slowly increase in
weight until fifty years of age, when their average weight will be 130
pounds. Taking the men and women together, their weight at full growth
will then average from 108 to 150 pounds; and women from 80 to 130 pounds.


SPENDS TEN MONTHS GAZING INTO MIRROR.

WOMAN'S AVERAGE IN A LIFETIME.

  German Statisticians Assert That a Man
  Requires Only Seven Months for This
  Employment.

German statisticians, who have long been noted for their tendency to turn
their searchlights on subjects that might better be left alone, have made
another little incursion into the field of woman's vanity. In short, they
have been calculating what part of a woman's life is spent in looking at
herself in a mirror.

She begins as a rule at six years. From six to ten she has a daily average
of seven minutes. From ten to fifteen she devotes a quarter of an hour to
her glass.

At twenty she certainly spends thirty minutes daily admiring herself, and
when past twenty a whole hour.

The statisticians are tactful enough not to say when a woman begins to
take less interest in her personal appearance, but women more than sixty
years do not, they say, spend more than ten minutes daily at their
mirrors. All this time reckoned up--it is a simple sum in
multiplication--makes seven thousand hours, or about ten months, at the
mirror.

Then they proceed to compare the time which a man--a German man--devotes
to this occupation, and come to the conclusion that his average is seven
months.


ANIMAL ENDURANCE PUTS MAN TO SHAME.

DESPAIR YIELDS TO COURAGE.

  Animals and Birds Caught in Traps Display
  Spartan Fortitude, and Toads
  Imprisoned in Rocks Grow Fat.

At a time when six-day bicycle races, the so-called brutality of modern
football, and endurance tests of the automobile excite such a degree of
popular interest throughout the English-speaking world, it might not be
amiss to glance over the shoulder occasionally at a few records made by
some mute four-footed or feathered champions who have established records
in fields in which Nature, herself, as umpire, read the inexorable law of
necessity.

In reviewing some remarkable feats of animal endurance, the Chicago _News_
mentions the case of a dog that was dug out alive from a rabbit-hole, in
the Scilly Isles, after having been lost for a fortnight.

Continuing, this same authority says that whales and eagles come at the
head of creatures that longest survive the evils to which other fishes and
birds are heirs. Yet a whale has been found dead from a dislocated jaw. It
is also recorded that an elephant died as a result of gangrene in one of
its feet.

In a Scottish deer forest not long ago a stalking party came across a
magnificent golden eagle, dead, caught in a fox trap. He had been caught
by the center claw of one foot and had died of exhaustion in attempting to
escape.

By his side were two grouse and a partly eaten hare which other eagles had
brought to sustain him in his fight for life. If a rat had been caught by
his leg in a trap either he or his comrades would have bitten off the
imprisoned limb and released him.

The poor despised toad is not built to stand physical violence, but he
would fatten on imprisonment. Toads imprisoned in rocks for years--no one
knows how many--come to light from time to time, fat and well. They have
been found beneath deposits which, according to all accepted ideas of
geology, must have been long ages in process of formation. Unless
microbes, carried to them through the pores of the imprisoning rock, have
been their fare, it is certain, according to naturalists who ought to
know, that they have eaten nothing for an unthinkable period.


EGGS OF VARIOUS FOWLS MUCH ALIKE.

GOOSE'S CONTAIN MOST PROTEIN.

  Despite Old Adage, It Requires About a
  Pound of Eggs to Equal the Nutriment
  in a Pound of Beefsteak.

The white of an egg is nearly seven-eighths water, the balance being pure
albumen. The yolk is slightly less than one-half water. These figures
apply approximately to the eggs of turkeys, hens, geese, ducks, and
guinea-fowls.

To show how nearly alike the eggs of various domestic fowls are in respect
to composition, the following figures are given by the Department of
Agriculture:

  Hen's egg--50 per cent water, 16 per cent "protein," 33 per cent fat.

  Duck's egg--46 per cent water, 17 per cent "protein," 36 per cent fat.

  Goose egg--44 per cent water, 19 per cent "protein," 36 per cent fat.

  Turkey egg--48 per cent water, 18 per cent "protein," 33 per cent fat.

It should be explained that "protein" is the stuff that goes to make
muscle and blood. Fat, of course, is fuel for running the body-machine.
Thus it will be seen that eggs, though half, or nearly half, water, are
extremely nutritious, containing all the elements required for the
building and support of the human body. But the old saying that an egg
contains as much nutriment as a pound of beefsteak is manifestly very far
from correct. It would be nearer the fact to estimate a pound of eggs as
equal to a pound of lean beefsteak in nourishing power.


A CHECK FOR THOUSANDS ON A PINE SHINGLE.

A PIONEER BANKER'S READINESS.

  How Joseph C. Palmer, With Some Extraordinary
  Material, Wrote for
  a Large Sum.

Many different substances have been used to send communications through
the mails, from bits of carved wood to leather post-cards. But banks are
supposed to be more insistent upon red tape. A stamp and an address will
satisfy the postal authorities; ink, paper, and indubitable
signature--these are requisites in bank paper. Yet in new countries it is
frequently obliged to put up with makeshifts. Here is a story of early
banking in California, as related by the San Francisco _Bulletin_:

Joseph C. Palmer, a California pioneer, and at one time a banker and
politician in the early days of California, was a member of the firm of
Palmer, Cook & Co., a bank which did an immense business, and whose
influence was felt throughout the State.

To show his readiness to adopt original methods in an emergency, it is
related that once a depositor called to draw a large sum of money
(twenty-eight thousand dollars) from the bank. Mr. Palmer's signature was
necessary, but he had been called away to attend to some duty in a
lumberyard at a distance of a mile or more.

Thither the depositor hastened and made known his wants and the necessity
of having them attended to at once. Mr. Palmer could find neither pen,
pencil, ink, nor paper. But without a moment's hesitation he picked up a
shingle, borrowed a piece of red chalk, and with it wrote a check on the
shingle in large and distinct letters for twenty-eight thousand dollars.

This was good when presented for all the money the depositor had in bank,
and it proved an exceedingly good advertisement for Palmer. It gained
confidence for the original genius of our first great banker, whom
everybody trusted.




Robert Emmet's Speech of Vindication.


    Robert Emmet, the Irish patriot, was born in Dublin in 1778,
    and was executed for treason in Dublin, September 20, 1803.
    A prize-winner at Trinity College, Dublin, and an eloquent
    speaker before the Historical Society, he lent his young
    energies to the cause of Ireland with a devotion that was as
    pure and unselfish as it was rash. Traveling on the
    Continent, he received from Napoleon I a promise to help
    Ireland. He then returned secretly to Ireland and made plans
    for a revolution. An abortive uprising occurred. Emmet, with
    a mob of followers, attempted to seize Dublin Castle, but
    one volley dispersed his rabble.

    He fled to the Wicklow mountains, intending to escape from
    the country, but he made a last visit to his sweetheart,
    Miss Curran, and was captured. His speeches before the
    tribunal which sentenced him to be hanged are models of
    noble and eloquent dignity. Thomas Moore, Emmet's
    schoolfellow and friend, inscribed to his memory a touching
    poem:

    Oh, breathe not his name--let it sleep in the shade,
    Where cold and unhonored his relics are laid;
    Sad, silent, and dark be the tears that we shed,
    As the night-dew that falls on the grass o'er his head.

    But the night-dew that falls, though in silence it weeps,
    Shall brighten with verdure the grave where he sleeps;
    And the tear that we shed, though in secret it rolls,
    Shall long keep his memory green in our souls.

    In another lyric, which begins with the line "She is far
    from the land where her young hero sleeps," Moore alluded to
    the sad after-life of Miss Curran. Her story was also told,
    without a mention of her name, by Washington Irving, in "The
    Broken Heart," which may be found in "The Sketch Book."


My Lords: What have I to say why sentence of death should not be
pronounced on me, according to law? I have nothing to say that can alter
your predetermination, nor that it will become me to say, with any view to
the mitigation of that sentence which you are here to pronounce, and I
must abide by. But I have that to say, which interests me more than life,
and which you have labored to destroy. I have much to say, why my
reputation should be rescued from the load of false accusation and calumny
which has been heaped upon it.

Were I only to suffer death, after being adjudged guilty by your tribunal,
I should bow in silence, and meet the fate that awaits me without a
murmur; but the sentence of law which delivers my body to the executioner
will, through the ministry of that law, labor, in its own vindication, to
consign my character to obloquy: for there must be guilt
somewhere--whether in the sentence of the court, or in the catastrophe,
posterity must determine. The man dies, but his memory lives. That mine
may not perish--that it may live in the respect of my countrymen--I seize
upon this opportunity to vindicate myself from some of the charges alleged
against me. When my spirit shall be wafted to a more friendly port; when
my shade shall have joined the bands of those martyred heroes who have
shed their blood, on the scaffold and in the field, in defense of their
country and virtue, this is my hope--I wish that my memory and name may
animate those who survive me, while I look down with complacency on the
destruction of that perfidious government which upholds its domination by
blasphemy of the Most High, which displays its power over man as over the
beasts of the forest, which sets man upon his brother, and lifts his hand,
in the name of God, against the throat of his fellow who believes or
doubts a little more or less than the government standard--a government
which is steeled to barbarity by the cries of the orphans and the tears of
the widows which its cruelty has made.

I swear by the throne of heaven, before which I must shortly appear--by
the blood of the murdered patriots who have gone before me--that my
conduct has been, through all this peril, and all my purposes, governed
only by the convictions which I have uttered, and no other view than that
of the emancipation of my country from the superinhuman oppression under
which she has so long, and too patiently, travailed; and that I
confidently and assuredly hope (wild and chimerical as it may appear) that
there are still union and strength in Ireland to accomplish this noble
enterprise.

Let no man dare, when I am dead, to charge me with dishonor; let no man
attaint my memory by believing that I could have engaged in any cause but
that of my country's liberty and independence; or that I could have become
the pliant minion of power, in the oppression or the miseries of my
countrymen. I would not have submitted to a foreign oppressor, for the
same reason that I would resist the domestic tyrant; in the dignity of
freedom, I would have fought upon the threshold of my country, and her
enemies should enter only by passing over my lifeless corpse. Am I, who
lived but for my country, and who have subjected myself to the vengeance
of the jealous and wrathful oppressor, and to the bondage of the grave,
only to give my countrymen their rights--am I to be loaded with calumny,
and not to be suffered to resent or repel it? No!--God forbid!

If the spirits of the illustrious dead participate in the concerns and
cares of those who are dear to them in this transitory life--O ever dear
and venerated shade of my departed father, look down with scrutiny on the
conduct of your suffering son; and see if I have even for a moment
deviated from those principles of morality and patriotism which it was
your care to instil into my youthful mind, and for an adherence to which I
am now to offer up my life!

My lords, you are all impatient for the sacrifice. The blood which you
seek is not congealed by the artificial terrors which surround your
victim; it circulates warmly and unruffled through the channels which God
created for noble purposes, but which you are bent to destroy for purposes
so grievous that they cry to heaven! Be yet patient! I have but a few
words more to say. I am going to my silent grave; my lamp of life is
nearly extinguished; my race is run; the grave opens to receive me, and I
sink into its bosom. I have but one request to ask at my departure from
this world--it is the charity of its silence. Let no man write my epitaph;
for, as no one who knows my motives dare now vindicate them, let not
prejudice or ignorance asperse them. Let them and me repose in obscurity
and peace, and my tomb remain uninscribed, until other times, and other
men, can do justice to my character. When my country shall take her place
among the nations of the earth, then, and not till then, let my epitaph be
written! I have done.


    =Mortality=. It takes twenty months to bring man from the
    state of embryo, and from that of a mere animal, as he is in
    his first infancy, to the point when his reason begins to
    dawn. It has taken thirty centuries to know his structure;
    it would take an eternity to know something of his soul: it
    takes but an instant to kill him.--=Voltaire.=




The Rivals.

By BENSON J. LOSSING.


    The late historian, Benson J. Lossing, whose name for a
    large part of the last century was connected with historical
    authorship and with wood engraving, was born in Dutchess
    County, New York, February 12, 1813, and died June 3, 1891.
    When a very young man he became editor of a local paper in
    Poughkeepsie, and, afterward, with Barritt, under the
    familiar signature of "Lossing and Barritt," did a very
    large amount of the wood engraving current a generation or
    more ago.

    Inspired by his editorial and art experience, he began early
    to visit the places made notable by the battles and
    memorable scenes of the Revolutionary War. Of buildings
    connected therewith, or of their falling ruins, he made
    sketches. Out of this activity came his famous and still
    excellent work, "The Field Book of the Revolution." The
    history of our subsequent wars he also treated; and it was
    history chiefly that engaged his pen. The one exception was
    his publication of the _Casket_, in 1836 or thereabouts,
    which in a form similar to that of the _Nation_, was a very
    creditable literary and family magazine, conducted in a
    popular way, when magazines in this country were few and
    unimportant. One does not find, in any account of him apart
    from this venture of possibly not over three years'
    duration, that he left his purely historical themes.

    Very recently, however, THE SCRAP BOOK came across a
    somewhat romantic story, with a touch and climax of art and
    love in it, which is the product of his pen; though its
    style is a little more ambitious and florid than the one for
    which he was noted. It tells, with much liberty of
    embellishment, the thrilling anecdote of the contest of the
    Grecian artists, Zeuxis and Parrhasius. As it was
    interesting sixty years ago, when it appeared (in 1846),
    doubtless it may have some interest now.

Zeuxis was the pride and boast of Athens. His pencil had no rival, and
thrice he had been crowned victor of the Olympic games. The dwellings of
the rich and noble, and the shrines and temples of the gods, were
decorated with the fruits of his genius. He was courted by the wise and
powerful. Artists and magi came from distant cities to look upon the
Athenian painter, whose name was sounded worldwide.

Even the proud ruler of Palmyra, the "Tadmor of the wilderness," sent a
deputation of nobles to invite his presence at the Palmyrene court.
Contemporary artists acknowledged his superiority; and Apollodorus, the
father of Athenian painters, declared that Zeuxis had "stolen the cunning
from all the rest." Thus flattered and caressed, Zeuxis became proud and
haughty. He found no rival, for he knew no equal.

The Agonothetai employed him to paint a wrestler or champion, to adorn the
peristylium of the Gymnasia. Assembled thousands gave a simultaneous shout
of applause when the picture was exhibited on the first day of the games.
The victors in the chariot-race, the discus, the cestus, and the athletæ,
were almost forgotten amid the general admiration of the picture of
Zeuxis. Conscious of his superiority, the artist, with pedantic egotism,
wrote beneath his picture, "Invisurus aliquis facilius quam
imitaturus!"--"Sooner envied than equaled!"

This inscription met the eye of an obscure youth, who resolved to prove
its falsity.

The third day of the games had terminated. The last rays of the sun yet
lingered on the Acropolis, and burnished the crest of hoary Olympus that
gleamed in the distance. Zeuxis sat alone with his wife and daughter,
listening attentively to the strains of a minstrel who swept the lyre for
a group of joyous dancers assembled near the grove sacred to Psyche. As
the music ceased, a deep sigh escaped the daughter, and a tear trembled in
the maiden's eye.

"Cassandra, my sweet Cassandra," said Zeuxis, "why that tear, that sigh?"

A deep crimson suffused the cheeks of the maiden, and she was silent.

"Tell me, Cassandra," said the father, affectionately placing her hand in
his own, and inquisitively eying the blushing damsel; "tell me what new
grief makes sorrowful the heart of my daughter? Thinkest thou yet of the
worthless Parrhasius--even now, upon the eve of thy nuptials with the
noble Thearchus?"

"Nay, dear father," said Cassandra, "it was the music that made me weep.
It awakened memory to the recollections of the many happy hours spent with
my dear Portia, who is now among the immortals. Four years ago we danced
together to the same strain, and the lyre was touched by the gentle
Parrhasius."

"_Gentle_ Parrhasius, sayest thou, Cassandra?--_gentle_ Parrhasius!
Wouldst thou call him gentle, the poor plebeian who sought to rival the
noble Thearchus in thy affections?--who openly avowed in the streets of
Athens, in the Gymnasium and the Hippodrome, that his pencil would yet
make Zeuxis envious?"

"And yet he _was_ gentle," mildly replied Cassandra, while the big round
tears coursed down her cheeks, and her bosom swelled with tender emotion.

The brow of Zeuxis lowered, and indices of a whirlwind of passion were in
his countenance. Four years had elapsed since Parrhasius had asked for his
daughter in marriage, and was indignantly refused. Affection, deep and
abiding as vitality itself, existed between the young painter and
Cassandra--affection based upon reciprocal appreciation of mutual worth;
but the ambition of Zeuxis made him forget his duty to his child, and,
without estimating consequences, he resolved to wed her to Thearchus, a
wealthy Athenian nobleman, and son of one of the judges of the Areopagus.

When Parrhasius modestly but firmly pressed his suit, Zeuxis became
indignant--taunted him with his plebeian birthright and obscure lineage;
and denounced him as a poor Ephesian boy, unworthy, because of his
poverty, the friendship, much less the confidence of sonship, of the great
Athenian painter.

The spirit of Parrhasius was aroused and, standing erect in all the
dignity of conscious equality of genius, full-fledged and eager to soar,
he boldly repelled the insults of Zeuxis, and with a voice that reached
the listening ear of his beloved, exclaimed:

"Know, proud man, that thou, the unrivaled master of Greece, of the world,
wilt yet envy the talent and fame of Parrhasius, though a poor plebeian
boy of Ephesus!"

The rage of Zeuxis was unbounded, and he ordered his helots to thrust the
youth from his presence. The order was instantly obeyed; and, ere the
setting sun, Parrhasius left the walls of Athens behind him, and turned
toward Ephesus, to practise his skill in seclusion there.

During the interim of the games, the young painter assiduously practised
his art, in utter seclusion from the world; and those who knew him before
departing for Athens, believed him dead. Nor could Cassandra, during these
four years, hear aught of her exiled lover. Her constancy and hope
whispered to her heart the fulfilment of the prediction of excellence, and
that destiny would yet unite them in holy ties by its mysterious web.

This hope and this constancy had thus far delayed her marriage with
Thearchus. Like Penelope, she framed reasons for repelling her suitor, and
daily looked for the return of her lord, wearing the bay of success. Her
father, wearied by procrastination, and ambitious for display, had
resolved to have the nuptials celebrated during the festival of the
Olympic games. His persuasions became commands, his arguments positive
orders, and his paternal government by the power of love a stern executor
of the behest of his ambition. The herald had already sounded the
proclamation, and all Athens greeted with joy the approaching nuptials of
the noble Thearchus and the lovely Cassandra.

Yet the stern ambition of Zeuxis was susceptible of tender impressions. He
adored his daughter, and her tears melted the ice of his heart. He knew
she loved the Ephesian, and the war of duty and ambition waxed warm as he
witnessed new proofs of her constancy and love.

"Come, come, Cassandra," said he caressingly, "these tears ill become the
daughter of the Athenian painter on the eve of her nuptials with one of
the noblest sons of Greece. Forget that childish passion that attaches
thee to Parrhasius, and thank the gods for his exile from Athens."

"Would you see your Cassandra happy?" asked the weeping maiden.

"I would, indeed," replied Zeuxis; "and it was for her happiness that I
spurned the Ephesian and favored the worthy Thearchus."

"But Thearchus has no place in my affections," replied Cassandra. "I love
him not; and to wed him is but to plunge me into deeper misery. What is
wealth--what nobility and the applause of the people, if the affections of
the heart have no participation therein? They are ministers of woe to the
broken spirit. Without love there is no happiness; without happiness life
is nothing worth. I would sooner wed a shepherd than an archon, did he but
bring with him the riches of true affection."

"Madness, madness!" exclaimed Zeuxis. "This philosophy may do for a
peasant maiden, but should not pollute the lips of a daughter of Zeuxis.
Talk of love! Why, it is but a passion born of circumstances. To-day it
burns with volcanic violence, to-morrow it is but a glimmering taper;
to-day its intensity warms the most cheerless cabin of poverty, to-morrow
its flickering rays will barely illumine the most cheerful abode of
wealth. It is a delusive light, that too often dazzles to blind."

"It may be so with the sensual," replied Cassandra. "With them it is
indeed a passion born of circumstances. Yet, after all, it is _not_ love.
It is but a poor semblance of the holy passion. Pure affection comes not
from the dross of earth, the wealth, power, and pageantry of individuals
or of society, nor from the ephemeral loveliness of the human form. Such
is, at best, the gross counterfeit of love, and undeserving its divine
name. When moral and intellectual worth--the beauties and amiability of
character--the noble evidences of exalted genius, excite our admiration,
and win our affections for the possessor, then indeed do we truly love,
and love a worthy object. Such, dear father, is my love for Parrhasius.
Submission to thy will must unite me to Thearchus, whom I cannot love; but
the undying flame of first affection will only make me more miserable."

Zeuxis was silent. He loved his daughter with exceeding tenderness; yet
burning ambition presented a paramount claim, and would not permit him
again to delay the nuptials on which he had resolved. He kissed the tears
from the cheeks of Cassandra, and was about to retire for the night; but
the maiden seized his hand, and, looking imploringly in his face, said:

"Hear me once more, dear father, ere the decree of my unhappiness shall
have irrevocably gone forth. Hope whispers in my ear that the prophetic
taunt of Parrhasius may yet be verified. Thou well knowest the genius and
spirit of that youth, and I know thy gentle nature will now forgive him
the utterance of words spoken in passion. Forgive, and Cassandra will be
happy."

"For thy sake," replied Zeuxis, "I will pardon the rashness of the
Ephesian boy. But why thy hope? Wouldst thou see thy father rivaled, and
the voice of Athens--of the world--loud in praises of another?"

"No," replied Cassandra, "it is not for that I hope; but thy daughter
loves Parrhasius, and she desires to see him worthy of that love in the
eyes of her father. This is the foundation of my hope. Is it not just?"

"Truly, such an aspiration is worthy of my daughter," replied Zeuxis; and
again bidding her good night, he was about to depart. But the maiden still
clung to his hand.

"One word more," she exclaimed; "one more boon, and your Cassandra will be
completely happy. Promise me that I shall wed Parrhasius if his prediction
be fulfilled."

"I promise," replied Zeuxis, conscious that her hopes were groundless,
and that the last day of the festival would witness the nuptials of
Thearchus and Cassandra, and thus crown his paternal ambition with a more
valued bay than the laurel of the victor.

On the following morning Zeuxis prepared for the games. Just at the moment
of starting a helot approached him with a small roll directed to "Zeuxis,
the unrivaled painter of Greece." He was delighted with the flattering
superscription, and, having unbound it, read:

    Parrhasius, the plebeian boy of Ephesus, to Zeuxis, the
    great Athenian artist: Greeting. Ten days, and the games of
    Olympia will terminate. On the ninth I challenge thee to a
    trial of skill. The subject is left to the choice of the
    challenged.

Zeuxis rent the challenge in a thousand pieces, and, burning with rage,
exclaimed: "Tell your master that Zeuxis stoops not to compete with
plebeians! Tell him I trample his insolent challenge beneath my feet, even
as I would crush its author. Begone! Gods, has it come to this?" continued
he. "Must I first bear the taunts of that boy, and then, in the face of
thousands, have him challenge me to a trial? I know him well. If I refuse,
a herald will proclaim that refusal in every street of Athens, and the
gymnasium and the circus will ring with my shame. It must not be." And he
commanded the helot to return.

"Tell your master," said Zeuxis, "that I accept his challenge: the
subject, fruit." The helot departed.

"Now," said Zeuxis, "my triumph will be complete, and Cassandra's delusion
will be broken. Now will I prove the insolent Ephesian unworthy of my
exalted notice and the noble Cassandra's love. It is well. Destiny bids me
stoop to the trial, only to add another laurel to my brow!" And Zeuxis,
with haughty step, proceeded to the circus.

Within a few hours all Athens was in commotion. A new impulse had been
given to the public excitement, and the first sound that fell upon the ear
of Zeuxis as he entered the circus was the voice of a herald proclaiming
that an Ephesian painter had challenged the great artist to a trial of
skill.

The voice of the herald also sounded throughout the streets of Athens,
and fell like sweetest symphony upon the ear of Cassandra. She knew not
the name of the competitor, but the revealings of hope and love assured
her that it was none other than Parrhasius. And that hope and that love
also gave her assurance that her beloved one would be the victor, and that
holy affection rather than proud ambition would be crowned by the hand of
Astrea.

The time fixed upon for the trial arrived. The thousands who had
congregated in Athens to witness the games flowed like a living torrent
through the eastern gate of the city, and halted upon a hill overlooking a
flowery plain bordering upon the Ilyssus. The sun had journeyed half his
way toward the meridian, when amid the thundering shouts of applause of
the populace, Zeuxis, with a proud and haughty step, left the pavilion of
the judges, and with a tablet in his hand, on which was painted a cluster
of grapes, proceeded to the plain. Upon a small column erected for the
purpose, near a grove, the artist placed his painting, and, withdrawing
the curtain that concealed it, returned to the pavilion. The multitude was
astonished, for they expected to feast their eyes on the production of the
great artist. Murmurs of dissatisfaction ran through the crowd, and a few
loudly denounced the conduct of Zeuxis in placing the picture beyond their
observation.

Suddenly a deafening shout, and a cry of "Zeuxis and Athens!" arose from
the throng. A whole bevy of birds from the grove had alighted upon the
column, and eagerly sought to devour the pictured fruit!

This decision of the birds of heaven was deemed sufficient evidence of the
superiority of the Athenian painter, and the people clamored loudly for
the crown of laurels and the branch of palm for Zeuxis. His competitor had
not yet been seen, either in the crowd or with the judges; and Zeuxis
gloried in the thought that his conscious inferiority had made him shrink
from the trial. The branch of palm was placed in the Athenian's hand, and
a virgin was about to place the crown of evergreen upon his head, when,
from a small tent opposite the pavilion of the judges, stepped forth the
"Ephesian boy," pale and trembling, and, with a tablet in his hand,
approached the multitude. Not a single voice greeted him, for he was
unknown to that vast concourse, and the silence weighed like lead upon his
heart. There was, however, one heart there that beat in sympathy with his
own. It was that of Cassandra. She, too, stood pale and trembling; and by
her side was Thearchus, watching with intense anxiety for the result.

Parrhasius drew near to his rival. At first he would not deign to notice
him; but a few faint voices crying out, "Victory for Parrhasius!" the
judges demanded an exhibition of the picture of the Ephesian. Turning
around, with ill-concealed rage, Zeuxis, with a bitter, scornful tone
cried out, "Come, away with your curtain, that the assemblage may see what
goodly affair you have beneath it!"

Parrhasius handed the tablet to his rival. Had a thunderbolt fallen at his
feet, he could not have been more astounded. The curtain was painted upon
the tablet, and so exquisitely was it wrought that even the practised eye
of the great painter did not till then detect the deception!

"I yield! I yield!" cried the Athenian; "Zeuxis beguiled poor birds, but
Parrhasius hath deceived Zeuxis! Bring hither the laurel and also the
palm: my hand, and mine alone, shall crown the young victor!"

"And thy promise!" exclaimed Cassandra, bounding forward and grasping the
hand of her father.

"I here fulfil it," said he. "Parrhasius is indeed worthy of my Cassandra.
Embrace and be happy!"

The laurel and the palm were brought--and there, in the presence of
assembled thousands, Zeuxis crowned the young Ephesian. Then, mounting a
pedestal, he addressed the assembled multitude. He recounted the pure love
and constancy of Parrhasius and Cassandra, and told of his promise; he
also tenderly related his engagement with Thearchus.

He was proceeding to vindicate himself from the imputation of treachery to
Thearchus, when another deafening shout arose from the assembly, as a
noble youth came from the pavilion with a branch of palm and placed it in
the hands of Cassandra. It was Thearchus. He had before heard and now
witnessed the devotion of the lovers, and his generous heart melted at the
spectacle. He had tenderly loved the maiden, but he magnanimously resigned
all.

"Laurels for Thearchus!" shouted the vast multitude--and Thearchus, too,
was crowned victor, for he had conquered love.

Matrons and virgins strewed the path of Parrhasius and Cassandra with
flowers, as they returned to the city; and on the following day their
nuptials were celebrated with a splendor fully adequate to the wishes of
the ambitious Zeuxis, for the city made the marriage a high festival in
honor of Genius and Constancy.

The games ended; the city became quiet. A few years of happiness cast
their sunlight around the footsteps of the great painter, and he went down
into the tomb honored and mourned by a nation--by the world, wherever his
fame was known. His mantle fell upon Parrhasius, who is revered by Genius
as the greatest painter of antiquity.


    =Ideals=. Every man has at times in his mind, the ideal of
    what he should be, but is not. The ideal may be high and
    complete, or it may be quite low and insufficient; yet in
    all men that really seek to improve, it is better than the
    actual character. Man never falls so low that he can see
    nothing higher than himself.--=Theodore Parker=.
    (1810-1860.)




LITTLE GEMS FROM TENNYSON.

    Willow whiten, aspen quiver,
    Little breezes dusk and shiver
    Through the wave that runs for ever
    By the island in the river
    Flowing down to Camelot.
    Four gray walls, and four gray towers,
    Overlook a space of flowers,
    And the silent isle embowers
    The Lady of Shalott.

    _From "The Lady of Shalott."_


    How sweet it were, hearing the downward stream,
      With half-shut eyes ever to seem
      Falling asleep in a half-dream!
    To dream and dream, like yonder amber light,
    Which will not leave the myrrh-bush on the height;
      To hear each other's whispered speech;
     Eating the Lotos day by day,
    To watch the crisping ripples on the beach,
    And tender curving lines of creamy spray;
      To lend our hearts and spirits wholly
    To the influence of mild-minded melancholy;
    To muse and brood and live again in memory,
    With those old faces of our infancy
      Heaped over with a mound of grass--
    Two handfuls of white dust, shut in an urn of brass!

    _From "The Lotos-Eaters."_


    How dull it is to pause, to make an end,
    To rust unburnished, not to shine in use!
    As though to breathe were life. Life piled on life
    Were all too little.

    _From "Ulysses."_


    The splendor falls on castle walls
      And snowy summits old in story:
    The long light shakes across the lakes,
      And the wild cataract leaps in glory.
    Blow, bugle, blow! Set the wild echoes flying!
    Blow, bugle; answer, echoes--dying, dying, dying.

    _Song from "The Princess."_


    Henceforth thou hast a helper, me, that know
    The woman's cause is man's; they rise or sink
    Together, dwarfed or godlike, bond or free:
    For she that out of Lethe scales with man
    The shining steps of Nature, shares with man
    His nights, his days, moves with him to one goal,
    Stays all the fair young planet in her hands--
    If she be small, slight-natured, miserable,
    How shall men grow?

    _From "The Princess."_


    Love took up the glass of Time, and turned it in his glowing hands:
    Every moment, lightly shaken, ran itself in golden sands.
    Love took up the harp of Life, and smote on all the chords with might;
    Smote the chord of Self, that, trembling, passed in music out of sight.

    _From "Locksley Hall."_


    Men, my brothers, men the workers, ever reaping something new,
    That which they have done but earnest of the things that they shall do.

    _From "Locksley Hall."_


    This is truth the poet sings,
    That a sorrow's crown of sorrow is remembering happier things.

    _From "Locksley Hall."_


    Sunset and evening star,
    And one clear call for me!
    And may there be no moaning of the bar,
    When I put out to sea.

           *       *       *       *       *

    Twilight and evening bell,
    And after that the dark!
    And may there be no sadness of farewell,
    When I embark.

    _From "Crossing the Bar."_


    O love! O fire! once he drew
    With one long kiss my whole soul through
    My lips, as sunlight drinketh dew.

    _From "Fatima."_

    God gives us love. Something to love
      He lends us; but when love is grown
    To ripeness, that on which it throve
      Falls off, and love is left alone.

           *       *       *       *       *

    Sleep sweetly, tender heart, in peace!
      Sleep, holy spirit, blessed soul,
    While the stars burn, the moons increase,
      And the great ages onward roll.

    _From poem "To J.S."_


            That tower of strength
    Which stood four-square to all the winds that blew.

    _From "Ode on the Death of the Duke of Wellington."_


    The old order changeth, yielding place to new;
    And God fulfils himself in many ways,
    Lest one good custom should corrupt the world.

    _From "The Passing of Arthur."_

    Howe'er it be, it seems to me
      'T is only noble to be good;
    Kind hearts are more than coronets,
      And simple faith than Norman blood.

    _From "Lady Clara Vere de Vere."_


    A lie which is half a truth is ever the blackest of lies;
    A lie which is all a lie may be met and fought with outright;
    But a lie which is part a truth is a harder matter to fight.

    _From "The Grandmother."_


    And on her lover's arm she leant,
      And round her waist she felt it fold,
    And far across the hills they went
      In that new world which is the old.

    _From "The Day-Dream."_


    There lives more faith in honest doubt,
    Believe me, than in half the creeds.

    _From "In Memoriam."_




HOW TO TELL A WOMAN'S AGE.

  Two Ways of Securing Certain Valuable and Closely Guarded Information
  Which the Fair Sex Defies Even the Courts to Extract.

Few mysteries are at once so impenetrable and so irritating as that which
surrounds a truthful woman who declines to take you into her confidence
when the subject of her age is mentioned. But even women who are truthful
and secretive are curious, and when a friend tells them that he can solve
the mystery in spite of them they may easily fall into a certain
mathematical snare.

Tell the young woman to put down the number of the month in which she was
born, then to multiply it by 2, then add 5, then to multiply it by 50,
then to add her age, then to add 115, then to subtract 365, and finally to
tell you the amount that she has left.

The two figures to the right will tell her age, and the remainder the
month of her birth. For example, the amount is 822; she is twenty-two
years old, and was born in the eighth month (August).

Then there is another method.

Just hand this table to a young lady, and request her to tell you in which
column or columns her age is contained, and add together the figures at
the top of the columns in which her age is found, and you have the great
secret. Thus, suppose her age to be seventeen, you will find that number
in the first and fifth columns. Here is the magic table:

   1    2      4      8     16     32
   3    3      5      9     17     33
   5    6      6     10     18     34
   7    7      7     11     19     35
   9   10     12     12     20     36
  11   11     13     13     21     37
  13   14     14     14     22     38
  15   15     15     15     23     39
  17   18     20     24     24     40
  19   19     21     25     25     41
  21   22     22     26     26     42
  23   23     23     27     27     43
  25   26     28     28     28     44
  27   27     29     29     29     45
  29   30     30     30     30     46
  31   31     31     31     31     47
  33   34     36     40     48     48
  35   35     37     41     49     49
  37   38     38     42     50     50
  39   39     39     43     51     51
  41   42     44     44     52     52
  43   43     45     45     53     53
  45   46     46     46     54     54
  47   47     47     47     55     55
  49   50     52     56     56     56
  51   51     53     57     57     57
  53   54     54     58     58     58
  55   55     55     59     59     59
  57   58     60     60     60     60
  59   59     61     61     61     61
  61   62     62     62     62     62
  63   63     63     63     63     63




ODDITIES OF BIBLICAL LITERATURE.

Despite the veneration in which it has been held by mankind for the last
nineteen hundred years, the Bible has fared almost as badly at the hands
of translators and printers as books of far less importance. Errors made
in the course of translating and printing have caused various nicknames to
be applied to the editions. Some of the more extraordinary of these
editions were described in a recently published catalogue as follows:

=The Gutenberg Bible= (1450)--The earliest book known. Printed from
movable metal types, is the Latin Bible issued by Gutenberg, at Mayence.

=The Bug Bible= (1551)--Was so called from its rendering of the Psalms
xci:5: "Afraid of bugs by night." Our present version reads: "Terror by
night."

=The Breeches Bible=--The Geneva version is that popularly known as the
Breeches Bible, from its rendering of Genesis iii:7: "Making themselves
breeches out of fig-leaves." This translation of the Scriptures--the
result of the labors of the English exiles at Geneva--was the English
family Bible during the reign of Queen Elizabeth and till supplanted by
the present authorized version of King James I.

=The Place-Makers' Bible= (1562)--From a remarkable typographical error
which occurs in Matthew v:9: "Blessed are the place-makers," instead of
"peace-makers."

=The Treacle Bible= (1568)--From its rendering of Jeremiah viii:22: "Is
there no treacle [instead of balm] in Gilead?"

=The Rosin Bible= (1609)--From the same text, but translated "rosin."

=The Thumb Bible= (1670)--Being one inch square and half an inch thick;
was published at Aberdeen.

=The Vinegar Bible= (1717)--So named from the head-line of the twentieth
chapter of Luke, which reads: "The Parable of the Vinegar," instead of the
"vineyard."

=The Printers' Bible=--We are told by Cotton Mather that in a Bible
printed prior to 1702 a blundering typographer made King David exclaim:
"Printers [instead of princes] persecuted him without a cause." See Psalms
cxix:161.

=The Murderers' Bible= (1801)--So called from an error in the sixteenth
verse of the Epistle of Jude, the word "murderers" being used instead of
"murmurers."

=The Caxton Memorial Bible= (1877)--Wholly printed and bound in twelve
hours, but only one hundred copies struck off.

However much truth there may be in the stories of the dissolute conduct of
Shakespeare, there is abundant proof of the fact that the Bible was one of
his favorite books. Indeed, his admiration for the Scriptures carried him
so far that he frequently incorporated Bible sentences in his plays. The
following are examples:

_Bible_--"But though I be rude in speech."--2 Corinthians xi:6.

_Othello_--"Rude am I in speech."

_Bible_--"To consume thine eyes and to grieve thine heart."--1 Samuel
ii:33.

_Macbeth_--"Shew his eyes and grieve his heart."

_Bible_--"Look not upon me because I am black; because the sun hath looked
upon me."--Song of Solomon i:6.

_Merchant of Venice_--"Mislike me not for my complexion--the shadowed
livery of the burnished sun."

_Bible_--"I caught him by his beard and smote him and slew him."--1 Samuel
xvii:35.

_Othello_--"I took by the throat the circumcised dog, and smote him."

_Bible_--"Opened Job his mouth and cursed his day; let it not be joined
unto the days of the year; let it not come into the number of
months."--Job.

_Macbeth_--"May this accursed hour stand ay accursed in the calendar."

_Bible_--"What is man that Thou art mindful of him? Thou hast made him a
little lower than the angels, and hast crowned him with glory and honor.
Thou madest him to have dominion over the works of Thy hands."--Psalms
viii:4; Hebrews ii:6.

_Hamlet_--"What a piece of work is a man! How noble in reason; how
infinite in faculties; in form and moving how express and admirable; in
action how like an angel; in apprehension how like a god! The beauty of
the world--the paragon of animals."

_Bible_--"Nicanor lay dead in his harness."--Maccabees xvii:12.

_Macbeth_--"We'll die with harness on our backs."




The Prophecies of Bonaparte.

  Remarkable Manuscript Found in the Exiled Emperor's Desk on the
  Island of Elba before Waterloo.

That the first Napoleon was exceedingly superstitious is well known. He
was a devout believer in dream warnings, and he was a patron of palmists,
clairvoyants, and astrologers. Like many another great man, the famous
emperor sometimes was prone to indulge in prophetic utterances himself.

One of the most interesting of the compositions of Napoleon is a
remarkable prophecy which, in the emperor's own handwriting, was found in
his desk on the island of Elba. The document was discovered by Captain
Campbell, in 1815. It is as follows:

    The foundation of our political society is so defective and
    tottering that it threatens ruin; the fall will be terrible,
    and all the nations on the continent will be involved in it;
    no human force can arrest the course of events.

    All civilized Europe will find itself in the position in
    which a part of Italy once was under the Cæsars.

    The storm of the Revolution, some clouds of which will
    extend over France, will soon cover all that portion of the
    globe which we inhabit with a frightful darkness.

    The world can be saved only by shedding torrents of blood; a
    terrible and violent hurricane can alone purge the poisonous
    air which envelops Europe.

    I only could have saved the world, and no other.

    I would have given it the chalice of suffering to empty at a
    single draft; instead of which it must now drink it drop by
    drop.

    That which is now fermenting in Spain and at Rome will soon
    cause a general commotion. Then the crisis will be terrible.

    I know men and the age; I would have hastened the advent of
    happiness on earth, if those with whom I had to deal had not
    been villains. They accuse me of having despised and
    enslaved them; their own groveling spirit and thirst for
    gold and distinction brought them to my feet. Could I take
    one step without crushing them? I did not need to spread
    snares in their path; it sufficed to present to them the cup
    of worldly riches and honors. Then, like a swarm of hungry
    flies, they precipitated themselves on their prey. The
    slaves needed a master, but I had no need of slaves.

    What shall we think of forty millions of people who complain
    bitterly of the oppression of a single individual!

    Cupidity, envy, vanity, false glory, pursue them like furies
    through this stormy life; they talk incessantly of virtue,
    generosity, and love, while, like an incurable cancer, envy,
    interest, and ambition are gnawing the inner folds of their
    hearts. They carefully conceal their wickedness, and feign a
    virtue which they do not possess; they reciprocally lavish
    flatteries on one another. Though no one of them believes in
    the honor of the rest, nevertheless, through weakness, they
    play together the parts they have learned, for want of
    courage to show themselves such as they are.

    The best among them are those who are most condemned,
    because they do not know how to feign, and the false virtue
    of the rest gives more éclat to their crimes.

    Nothing is more revolting to me than this mania for
    falsehood, to which I have sometimes been myself obliged to
    make sacrifices, that I might not expose others.

    Their private life is but a constant series of boasting, a
    disconnected conversation, the repetition of a part
    carefully studied.

    As I saw everywhere that ambition and interest prevailed
    (taking from all and giving to none), that all wished to
    command and no one wished to obey, I resolved to terminate
    this insensate dispute, by taking from all what they desired
    so eagerly and could not possess; thus, the men who loudly
    demanded liberty were compelled to learn to know it, and
    appreciate it by a blind obedience.

    It was in this manner that by a voluntary reciprocity each
    one recovered his due.

    Renouncing all these frivolous manners, all these theatrical
    caricatures of our times, let us be more sincere; less of
    courtiers, more serious, more reflective, and less apish.
    This is a sure method, if there is one, of renewing the
    Golden Age.

    For myself, I care very little what may be said, thought, or
    written of me. I have been accused of having done, and
    suffered to be done, much evil.

    When the storm hovers over the surface of the earth, to
    purify the air and fertilize the mountains, ought we to
    complain if, in its course, it carries away roofs and loose
    tiles, or shakes off the fruits of trees? Even the sun, when
    he sheds his beneficent light upon the Arctic pole, kills
    and scorches all vital plants beneath his meridian.

    With the amiable popularity of a Cæsar and of a Henry IV, I
    might not have found, it is true, a single Brutus, but a
    hundred Ravaillacs.

    Although I care little for the people, because they are
    fickle, flattering, cruel, and capricious as children (for
    they are always such) and trample beneath their feet to-day
    those they idolized yesterday, nevertheless I would have
    promoted their welfare, more than those who have so basely
    betrayed them.




REJECTED BOOKS THAT WON FAME.

  "Ben-Hur," "Vanity Fair," "Jane Eyre," and Scores of Other Masterpieces
  Were "Declined With Thanks" by Several Publishers.

There used to be an old superstition that a flash of lightning would turn
milk sour. This is the sort of effect produced upon a young author by the
rejection of a manuscript by a publisher. As the author becomes older,
more successful, and more experienced, such incidents do not discourage
him, and if he sighs at all, the sigh is one of commiseration for the
publisher who cannot appreciate a really good thing when he sees it.

The owner of a rejected manuscript is in good company, for many of the
more celebrated works of literature have been summarily returned to their
authors by unappreciative publishers.

Few books published in the United States have yielded to their publishers
and authors larger returns than "Ben-Hur," by the late Lew Wallace, and
yet the manuscript had been rejected by nearly every first-class publisher
in this country before it finally was accepted by the Harpers, to whom it
was submitted for the second time.

"Rejected Addresses," by Horace and James Smith, was offered to Mr. Murray
for twenty pounds, but refused. A publisher, however, purchased it, and,
after sixteen editions, Mr. Murray gave a hundred and thirty pounds for
the right to issue a new edition. The total amount received by the authors
was more than a thousand pounds.

"Jane Eyre," by Charlotte Brontë, was, it is said, rejected by several
publishers. This, however, is rather doubtful. We believe the manuscript
was sent to Messrs. Smith, Elder & Co., in Cornhill, and there it remained
for a long time, till a daughter of one of the publishers read it and
recommended her father to publish it. The result is well known. It brought
the author fame and money.

"Eöthen," by Mr. Kinglake, was offered to twenty different houses. All
refused it. He then, in a fit of desperation, gave the manuscript to an
obscure bookseller and found the expenses of publication himself. This
also proved a success.

"Vanity Fair," that most famous work of Thackeray's, was written for
_Colburn's Magazine_, but it was refused by the publishers as having no
interest.

"The History of Ferdinand and Isabella," by Mr. Prescott, was rejected by
two of the first publishers in London, and it ultimately appeared under
the auspices of Mr. Bentley, who stated that it had more success than any
book he had ever published.

The author of "The Diary of a Late Physician" for a long time sought a
publisher, and unsuccessfully. At last he gave the manuscript to
_Blackwood's Magazine_, where it first appeared and was very successful.

The first volume of Hans Andersen's "Fairy Tales" was rejected by every
publisher in Copenhagen. Andersen had then neither name nor popularity,
and published this exquisite book at his own expense, a proceeding which
soon brought him into notoriety.

Miss Jane Austen's novels, models of writing at this day, at first met
with no success. One of them, "Northanger Abbey," was purchased by a
publisher in Bath for ten pounds. After paying this sum, he was afraid to
risk any further money in its publication, and it remained many years in
his possession before he ventured upon the speculation, which, to his
surprise, turned out very profitable.

The poet Shelley had always to pay for the publication of his poems.

The "Ode on the Death of Sir John Moore at Corunna" was written by Rev.
Charles Wolfe. It was rejected so scornfully by a leading periodical that
the author gave it to an obscure Irish paper.




Con Cregan's Legacy.

BY CHARLES LEVER.


    Charles James Lever (1806--1872) remains the most popular
    novelist that Ireland has ever produced. He was born in
    Dublin and studied medicine both there and in Germany. After
    practising his profession for several years, he began to
    write his novels of Irish life, the first of which, "Harry
    Lorrequer," appeared serially in the _Dublin University
    Magazine_ in 1837. This story caught the fancy of the public
    at once, by its unrestrained spirit of rollicking fun,
    verging often upon farce. The flow of animal spirits which
    Lever displayed was even more conspicuous in the most
    popular of all his books, "Charles O'Malley," and in the
    succeeding novels, "Jack Hinton," "Tom Burke of Ours," and
    "The Confessions of Con Cregan," from the last of which the
    accompanying selection is taken.

    Wit and humor are blended in everything that Lever wrote,
    and he had a keen eye for the grotesque. His later years
    were largely spent upon the Continent, and he died at
    Trieste, where he had been British consul for many years. He
    and Samuel Lover afford the best examples of Celtic wit that
    are to be found in literature.

When, my worthy reader, we shall have become better acquainted, there will
be little necessity for my insisting upon a fact which, at this early
stage of our intimacy, I deem it requisite to mention; namely, that my
native modesty and bashfulness are only second to my veracity, and that
while the latter quality in a manner compels me to lay an occasional
stress upon my own goodness of heart, generosity, candor, and so forth, I
have, notwithstanding, never introduced the subject without a pang--such a
pang as only a sensitive and diffident nature can suffer or comprehend;
there now, not another word of preface or apology!

I was born in a little cabin on the borders of Meath and King's County; it
stood on a small triangular bit of ground, beside a cross-road; and
although the place was surveyed every ten years or so, they were never
able to say to which county we belonged, there being just the same number
of arguments for one side as for the other--a circumstance, many believed,
that decided my father in his original choice of the residence; for
while, under the "disputed boundary question," he paid no rates or county
cess, he always made a point of voting at both county elections!

This may seem to indicate that my parent was of a naturally acute habit;
and indeed the way he became possessed of the bit of ground will confirm
that impression.

There was nobody of the rank of gentry in the parish, nor even "squireen";
the richest being a farmer, a snug old fellow, one Henry McCabe, that had
two sons, who were always fighting between themselves which was to have
the old man's money. Peter, the elder, doing everything to injure Mat, and
Mat never backward in paying off the obligation. At last Mat, tired out in
the struggle, resolved he would bear no more. He took leave of his father
one night, and next day set off for Dublin, and 'listed in the "Buffs."

Three weeks after, he sailed for India; and the old man, overwhelmed by
grief, took to his bed, and never arose from it.

Not that his death was anyway sudden, for he lingered on for months
longer; Peter always teasing him to make his will, and be revenged on "the
dirty spalpeen" that disgraced the family; but old Harry as stoutly
resisting, and declaring that whatever he owned should be fairly divided
between them.

These disputes between them were well known in the neighborhood. Few of
the country people passing the house at night but had overheard the old
man's weak, reedy voice and Peter's deep, hoarse one, in altercation. When
at last--it was on a Sunday night--all was still and quiet in the house;
not a word, not a footstep, could be heard, no more than if it were
uninhabited, the neighbors looked knowingly at each other, and wondered if
the old man were worse--if he were dead!

It was a little after midnight that a knock came to the door of our cabin.
I heard it first, for I used to sleep in a little snug basket near the
fire; but I didn't speak, for I was frightened.

It was repeated still louder, and then came a cry--"Con Cregan; Con, I
say, open the door! I want you."

I knew the voice well; it was Peter McCabe's; but I pretended to be fast
asleep, and snored loudly. At last my father unbolted the door, and I
heard him say, "Oh, Mr. Peter, what's the matter? Is the ould man worse?"

"Faix that's what he is! for he's dead!"

"Glory be his bed! When did it happen?"

"About an hour ago," said Peter, in a voice that even I from my corner
could perceive was greatly agitated. "He died like an ould haythen, Con,
and never made a will!"

"That's bad," says my father, for he was always a polite man, and said
whatever was pleasing to the company.

"It is bad," said Peter; "but it would be worse if we couldn't help it.
Listen to me now, Corny, I want ye to help me in this business; and here's
five guineas in goold, if ye do what I bid ye. You know that ye were
always reckoned the image of my father, and before he took ill ye were
mistaken for each other every day of the week."

"Anan!" said my father; for he was getting frightened at the notion,
without well knowing why.

"Well, what I want is, for ye to come over to the house, and get into the
bed."

"Not beside the corpse?" said my father, trembling.

"By no means, but by yourself; and you're to pretend to be my father, and
that ye want to make yer will before ye die; and then I'll send for the
neighbors, and Billy Scanlan, the schoolmaster, and ye'll tell him what to
write, laving all the farm and everything to me--ye understand. And as the
neighbors will see ye, and hear yer voice, it will never be believed but
that it was himself that did it."

"The room must be very dark," said my father.

"To be sure it will, but have no fear! Nobody will dare to come nigh the
bed; and ye'll only have to make a cross with yer pen under the name."

"And the priest?" said my father.

"My father quarreled with him last week about the Easter dues: and Father
Tom said he'd not give him the 'rites': and that's lucky now! Come along
now, quick, for we've no time to lose: it must be all finished before the
day breaks."

My father did not lose much time at his toilet, for he just wrapped his
big coat 'round him, and slipping on his brogues, left the house. I sat up
in the basket and listened till they were gone some minutes; and then, in
a costume as light as my parent's, set out after them, to watch the course
of the adventure. I thought to take a short cut, and be before them; but
by bad luck I fell into a bog-hole, and only escaped being drowned by a
chance. As it was, when I reached the house the performance had already
begun.

I think I see the whole scene this instant before my eyes, as I sat on a
little window with one pane, and that a broken one, and surveyed the
proceeding. It was a large room, at one end of which was a bed, and beside
it a table, with physic bottles, and spoons, and teacups; a little farther
off was another table, at which sat Billy Scanlan, with all manner of
writing materials before him.

The country people sat two, sometimes three, deep round the walls, all
intently eager and anxious for the coming event. Peter himself went from
place to place, trying to smother his grief, and occasionally helping the
company to whisky--which was supplied with more than accustomed
liberality.

All my consciousness of the deceit and trickery could not deprive the
scene of a certain solemnity. The misty distance of the half-lighted room;
the highly wrought expression of the country people's faces, never more
intensely excited than at some moment of this kind; the low, deep-drawn
breathings, unbroken save by a sigh or a sob--the tribute of affectionate
sorrow to some lost friend, whose memory was thus forcibly brought back:
these, I repeat it, were all so real, that, as I looked, a thrilling sense
of awe stole over me, and I actually shook with fear.

A low, faint cough, from the dark corner where the bed stood, seemed to
cause even a deeper stillness; and then in a silence where the buzzing of
a fly would have been heard, my father said, "Where's Billy Scanlan? I
want to make my will!"

"He's here, father!" said Peter, taking Billy by the hand and leading him
to the bedside.

"Write what I bid ye, Billy, and be quick; for I haven't a long time afore
me here. I die a good Catholic, though Father O'Rafferty won't give me the
'rites'!"

A general chorus of muttered "Oh! musha, musha," was now heard through the
room; but whether in grief over the sad fate of the dying man, or the
unflinching severity of the priest, is hard to say.

"I die in peace with all my neighbors and all mankind!"

Another chorus of the company seemed to approve these charitable
expressions.

"I bequeath unto my son, Peter--and never was there a better son, or a
decenter boy!--have you that down? I bequeath unto my son, Peter, the
whole of my two farms of Killimundoonery and Knocksheboora, with the
fallow meadows, behind Lynch's house, the forge, and the right of turf on
the Dooran bog. I give him, and much good may it do him, Lantry Cassarn's
acre, and the Luary field, with the limekiln; and that reminds me that my
mouth is just as dry; let me taste what ye have in the jug."

Here the dying man took a very hearty pull, and seemed considerably
refreshed by it.

"Where was I, Billy Scanlan?" says he; "oh, I remember, at the limekiln; I
leave him--that's Peter, I mean, the two potato gardens at Noonan's Well;
and it is the elegant fine crops grows there."

"Ain't you gettin' wake, father darlin'?" says Peter, who began to be
afraid of my father's loquaciousness; for, to say the truth, the punch got
into his head, and he was greatly disposed to talk.

"I am, Peter, my son," says he; "I am getting wake; just touch my lips
agin with the jug. Ah, Peter, Peter, you watered the drink!"

"No, indeed, father; but it's the taste is lavin' you," says Peter; and
again a low chorus of compassionate pity murmured through the cabin.

"Well, I'm nearly done now," says my father: "there's only one little plot
of ground remaining; and I put it on you, Peter--as ye wish to live a good
man, and die with the same easy heart I do now--that ye mind my last words
to ye here. Are ye listening? Are the neighbors listening? Is Billy
Scanlan listening?"

"Yes, sir. Yes, father. We're all minding," chorused the audience.

"Well, then, it's my last will and testament, and may--give me over the
jug"--here he took a long drink--"and may that blessed liquor be poison to
me if I'm not as eager about this as every other part of my will; I say,
then, I bequeath the little plot at the crossroads to poor Con Cregan; for
he has a heavy charge, and is as honest and as hardworking a man as ever I
knew. Be a friend to him, Peter dear; never let him want while ye have it
yourself; think of me on my deathbed whenever he asks ye for any trifle.
Is it down, Billy Scanlan? the two acres at the cross to Con Cregan, and
his heirs _in secla seclorum_. Ah, blessed be the saints! but I feel my
heart lighter after that," says he; "a good work makes an easy conscience;
and now I'll drink the company's good health, and many happy returns----"

What he was going to add, there's no saying; but Peter, who was now
terribly frightened at the lively tone the sick man was assuming, hurried
all the people away into another room, to let his father die in peace.

When they were all gone, Peter slipped back to my father, who was putting
on his brogues in a corner: "Con," says he, "ye did it all well; but sure
that was a joke about the two acres at the cross."

"Of course it was, Peter," says he; "sure it was all a joke for the matter
of that: won't I make the neighbors laugh to-morrow when I tell them all
about it!"

"You wouldn't be mean enough to betray me?" says Peter, trembling with
fright.

"Sure ye wouldn't be mean enough to go against yer father's dying words?"
says my father; "the last sentence ever he spoke;" and here he gave a low,
wicked laugh, that made myself shake with fear.

"Very well, Con!" says Peter, holding out his hand; "a bargain's a
bargain; yer a deep fellow, that's all!" and so it ended; and my father
slipped quietly home over the bog, mighty well satisfied with the legacy
he left himself.

And thus we became the owners of the little spot known to this day as
Con's Acre.




GEORGE III SOUGHT HEAVEN'S AID.


  The British Sovereign Proclaimed a General Fast and Commanded His
  Subjects to Humble Themselves to Win the Divine Favor in Their War
  with the American Colonies.

When the American colonies rebelled against King George, England was not
so easy in her view of the situation as is often assumed. The reader who
may stumble upon a copy of the London _Gazette_ for October, 1776, will
find therein this:


    PROCLAMATION FOR A GENERAL FAST.

    =George R=.

    We, taking into our most serious Consideration the just and
    necessary Measures of Force which We are obliged to use
    against Our rebellious Subjects in Our Colonies and
    Provinces in North America and Putting Our Trust in Almighty
    God, that He will vouchsafe a special Blessing on Our Arms
    both by Sea and Land, have resolved, and do, by and with the
    Advice of Our Privy Council, hereby command, That a Publick
    Fast and Humiliation be observed throughout that Part of Our
    Kingdom of Great Britain called England, Our Dominion of
    Wales, and Town of Berwick upon Tweed, upon Friday the 13th
    Day of December next; and so both We and Our People may
    humble Ourselves before Almighty God, in order to obtain
    Pardon of Our Sins; and may, in the most devout and solemn
    Manner, send up our Prayers and Supplications to the Devine
    Majesty, for averting those heavy Judgments which Our
    manifold Sins and Provocations have most justly deserved,
    and for imploring his Intervention and Blessing speedily to
    deliver Our loyal Subjects within Our Colonies and Provinces
    in North America from the Violence, Injustice, and Tyranny,
    of those daring Rebels who have assumed to themselves the
    Exercise of Arbitrary Power; to open the Eyes of those who
    have been deluded by specious Falsehoods into Acts of
    Treason and Rebellion; to turn the Hearts of the Authors of
    these Calamities, and finally to restore Our People in those
    distracted Provinces and Colonies to the happy Condition of
    being free Subjects of a free State; under which heretofore
    they flourished so long and prospered so much.

    And We do strictly charge and command, That the said Publick
    Fast be reverently and devoutly observed by all Our loving
    Subjects in England, Our Dominion of Wales, and Town of
    Berwick upon Tweed, as they tender the Favour of Almighty
    God, and would avoid His Wrath and Indignation; and upon
    Pain of such Punishment as We may justly inflict upon all
    such as contemn and neglect the Performance of so religious
    a Duty. And, for the better and more orderly solemnizing the
    same, We have given Directions to the Most Reverend the
    Archbishops, and the Right Reverend the Bishops of England,
    to compose a Form of Prayer, suitable to this Occasion, to
    be used in all Churches, Chapels, and Places of Publick
    Worship, and to take Care the same be timely dispersed
    throughout their respective Dioceses. Given at Our Court at
    St. James, the Thirtieth Day of October, One Thousand seven
    hundred and seventy-six, in the Seventeenth Year of Our
    Reign.




HOW PUNSTERS SMITE THE LYRE.


THE AHKOOND OF SWAT.

By George Thomas Lanigan.

    (This famous poem appeared in the New York _Sun_ in January,
    1876. Mr. Lanigan wrote it the previous evening, on the
    arrival of a brief cablegram announcing the death of the
    Ahkoond of Swat, in British India.)


    What, what, what,
      What's the news from Swat?
             Sad news,
             Bad news,
    Comes by the cable led
    Through the Indian Ocean's bed,
    Through the Persian Gulf, the Red
    Sea, and the Med-
    iterranean--he's dead;
    The Ahkoond is dead!

    For the Ahkoond I mourn;
         Who wouldn't?
    He strove to disregard the message stern,
         But he Ahkoodn't.
    Dead, dead, dead;
             (Sorrow Swats!)

    Swats wha hae wi' Ahkoond bled,
    Swats whom he hath often led
    Onward to a gory bed,
         Or to victory,
         As the case might be,
             Sorrow Swats!
    Tears shed,
             Shed tears like water,
    Your great Ahkoond is dead!
             That Swats the matter!

    Mourn, city of Swat!
    Your great Ahkoond is not,
    But lain 'mid worms to rot.
    His mortal part alone; his soul was caught
    (Because he was a good Ahkoond)
    Up to the bosom of Mahound.
    Though earthly walls his fame surround
    (Forever hallowed be the ground!)
    And skeptics mock the lowly mound
    And say "He's now of no Ahkoond!"
         His soul is in the skies--
    The azure skies that bend above his loved
             Metropolis of Swat.
         He sees with larger, other eyes,
         Athwart all earthly mysteries
             He knows what's Swat.
      Let Swat bury the great Ahkoond
    With a noise of mourning and of lamentation!
      Let Swat bury the great Ahkoond
    With the noise of the mourning of the Swattish nation!
             Fallen is at length
             Its tower of strength,
    Its sun is dimmed ere it had nooned;
    Dead lies the great Ahkoond;
             The great Ahkoond of Swat
             Is not!


THE DYING SHOEMAKER.

    "Dear wife, I'm waxing near my end,"
      The dying cobbler said;
    "Soon to an upper world my soul
      Its lonely way must tread.

    "I fear indeed I'm pegging out;
      But then what boots it, love?
    Here we've been a well-fitted pair,
      And so we'll be above.

    "My ills I know no drugs may heel,
      So it's well to prepare;
    We can't run counter to our fate--
      Just put a peg in there.

    "The future need not give you care,
      I've left my awl to you;
    For deep within my inner sole
      I know that you've been true.

    "I've always given you your rights,
      But now you must be left;
    However, do not grieve too much
      When of me you're bereft.

    "A last farewell I now will take."
      He smiled and raised his head.
    "B-last the cruel malady
      That lays you low," she said.

    "I'll slipper away in peace," he sighed;
      "The strife will soon be past."
    His head fell back, he sweetly smiled,
      And then he breathed his last.


I WANT TO GO TO MORROW.

    I started on a journey just about a week ago,
    For the little town of Morrow, in the State of Ohio.
    I never was a traveler, and really didn't know
    That Morrow had been ridiculed a century or so.
    I went down to the depot for my ticket, and applied
    For the tips regarding Morrow, not expecting to be guyed.
    Said I, "My friend, I want to go to Morrow and return
    Not later than to-morrow, for I haven't time to burn."

    Said he to me, "Now let me see if I have heard you right;
    You want to go to Morrow and come back to-morrow night.
    You should have gone to Morrow yesterday and back to-day,
    For if you started yesterday to Morrow, don't you see,
    You could have got to Morrow and returned to-day at three.
    The train that started yesterday--now understand me right--
    To-day it gets to Morrow, and returns to-morrow night."

    Said I, "My boy, it seems to me you're talking through your hat,
    Is there a town named Morrow on your line? Now tell me that."
    "There is," said he, "and take from me a quiet little tip--
    To go from here to Morrow is a fourteen-hour trip.
    The train that goes to Morrow leaves to-day eight-thirty-five;
    Half after ten to-morrow is the time it should arrive.
    Now if from here to Morrow is a fourteen-hour jump,
    Can you go to-day to Morrow and come back to-day, you chump?"

    Said I, "I want to go to Morrow; can I go to-day
    And get to Morrow by to-night, if there is no delay?"
    "Well, well," said he, "explain to me and I've no more to say;
    Can you go anywhere to-morrow and come back to-day?
    For if to-day you'd get to Morrow, surely you'll agree
    You should have started not to-day, but yesterday, you see.
    So if you start to Morrow, leaving here to-day, you're flat,
    You won't get in to Morrow till the day that follows that.

    "Now if you start to-day to Morrow, it's a cinch you'll land
    To-morrow into Morrow, not to-day, you understand.
    For the train to-day to Morrow, if the schedule is all right,
    Will get you into Morrow by about to-morrow night."
    Said I, "I guess you know it all, but kindly let me say,
    How can I go to Morrow if I leave the town to-day?"
    Said he, "You cannot go to Morrow any more to-day,
    For the train that goes to Morrow is a mile upon its way."


FINALE.

    I was so disappointed I was mad enough to swear;
    The train had gone to Morrow and had left me standing there.
    The man was right in telling me I was a howling jay;
    I didn't go to Morrow, so I guess I'll go to-day.


THE WASHERWOMAN'S SONG.

    Wring out the old, wring out the new,
      Wring out the black, wring out the gray,
    Wring out the white, wring out the blue--
      And thus I wring my life away.

    An occupation strange is mine;
      At least it seems to people droll
    That while I'm working at the line
      I'm going on from pole to pole.

    Where'er I go I strive to please,
      From morn to night I rub and rub;
    I'm something like Diogenes--
      I almost live within a tub.

    To acrobats who vault and spring
      In circuses I take a shine;
    They make their living in the ring,
      And by the wringer I make mine.

    My calling's humble, I'll agree,
      But I am no cheap calico,
    As some folks are who sneer at me;
      I'm something that will wash, you know.

    I smile in calm, I strive in storm,
      With life's adversities I cope
    My duties bravely to perform;
      My motto--While there's life there's soap.

    Wring out the old, wring out the new,
      Wring out the black, wring out the gray,
    Wring out the white, wring out the blue--
      And thus I wring my life away.




Mr. Caudle Lends Five Pounds.

BY DOUGLAS JERROLD.

  A Glimpse of English Domestic Life in Which the American Reader May
  Find Here and There Something That Sounds Quite Familiar.

    Editor, humorist, playwright, humanitarian, Douglas William
    Jerrold--to give him his seldom heard full name--was a
    winning figure in his period. He was born in London in 1803,
    the son of an actor and theater lessee. He had little
    schooling, but he was fond of books, and educated himself
    precociously by reading a wide range of literature in
    English, French, Italian, and Latin. Occasionally his father
    cast him for children's parts on the stage. For a time he
    served as a midshipman in the British navy, and later became
    a printer's apprentice. He was only fifteen when he wrote a
    comedy, "More Frightened Than Hurt," which was well
    received. His best-remembered play, "Black-Eyed Susan," was
    produced in 1829. All in all, he wrote more than forty
    plays, many of which enjoyed an ephemeral success.

    Meantime he was constantly engaging in literary ventures.
    When _Punch_ was founded, in 1841, he at once became a
    contributor, and he continued the connection until his
    death. "Mrs. Caudle's Curtain Lectures," "Punch's Letters to
    His Son," and "Cakes and Ale" are well-known compilations of
    his papers in _Punch_.

    Jerrold was a lovable man, of an easy-going, generous
    nature. Sociable, impulsive, simple, fiery--his faults were
    those of carelessness or haste.

    When _Mrs. Caudle_ was brought into public notice in the
    forties, the type was quickly recognized, and England and
    America chuckled aloud. _Mrs. Caudle_ still lives--and will
    live as long as her sex; therefore, England and America
    still chuckle.


You ought to be very rich, Mr. Caudle. I wonder who'd lend you five
pounds! But so it is: a wife may work and slave. Oh, dear! the many things
that might have been done with five pounds! As if people picked up money
in the streets! But you always _were_ a fool, Mr. Caudle! I've wanted a
black satin gown these three years, and that five pounds would have pretty
well bought it. But it's no matter how I go--not at all. Everybody says I
don't dress as becomes your wife--and I don't; but what's that to you, Mr.
Caudle? Nothing. Oh, no! You can have fine feelings for everybody but
those that belong to you. I wish people knew you as I do--that's all. You
like to be called liberal and your poor family pays for it.

And the girls want bonnets, and when they're to get 'em I can't tell. Half
five pounds would have bought 'em, but now they must go without. Of course
_they_ belong to you; and anybody but your own flesh and blood, Mr.
Caudle.

The man called for the water-rate to-day; but I should like to know how
people are to pay taxes who throw away five pounds to every fellow that
asks them.

Perhaps you don't know that Jack, this morning, knocked the shuttlecock
through his bedroom window. I was going to send for the glazier to mend
it; but, after you lent that five pounds, I was sure we couldn't afford
it. Oh, no; the window must go as it is; and pretty weather for a dear
child to sleep with a broken window. He's got a cold already on his lungs,
and I shouldn't at all wonder if that broken window settled him; if the
dear boy dies, his death will be upon his father's head, for I'm sure we
can't now pay to mend windows. We might, though, and do a good many more
things, if people didn't throw away their five pounds.

Next Tuesday the fire-insurance is due. I should like to know how it's to
be paid. Why, it can't be paid at all. That five pounds would have just
done it, and now insurance is out of the question. And there never were so
many fires as there are now. I shall never close my eyes all night; but
what's that to you, so people can call you liberal, Mr. Caudle? Your wife
and children may all be burnt alive in their beds, as all of us to a
certainty shall be, for the insurance must drop. After we've insured for
so many years! But how, I should like to know, are people to insure who
make ducks and drakes of their five pounds?

I did think we might go to Margate this summer. There's poor Caroline, I'm
sure she wants the sea. But no, dear creature, she must stop at home;
she'll go into a consumption, there's no doubt of that; yes, sweet little
angel. I've made up my mind to lose her now. The child might have been
saved; but people can't save their children and throw away five pounds,
too.

I wonder where little Cherub is? While you were lending that five pounds,
the dog ran out of the shop. You know I never let it go into the street,
for fear it should be bit by some mad dog and come home and bite the
children. It wouldn't at all astonish me if the animal was to come back
with hydrophobia and give it to all the family. However, what's your
family to you, so you can play the liberal creature with five pounds?

Do you hear that shutter, how it's banging to and fro? Yes, I know what it
wants as well as you: it wants a new fastening. I was going to send for
the blacksmith to-day. But now it's out of the question: now it must bang
of nights, since you have thrown away five pounds.

Well, things have come to a pretty pass! This is the first night I ever
made my supper of roast beef without pickles. But who is to afford pickles
when folk are always lending five pounds?

Do you hear the mice running about the room? I hear them. If they were
only to drag you out of bed, it would be no matter. _Set a trap for 'em?_
But how are people to afford the cheese, when every day they lose five
pounds?

Hark! I'm sure there's a noise down-stairs. It wouldn't surprise me if
there were thieves in the house. Well, it may be the cat; but thieves are
pretty sure to come some night. There's a wretched fastening to the back
door; but these are not times to afford bolts and bars, when fools won't
take care of their five pounds.

Mary Anne ought to have gone to the dentist's to-morrow. She wants three
teeth pulled out. Now it can't be done. Three teeth, that quite disfigures
the child's mouth. But there they must stop, and spoil the sweetest face
that was ever made. Otherwise she'd have been the wife for a lord. Now,
when she grows up, who'll have her? Nobody. We shall die, and leave her
alone and unprotected in the world. But what do you care for that?
Nothing; so you can squander away five pounds.

And now, Mr. Caudle, see what misery you've brought on your wretched
family! I can't have a satin gown--the girls can't have new bonnets--the
water-rate must stand over--Jack must get his death through a broken
window--our fire-insurance can't be paid, so we shall all be victims to
the devouring element--we can't go to Margate, and Caroline will go to an
early grave--the dog will come home and bite us all mad--that shutter will
go banging forever--the mice never let us have a wink of sleep--the
thieves be always breaking in the house--and our dear Mary Anne be forever
left an unprotected maid--and all, all, Mr. Caudle, _because you will go
on lending five pounds_!




How They Got On In The World.

  Brief Biographies of Successful Men Who Have Passed Through
  the Crucible of Small Beginnings and Won Out.

_Compiled and edited for_ THE SCRAP BOOK.


RISE OF A CHORE BOY.

  Present Head of Stanford University Had
  a Hard Row to Hoe in Order to
  Get an Education.

David Starr Jordan, president of Stanford University and the leading
authority on fishes in the United States, was a farm boy from Gainsville,
New York, when he joined the first class that entered Cornell University.
He had little money, but he got along comfortably by waiting on table,
husking corn, taking care of lawns, digging ditches and tutoring. It was
the proper way to work through college, for he says: "A young man is not
worth educating who cannot work through college that way."

He became an instructor in botany while still a junior, and he did so well
that he attracted the attention of Andrew D. White, president of the
university, who encouraged him and aided him in his work. The rounding of
Jordan's education was completed by Louis Agassiz, with whom he studied
three months in a shed on Penikese Island in Buzzard's Bay.


A Student of Fishes.

Jordan's attention was early drawn to the study of fishes, and the general
ignorance concerning them determined him to make them his special line of
work. As a source of food supply, fish stands close to meat, and millions
of people depend on the fish supply rather than on meat. Yet concerning
the habits, breeding, and geographical distribution of fish, there was
little known. In studying his chosen subject Jordan has traveled more than
two hundred thousand miles, and to-day he is the accepted authority on
fish. Much of the important work accomplished by the United States Fish
Commission, of which he has been a member since 1877, has been due to his
initiative.

The value of American fisheries averages fifty million dollars annually,
but for a long time the business was carried on in a haphazard fashion,
and few naturalists thought it worth while to devote any considerable
amount of attention to the study of fishes. Jordan did as much to change
that state of affairs as any other man.

The breeding of food fish, now extensively carried on by the United States
Government, is largely the result of his advice, and he has greatly
increased the efficiency of the fishers by placing at their disposal new
knowledge concerning the habits and migrations of food fish.


Selecting His Aids.

His work in connection with the fisheries was only part of what he has
managed to crowd into a busy life. As professor of zoology at Indiana
University he stimulated his pupils to a thorough study of their subject,
and his influence in this department was felt even outside the university.
It was while he was in Indiana that he was called to the presidency of
Leland Stanford University. His first work was to bring together a
faculty.

A big trunk full of applications for positions was turned over to him, and
he was told he could do what he liked with them. He never opened the
trunk. He knew the men he wanted for the various positions, and he drew
them from Cornell and Indiana. To this day Jordan does not know even the
names of the applicants.

The students who come under the influence of Dr. Jordan do not have a life
of scholastic ease and idleness. Their president has said, "The problem of
life is not to make life easier, but to make men stronger."

He accepted the presidency of Stanford University with the distinct
understanding that he was to do nothing that it was possible to hire
another man to do. As a result he has had a free hand, and has devoted
himself to the larger affairs of the university's development. The result
is that Stanford in a short time has been able to push well to the front
as a solid and progressive place of learning.

Dr. Jordan is straightforward in his methods and utterances.

"You can't fasten a five-thousand-dollar education on a fifty-cent boy,"
he said, and that dictum has been his guide in conducting the university.


FATHER OF GERMAN STEEL.

  Ambitious Manufacturer Died Poor, but
  He Bequeathed His Great Purpose
  to His Young Son.

Friedrich Krupp, the founder of the Krupp steel industry, died with all
the work he had outlined uncompleted, but he died satisfied that all he
had wished to do and all he had planned would in the course of time be
brought to fulfilment. This first Krupp possessed a little money, and in
1818 he built a tiny furnace at Essen, in Prussia, and started in to
manufacture steel. His declared intention was to make the little Prussian
town of Essen a greater steel center than Sheffield, England.

In four years he lost all his money and his home. He moved to a small
cottage, borrowed a few thousand marks, and again began operations. In
four years more his health was shattered, the borrowed money was gone, and
he died in absolute poverty.

The heir to his debts and his desire to manufacture steel was Alfred
Krupp, a boy fourteen years old. The only thing else the boy had was the
dilapidated furnace around which his father worked until it killed him.
There was, however, a command from his father that he was resolved to
obey.

"You are to make Essen the most famous steel-manufacturing place in the
world," the dying Krupp had said. "Your mother will help you do it."

The boy and his mother then began to conduct the business. There were four
workmen ready to assist them, and ready to trust them for the future
payment of the wages that could not be paid during the first few months of
operation.

Success came slowly. Every foot of the way had to be fought. Prussian-made
steel was mistrusted, for at that time England was supreme in the art of
steel-working. But the elder Krupp had been on the right track, and would
have won if his strength had held out. Alfred Krupp, though a boy, was not
afraid to do a man's work in the foundry during the day, and at night he
attended to the business end of affairs. His mother assisted him in
everything, working in the office, soliciting orders, performing the work
of an overseer in the foundry, and attending to the household. By the time
young Krupp was twenty-one the business had begun to move, and he was
employing a score of workmen.

When the business was on such a solid basis that the future was assured,
Alfred Krupp was urged to marry. He steadfastly refused. His father had
left to him the task of looking after his mother, as well as that of
building up the business of steel-making, and it was not until after Mrs.
Krupp died in 1852 that her son took a wife.

Even when the business had begun to prosper, all was not easy for him. The
Prussian government placed obstacles in his way, and it was not until 1859
that he received a government order for cannon. The "Cannon King" had at
last been recognized, and it was he who thereafter armed the Prussian
soldiers, and he made the batteries that wrought such havoc in the French
forces in the war of 1870.

When he died in 1887 he left a plant in which twenty thousand men were
employed. In Essen alone, at the present time, fifty thousand men find
work, and at the Krupp shipyards, where the German battleships are
constructed, and in the subsidiary Krupp industries, fifty thousand more
are employed.


FRIGHTENED JAY GOULD.

  Man Destined to Revolutionize Street
  Railway Traffic Unwittingly Caused
  Prospective "Angel" to Flee.

Frank J. Sprague, formerly president of the American Institute of
Electrical Engineers, founder of the Sprague Electric Railway and Motor
Company, and builder of the Richmond trolley line, was, in 1883, a
lieutenant in the American navy. A future with a moderate amount of
success was assured, and fame was possible. He was determined, however, to
devote his attention to the study of electricity as a motive power. At
that time there did not exist a single mile of trolley-line.

His friends vainly tried to dissuade him. He went to work with Edison to
increase the knowledge of motors he had already acquired in the navy. He
remained a year at Menlo Park and then organized the Sprague Electric
Railway and Motor Company. It was capitalized at one hundred thousand
dollars with nothing paid in. He was vice-president, electrician,
treasurer, and man of all work, and was to get fifty dollars a week
whenever the condition of the company warranted it.

One small room was both business office and laboratory. He earned a little
money by building motors, and this enabled him, in 1886, to begin a series
of experiments with motors of twelve horse-power. Officials from the
Manhattan Elevated were interested in the trials, and one day Jay Gould
came to see the new motors that could drive a truck along sixty feet of
track.

The day Gould visited him, Sprague resolved to test the motor to the
utmost. In suddenly reversing the current, an excess blew out the
safety-catch, causing a big noise and a blinding flash of light. Gould
gazed a moment, then hurried from the room and never came back.

Sprague was somewhat discouraged, but his confidence came back when
Superintendent Chinnock, of the Pearl Street Edison station, offered him
thirty thousand dollars for a one-sixth interest in the company. The offer
was refused, though at the time Sprague did not have money enough to pay a
month's board.

"Well," said the surprised Chinnock, "you're a fool!"

A few days later a successful trial was made before Cyrus W. Field, and
Chinnock came back with an offer of twenty-five thousand dollars for a
one-twelfth share. This was accepted, and later another twelfth was sold
for a slightly higher price. The motors used in these experiments were the
forerunners of the thousands now used on the trolley systems all over the
world.

The first big public exhibition was given in August, 1887, and the New
York _Sun_ said next day:

    They tried an electric car on Fourth Avenue yesterday. It
    created an amount of surprise and consternation from
    Thirty-Second Street to One Hundred and Seventeenth Street
    that was something like that caused by the first steamboat
    on the Hudson. Small boys yelled "Dynamite!" and "Rats!" and
    similar appreciative remarks until they were hoarse. Newly
    appointed policemen debated arresting it, but went no
    further. The car horses which were met on the other track
    kicked, without exception, as was natural, over an invention
    which threatens to relegate them to the sausage factory.

All that happened only nineteen years ago. To-day the trolley-lines of the
country employ more than seventy thousand men.

The same year Sprague's company got the contract for the building of the
Union Passenger Railroad at Richmond, Virginia. The methods were still
primitive, but the success was unequivocal. The hills of Richmond, up
which the mule, dragging a little car, had hitherto toiled, were now
easily surmounted by smoothly running cars that could attain fair speed,
and which operated with almost perfect precision.

The utility of the trolley road had been demonstrated on a large scale,
and the old horse-car lines were equipped as speedily as possible for
electric traction; new roads, embodying the new principle, were built, and
hundreds of other roads were projected.

The stock of the Sprague concern, which went begging in 1885 and a twelfth
of which could be bought for twenty-five thousand dollars two years later,
went soaring, and the question of capital for the carrying out of
experiments or for equipping projected lines, could now be had for the
asking.


WORK WAS TOO EASY.

  That Was Why the Man Who Was to
  Build the Subway Resigned His
  Position as a Municipal Clerk.

John B. McDonald, the builder of the New York City Subway, began work in
the New York office of the Registry of Deeds. The work was easy and the
pay was fairly good. On the whole, it was just such a place as thousands
would look upon as highly desirable. McDonald thought otherwise, and
during his spare time he studied hard at scientific subjects. He had been
in the place a year when he came home one night with the announcement:

"I've thrown up my job."

"Why?"

"I want real work, and I'm going to have it."

He got it as timekeeper at the building of Boyd's Dam, part of the Croton
water system. The work was just what he wanted, and it was not long before
he became a foreman. Here his real ability showed itself, and he made such
progress that when he was twenty-three he was inspector of masonry on the
New York Central tunnel. Here he made his first bid for a sub-contract,
and it was accepted. The first work he ever did as a builder was the big
arch at Ninety-Sixth Street. He got other big contracts on the Boston and
Hoosac Tunnel, the building of the Lackawanna road from Binghamton to
Buffalo, the Georgian Bay branch of the Canadian Pacific, and a dozen
other roads in various parts of the country.

All this was easy for him, and it was not until he began the tunnel under
Baltimore for the Baltimore and Ohio Railroad that he got the real work he
wanted. It was a tunnel through mud and quicksands, a tunnel that
subterranean streams threatened constantly to destroy. Every day, in
rubber coat and hip-boots, for five years, he worked at it, surmounting
one obstacle after another, and finished a winner, having carried through
one of the hardest underground jobs ever attempted.

While he was doing this he built the Jerome Park Reservoir--so as to keep
himself busy, he said.

When he put in a bid five million dollars lower than his next competitor
for the building of the New York Subway there was at first some hitch over
the seven-million-dollar security demanded, and his rival was asked if he
expected to get the contract by default.

"No," he said, "McDonald has that contract and he'll keep it. He never
lets go."


A SOLDIER OF FORTUNE.

  Interesting Story of a Young Tenderfoot
  Who Won Fortune, Fame, and Political
  Honors in the West.

Edward O. Wolcott, the late Senator from Colorado, was one of the young
Eastern men who set out, shortly after the Civil War, to explore the
resources of the West.

For a time the struggle to make a living was a difficult one; but, quick
to realize the low value that the pioneers placed upon Puritan ancestry
and a collegiate education, he became successively a bank clerk, ticket
seller for a theatrical company, and railroad employee, until he drifted
to the small mining town of Georgetown, in the heart of the Colorado
Rockies. There, at last, the reputation of "having an education" proved
useful. The position of schoolmaster was offered to Mr. Wolcott and was
accepted.

Gradually the city of Denver began to hear of the schoolmaster of
Georgetown. His name was encountered frequently in the records as the
possessor of various mining interests--oftentimes deeded to him for legal
services in lieu of money consideration. Everything he touched seemed to
pan out rich; and this brought him followers as adventurous as himself and
ready to back his judgment with cash.

Finally, in 1890, two prospectors having exhausted their grubstake were
returning wearily over the hills of Creede, when during a brief halt one
of their burros wandered off to prospect for himself. After a long search,
one of the prospectors found the animal standing in front of a large
boulder. In telling the story afterward, the prospector never could tell
whether the seemingly hypnotized gaze of the burro or something peculiar
in the appearance of the outcrop attracted his attention; but he recalled
with little difficulty that, after chipping off a few chunks from the
ledge with a hammer and minutely examining them, he set rough stakes in
short order.

The following day, provided with assay certificates showing very rich
results, the miners sought the schoolmaster and offered to sell him a
large interest in their discovery for a small amount of development money.

Always a man quick to clinch his opportunities, Wolcott put the money up
on the spot. In six months' time "The Last Chance Silver Mine" repaid its
outlay, and later yielded to him a couple of millions more.


HOW GARFIELD ROSE.

  Future President May Have Sought Employment
  on Canal Because of His
  Fondness for Sea Stories.

James A. Garfield was reared in the forests of Ohio. When he was not
engaged at work on the farm, he was reading all the books that he could
get hold of, especially those pertaining to the sea, for which he had a
passion. Supposedly, it was this that influenced him to obtain one of his
first jobs--the driving of mules which towed the canal-boat between
Cleveland and Pittsburgh. After a severe attack of illness, contracted
after a plunge into the canal, he began to educate himself.

He entered Geauga Seminary, then went to Williams College, and afterward
to Hiram. It was at this time that he suffered the worst poverty of his
career, for frequently he was obliged to stay in bed while his landlady
darned his clothes. Seeing the young man's discouragement, she told him to
cheer up, and that he would forget all about it when he became President.

In after life he said: "Poverty is uncomfortable, I can testify; but nine
times out of ten the best thing that can happen to a young man is to be
tossed overboard and compelled to sink or swim for himself." And on
another occasion: "I feel a profounder reverence for a boy than for a man;
and I never meet a ragged boy in the street without feeling that I may owe
him a salute, for I know not what possibilities may be buttoned up under
his coat."

At the close of Garfield's college life he went into a law office in
Cleveland; from there to the Ohio Senate, and then to the Civil War, after
which he was elected to the House of Representatives.


TURNED OVER BRICKS.

  The Boy Who Was Paid Seven Cents
  for the Job Is Turning Over Many
  Millions Now.

John Wanamaker once received seven copper cents for turning over bricks to
dry in the sun. This was the first sum of money that the successful
merchant can remember having earned; but his first regular position, which
paid him a dollar and a quarter per week, was in a bookstore in
Philadelphia.

At that time it was the boy's intention to become a clergyman, and partly
in preparation for such a calling, he became a member of the Young Men's
Christian Association. A remark made by one of its members was responsible
for the change in his intentions, for he intimated to young Wanamaker that
if he worked as hard for himself as he did for the association he would
become a rich man. Acting on this advice, the boy obtained a situation as
stock clerk in a large clothing establishment.

After passing successively through the various grades of clerks and
salesmen, he finally formed a partnership with his brother-in-law to go
into the clothing trade. Their joint capital was thirty-five hundred
dollars. On the first day the firm did a business of twenty-four dollars
and sixty-seven cents, and for the year, twenty-four thousand dollars. But
although year after year the business increased, Wanamaker never lost
interest in religious gatherings. Among other things, he founded a
Sabbath-school, which, commencing with only twenty-seven pupils, has grown
into the Bethany of to-day, with its several thousand members.

Always abstemious in his way of living and credited with many acts of
generosity, it is related that one day, on being requested for the story
of his life, Mr. Wanamaker replied:

"Thinking, trying, toiling, and trusting--in those four words you have all
of my biography."


AN OIL KING'S START.

  Massachusetts Newsboy Gets an Attack
  of Wanderlust and Finds Fortune in
  Pennsylvania Wells.

H.H. Rogers, future master builder of industrial organizations, did odd
chores for the neighbors, in Fairhaven, Massachusetts, when a boy, and
earned on the average fifty cents a week. His first step in real business
was when he established a news route of forty-seven subscribers for the
New Bedford _Standard_. In one week he doubled the number and struck for
seventy-five cents more a week than the seventy-five cents he was
receiving. This was granted and he also got an increased commission on new
subscribers. A few months in a grocery store completed his Fairhaven
business experience, and then, with Charles Ellis, a schoolfellow, he went
to the Pennsylvania oil fields to make his fortune. Each had about two
hundred dollars and they started in the refining business. It did not go
the way Rogers wished, so he said to Ellis:

"Look here, I am going to learn the oil business. You run the office."

Rogers put on overalls and went to work at the pumps and stills. He was
there early and late, working at everything, investigating, getting a grip
on every detail, learning how the business could be run on the most
economical basis and at the same time give the best quality of product.
When he returned to office work the organization of the Standard Oil was
under way. It was the knowledge he had gained at the stills that enabled
him to figure down the cost of production to the fraction of a cent. It
was he, also, who was the leading factor in the elimination of
competition.


CAME BACK FOR MORE.

  Financier Who Retired from Business at
  Forty Assumes Direction of Great
  Railroad at Fifty-Seven.

Alexander Johnston Cassatt retired independently wealthy at the age of
forty, and seventeen years later he returned to dominate one of the
largest railroads in the country. He was born in Pittsburgh. Though poor,
his parents gave him a good education. He became a civil engineer, and the
first work he got to do was on a road being built in Georgia. He remained
in the South two years, but on the breaking out of the Civil War he
returned North, and entered the service of the Pennsylvania Railroad.

Cassatt's ability won rapid promotion. In nine years he built new roads,
reorganized the company's shops, and improved the construction of cars and
locomotives. Then, when he was thirty-one years old, the position of
general manager was created for him.

One of the first things he did in this position was to introduce the
air-brake, which at that time received scant encouragement from railroad
men. Cassatt was told that it was useless. His experiments cost thousands
of dollars, but they established the practicability of the air-brake.

It was Cassatt also who developed the idea of combining individual roads
into one great system. In 1872 he executed a grand coup and purchased for
the Pennsylvania the controlling stock of the Philadelphia, Wilmington,
and Baltimore Road, a line the Baltimore and Ohio people had tried to
obtain. It took Cassatt one night to engineer the deal, and in payment for
the stock a check for $14,549,052.20 was drawn--up to that time the
largest on record.

Cassatt was first vice-president of the road when he withdrew in 1882, and
for seventeen years he remained out of railroad affairs. When he returned
it was as president of the Pennsylvania system, a position he still
holds.




A "YELLOW JOURNAL" GLOSSARY.

  This Sort of Language Doesn't Wear Any Dictionary Harness, So It Has to
  Be Put in a Class by Itself, and Made the Subject of Special Study.

One of the characteristics of the "yellow journal" is that while it
usually says what it means, it does not always mean just what it says. It
has a system of phraseology that is peculiar to itself, and one who would
read it intelligently must familiarize himself with the idiosyncrasies of
"yellow" expression. Some of these idiosyncrasies have been carefully
collected by the New York _Sun_:

PRETTY GIRL--Any unmarried human female less than thirty-five years old
who gets into the news.

SOCIETY MATRON--Any married woman, from a bartender's wife up through the
social grades, who gets into the news.

SOCIETY GIRL--Synonymous with "pretty girl." See above.

NOT EXPECTED TO RECOVER--Phrase applied to the condition of all persons
injured in course of news story.

PROMINENT YALE GRADUATE--Any one wearing a boiled shirt, arrested for
anything above a misdemeanor.

MULTIMILLIONAIRE--Person possessed of property worth fifty thousand
dollars or over, or a relative of a person listed in the _Social
Register_. Up to three years ago "millionaire" was used in the same sense.

THIRTY-TWO CALIBER, PEARL HANDLED--Phrase which must always be attached to
the noun "revolver," unless otherwise ordered.

TOT--Any child under seven. In a pathetic story the adjective "tiny" must
always be prefixed.

PLUCKY WOMAN--Any woman who did not scream.

HEROINE--Principal female character in any burglary story. Otherwise
synonymous with "plucky woman," q.v.

PROMINENT CLUBMAN--Any bachelor leasing apartments at thirty dollars a
month and upward. Also members of the Paul Kelley and Timothy D. Sullivan
associations who happen to be arrested while wearing dress suits.

FATALLY INJURED--See "not expected to recover," above.

FASHIONABLE APARTMENT HOUSE--Any dwelling which has an elevator.

TODDLE--Verb applied to the walk of a tiny tot. See under "tot" for
correct usage.

WELL DRESSED--Phrase always applied to a woman who, when arrested, is
comparatively clean. Must be used in a story about a prominent clubman,
q.v. as above.

SNUG SUM--Money.

RAFFLES--Any thief who wears a collar.

CRISP FIVE-DOLLAR BILL--Five dollars.

COZY.--Adjective always applied to home to which the remains are taken.

WUZ--Synonymous with "was," but indicates dialect.

HURLED--Motion of passengers, cars, and cabs at the time of the accident.

FAINT--Course taken by all the women within six blocks of the accident.

SCREAM--See "faint," above.

DASH--Gait of the crowd at the time of the accident. "Rush" is synonymous.
"Run" is not good usage.

HEIR--Child having three hundred dollars coming to him from a life
insurance policy.

RING OUT--What shots always do.

HURTLE--Verb used of motion of any falling object, especially a brick or a
suicide.

HAVOC--Good word to use almost anywhere.

HIGH--Adjective which must be prefixed to noun "noon" in the account of a
fashionable wedding.

SLAY--Synonymous with obsolete verb "kill."

JUGGLE--What is always done with the funds of a bank or trust company.

COLLEGE GIRL--Any woman who has ever gone to school.

BANDIT--Person guilty of crime against property for which the penalty is
more than ten days in jail.

BURLY--Adjective always applied to a male negro.

PROMINENT--Descriptive adjective applied to farmers, plumbers, and
dentists.

BOUDOIR--Any bedroom the rent of which is more than one dollar and a half
a week.

GLOBE TROTTER--Any one who has been to Hohokus, N.J., Kittery, Me., or
Peru, Ind.

GEMS--Personal ornaments worth more than one dollar and seventy-five
cents.




GRAVE, GAY, AND EPIGRAMMATIC.


THE PIPE THAT FAILED.

This story is told about ex-Senator J. S. Clark, of Calais, Maine: One
day, while awaiting his turn in a barber-shop in Calais, he was talking
with a friend, and was so deeply interested in the conversation that he
allowed his pipe to go out several times. Each time he would ask Melvin
Noble, a local practical joker, for a match.

About the time he wanted the fifth match, Noble said: "I don't begrudge
you the matches, Jed, but I think it would be cheaper for you to put a
grate in your pipe and burn coal."--_Boston Herald._


ANCIENT, BUT IT GOES.

Feebles (about to be operated upon for appendicitis)--Doctor, before you
begin, I wish you would send and have our pastor, the Rev. Mr. Blank, come
over.

Dr. Sawem--Certainly, if you wish it, but--ah----

Feebles--I'd like to be opened with prayer.--_Exchange._


RILEY'S RYE PATCH.

Whitcomb Riley was looking over a fence on his farm at a field of rye,
when a neighbor who was driving by stopped his horse and asked:

"Hullo, Mr. Riley, how's your rye doing?"

"Fine, fine," replied the poet.

"How much do you expect to clear to the acre?"

"Oh, about four gallons," answered Mr. Riley, soberly.--_Success._


IN A SHOE STORE.

"Have you felt slippers, sir?" she said.

The boy clerk blushed and scratched his head.

Then, smiling back, he found his tongue:

"I felt 'em often when I was young."

_Boston Herald._


AT NAPOLEON'S TOMB.

Henry Vignaud, secretary of the American embassy at Paris, enjoys telling
of an American who was being shown the tomb of Napoleon. As the
loquacious guide referred to the various points of interest in connection
with the tomb, the American paid the greatest attention to all that was
said.

"This immense sarcophagus," declaimed the guide, "weighs forty tons.
Inside of that, sir, is a steel receptacle weighing twelve tons, and
inside of that is a leaden casket, hermetically sealed, weighing over two
tons. Inside of that rests a mahogany coffin containing the remains of the
great man."

For a moment the American was silent, as if in deep meditation. Then he
said:

"It seems to me that you've got him all right. If he ever gets out, cable
me at my expense."--_Success._


THE OTHER SIDE.

"Did you ever get into Brown's confidence?"

"Oh, yes; it was costly, too."

"What was costly?"

"To get out."--_Yonkers Herald._


TIPS FOR AUTHORS.

    An author wrote a little book,
      Which started quite a quarrel;
    The folk who read it frowned on it
      And said it was immoral.

    They bade him write a proper screed,
      He said that he would try it;
    He did. They found no fault with it,
      And neither did they buy it.

_Washington Evening Star._


HIS IMPOLITE QUERY.

"Women claim that the way to get on with a man is to give him plenty of
nicely cooked food."

"Well," answered Mr. Sirius Barker, irritably, "why don't some of them try
it?"--_Washington Star._


ARTEMUS WARD'S ADVICE.

A certain Southern railroad was in a wretched condition, and the trains
were consequently run at a phenomenally low rate of speed. When the
conductor was punching his ticket, the late Artemus Ward, who was one of
the passengers, remarked:

"Does this railroad company allow passengers to give it advice, if they do
so in a respectful manner?"

The conductor replied in gruff tones that he guessed so.

"Well," Artemus went on, "it occurred to me that it would be well to
detach the cowcatcher from the front of the engine and hitch it to the
rear of the train; for, you see, we are not liable to overtake a cow, but
what's to prevent a cow from strolling into this car and biting a
passenger?"--_Boston Herald._


LOST.

Legends of the absent-minded savant are legion, but the following, told of
a well-known Ph.D. of this city, perhaps touches the climax:

One of the charwomen in the temple of learning with which he is associated
choked on a pin she had put in her mouth as she went about her work.
Rushing up to Professor Blank's sanctum she burst in through the door
without the formality of a knock.

"Professor, oh, professor!" she panted, "I've swallowed a pin."

"Never mind," returned the professor, feeling absently about the edges of
his lapel without raising his eyes from the book before him, "here's
another one you can have."--_New York Times._


IT WOULD NOT "DOWN."

Nat Goodwin was much occupied in looking at the waves. As he leaned over
the deck railing a young woman passenger emerged from the first-cabin
saloon.

"Oh. Mr. Goodwin," she cried, "is the moon up to-night?"

"If I swallowed it, it's up," responded the actor sorrowfully.--_New York
Mail._


LABORERS WERE PLENTIFUL.

An officer who served with Lord Kitchener in Egypt tells the following
anecdote of him:

"During the progress of some construction work in Upper Egypt the young
subaltern in charge had the misfortune to lose some native workmen through
the accidental explosion of some cases of dynamite. He telegraphed to Lord
Kitchener, then Sirdar:

"'Regret to report killing ten laborers by dynamite accident.'

"In a few hours came this laconic dispatch: "Do you need any more
dynamite?"--_Pittsburgh Dispatch._


FEMININE ARITHMETIC.

    When I was ten and you were eight,
      Two years between us stood,
    We used to meet by daddy's gate--
      A stolen kiss was good.

    When I was twenty--quite a boy,
      You still were my heart's queen,
    But grown of kissing somewhat coy;
      You see, you were sixteen!

    When I was thirty, bronzed and tall,
      With sweethearts, too, in plenty,
    I met you at the Wilsons' ball--
      You told me you were twenty.

    I'm forty now, a little more--
      Oh, Time, you ruthless bandit!
    But you--you're only twenty-four;
      I cannot understand it!

    _Pearson's Weekly._


FAR IN THE FUTURE.

"Don't you ever expect to get married?" she asked.

"Well," replied the old bachelor, "I may some day. But I have been reading
up on the subject and the scientists agree that if a man takes proper care
of himself there is no reason why his mind should begin to fail before he
is eighty at least."--_Chicago Record-Herald._


CRUSHED.

MR. W.S. Gilbert was once at the house of a wealthy but ignorant and
pretentious woman. She asked Mr. Gilbert several questions about musical
composers, to show that she knew all about them.

"And what about Bach?" she asked. "Is he composing nowadays?"

"No, ma'am," answered Gilbert; "he is decomposing!"--_Tit-Bits._


IN A STREET CAR.

Blodgett--You see that homely woman hanging to that strap?

Foster--How do you know she is homely? You can't see her face.

Blodgett--I can see she is hanging to a strap.--_Boston Transcript._




Poems by Dickens and Thackeray.

  Verses from the Pen of Two of England's Most Celebrated
  Novelists.

With the notable exception of Sir Walter Scott, no writer of English
novels has attained any marked distinction as a poet. But like men engaged
in hundreds of other occupations, celebrated novelists have at times
succumbed to the allurements of the muse, and have offered some of their
thoughts to the world through the medium of verse. Among these were
Dickens and Thackeray.

"The Ivy Green," by Dickens, lends grace to the "Pickwick Papers," while
Thackeray's "The Church Porch" plays an interesting part in the novel
"Pendennis."


THE IVY GREEN.

[Recited by the Old Clergyman at Manor Farm.]

    Oh! a dainty plant is the ivy green,
      That creepeth o'er ruins old!
    Of right choice food are his meals, I ween,
      In his cell so lone and cold.
    The wall must be crumbled, the stones decayed,
      To pleasure his dainty whim;
    And the moldering dust that years have made
      Is a merry meal for him.
         Creeping where no life is seen,
         A rare old plant is the ivy green.

    Fast he stealeth on, though he wears no wings,
      And a stanch old heart has he;
    How closely he twineth, how tight he clings,
      To his friend the huge oak-tree!
    And slyly he traileth along the ground,
      And his leaves he gently waves,
    As he joyously hugs and crawleth round,
      The rich mold of dead men's graves.
         Creeping where grim death has been,
         A rare old plant is the ivy green.

    Whole ages have fled, and their works decayed,
      And nations have scattered been;
    But the stout old ivy shall never fade
      From its hale and hearty green.
    The brave old plant in its lonely days
      Shall fatten upon the past:
    For the stateliest building man can raise
      Is the ivy's food at last.
         Creeping on where time has been,
         A rare old plant is the ivy green.


THE CHURCH PORCH.

[Arthur Pendennis made his entry into literature by writing these verses
for Mr. Bacon's "Spring Annual." The Hon. Percy Popjoy, a regular
contributor to that fashionable publication, had sent in a poem which Mr.
Bacon's reader condemned as too execrable to inflict upon the public. To
take its place, at George Warrington's suggestion, Pendennis was invited
to turn off a copy of verses to accompany an engraving which showed a
damsel entering a church porch, with a young man watching her from a
near-by niche. The poem printed below was the result.]


    Although I enter not,
    Yet round about the spot
         Ofttimes I hover:
    And near the sacred gate
    With longing eyes I wait,
         Expectant of her.

    The minster bell tolls out
    Above the city's rout
         And noise and humming:
    They've stopped the chiming bell;
    I hear the organ's swell:
         She's coming, she's coming!

    My lady comes at last,
    Timid, and stepping fast,
         And hastening hither,
    With modest eyes downcast;
    She comes--she's here--she's past--
         May heaven go with her!

    Kneel undisturbed, fair saint!
    Pour out your praise or plaint
         Meekly and duly;
    I will not enter there,
    To sully your pure prayer
         With thoughts unruly.

    But suffer me to pace
    Round the forbidden place,
         Lingering a minute,
    Like outcast spirits who wait
    And see through heaven's gate
         Angels within it.




World-Famous Bachelors.

  At a Time When Contemporary Writers Are Pointing Out the Men Who
  "Have Been Made By Their Wives," a List of a Few Men Who
  "Made Themselves" May Prove Worth While.

_Compiled and edited for_ THE SCRAP BOOK.


"He travels the fastest who travels alone," sings Kipling. In other words,
the bachelor has the advantage in the race for fame and fortune. The truth
or falsity of this viewpoint depends upon the road which a person travels;
it also depends upon his harness mate--who very often helps him along much
faster than he could go by himself. Even were it universally true, the
average man would undoubtedly prefer to jog along comfortably with a mate
beside him.

It is worth while, however, to note that many great men have remained
single; some from choice, some from indifference, some because of early
disappointment. Especially among those whose work requires the most
concentrated reasoning is the single state frequent. In the following
nutshell biographies of famous bachelors it will be observed that a
majority of the men named are philosophers. The great philosopher seldom
marries--for is not the experience of Socrates a warning?


BARUCH DE SPINOZA (Holland--1632-1677).

Baruch Spinoza was by nature unfitted for matrimony. An aggressive
thinker, he led a troubled life. Of Portuguese Hebrew parentage, he was
accused of heresy at an early age and narrowly escaped assassination.
Quitting Amsterdam he took up his abode at The Hague, where he remained
until he died. Having no private fortune he earned his living by polishing
spectacles. His needs were few, and he refused with equal equanimity a sum
of two thousand florins, which his friend, Simon de Vries, presented to
him, and the offer of the chair of philosophy in the University of
Heidelberg.

Fame was not his object, and of all his writings a theologico-political
treatise was the only one published during his life. A storm of
disapproval greeted it, and the author decided not to provoke the public
any further. He did not cease to labor, however, and after his death his
friends found that a mass of manuscripts were ready for the press.


RENÉ DESCARTES (France--1596-1650).

Another thinker, over whose life no woman seems to have exercised any
influence, is René Descartes. He took part in the siege of La Rochelle in
1629 and then sought solitude in Holland and remained there for twenty
years. During this time he published his metaphysical works and made a
great name for himself. The Princess Palatine became his warm friend, and
Christine of Sweden invited him to her court. He declined her invitation
at first, but finally, finding that his theological opponents were
determined to suppress him, he fled from Holland and took refuge in
Stockholm, where the rigorous climate soon carried him off. Christine,
whose counselor and warm friend, in a Platonic sense, he had been for
years, mourned sincerely for him. So did other notable women who dimly
recognized in him the Socrates of the seventeenth century.


SIR ISAAC NEWTON (England--1642-1727).

Very similar was the fate of the great Sir Isaac Newton. Born in 1642, he
entered Trinity College, Cambridge, in 1660, and thenceforward gave
himself up to the study of mathematics, physics, and astronomy. Making his
home at Woolsthorpe, where he possessed a fine property, he spent his
remaining years there, taking occasional trips to London and Cambridge. In
1672 he became a member of the Royal Society of London, and in 1688 he
represented the University of Cambridge in Parliament. In 1703 he was
elected president of the Royal Society, and held the position until his
death in 1727.

Why he never married is not clear. It is supposed, however, that he was
crossed in love in his youth and on that account abandoned all thoughts of
matrimony.


EMANUEL SWEDENBORG (Sweden--1688-1772).

A mystic from his cradle, Swedenborg blossomed first as a man of letters
and a poet and won considerable popularity in Stockholm and throughout
Sweden. Then he became a member of the St. Petersburg Academy of Sciences
and broached his famous atomic theory. Finally, at the age of fifty-four,
he cast off all mortal interests and became the expounder of new religious
doctrines, claiming that the truths he gave out were secured through
direct inspiration.

His disciples founded the Church of the New Jerusalem, which spread
rapidly, and to-day has offshoots in England, India, Africa, and this
country.


IMMANUEL KANT (Prussia--1724-1804).

Another man of monastic temperament was Immanuel Kant, the eminent founder
of German philosophy. Born at Königsberg in 1724, he lived there all his
life. He did not travel; he did not even take flying trips to the great
universities; the old city on the Pregel was good enough for him, and
there he stayed and worked.

An honorable, dignified man, he was practically dead to the world and
lived only that he might do honor to his goddess, Philosophy. Womankind
seems to have had no attraction for him, and from social pleasures he
rigidly abstained. His proper place was in a cloister, and no ascetic ever
lived who apportioned out his time more regularly or did more
conscientious work during the twenty-four hours of each day.


FRANÇOIS MARIE AROUET VOLTAIRE (France--1694-1778).

Turning from the recluse to the men of the world, where can we find a more
distinguished bachelor than Voltaire? Born in 1694, this witty Frenchman
lived his memorable life among the gayest men and women of the world, and
yet when his last hour came there was no wife to close his eyelids, there
were no children to follow him to the tomb.

A weakling from birth, he was not baptized until he was nine months old.
The Abbé de Chateauneuf, a cynical relative, gave him his first lessons
in atheism and introduced him to Ninon de l'Enclos, the famous beauty.
Ninon was so charmed with the boy that she left him a considerable sum of
money in her will, with instructions that it be spent in furnishing his
library.

The youth soon made his début as a poet and wit, but his father, who
abhorred verses, was vexed at his notoriety and sent him to Holland. There
the lad got entangled in a love affair and was promptly summoned home
again. His father's next move was to banish him to the country, but he was
again disappointed in thinking that his son would reform. Voltaire began
to write an epic poem on Henry IV, and, his talents as a satirist being
known, was suddenly arrested on the charge of lampooning Louis XIV, and
imprisoned in the Bastile.

When he came out he began to write for the theaters, and as a playwright
and a merciless critic of creeds and other cherished beliefs his life was
spent. He was a favorite in society, and the fair sex petted him to his
heart's content, yet he never married.

Mme. Denis, his niece, for whom he had a great affection, looked after his
house at Ferney, near Geneva, and with her he spent his last days. It was
she, too, who accompanied him to Paris in 1778 and who watched by his
bedside when, overcome by the fatigues of his reception in the French
capital--the greatest triumph of his life--he lay calmly, waiting for the
angel of death to call him.


HORACE WALPOLE, EARL OF ORFORD (England--1717-1797).

Another distinguished man of letters who never entered the bonds of
matrimony was Horace Walpole. Born in 1717, he entered Cambridge
University, and there became intimately acquainted with the poet Gray. In
1741 he became a member of the House of Commons, but won little
distinction there, his time and thoughts being almost wholly devoted to
the study of art and literature. In 1765 he took a trip to Paris, and at
this period the romance of his life began. He became attached to Mme. du
Deffand, and in her society passed the pleasantest hours of his life.

Walpole was a polished gentleman, a charming conversationalist, and a
letter-writer of the first rank. He wrote French as well as English, and
it may be that his thorough knowledge of French aided him greatly in
making his English letters the masterpieces that they are. There was in
him, too, much of the Gallic temperament. Bachelor though he was, we
discover in him no moroseness, and see only the gay man of the world, who
knows how to enjoy life in a rational manner.


EDWARD GIBBON (England--1737-1794).

Born in 1737, Gibbon studied at Oxford, and at the age of fifteen became
so zealous a student of history that he undertook to write an account of
the reign of Sesostris. It was at Rome in 1764 that he conceived the idea
of writing a history of the "Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire." The
entire work, however, was not finished until 1788. Five years previously
he had gone to Lausanne, in Switzerland, and there he stayed until he was
brought home to die.

A severe student, whose views about religion were the reverse of orthodox,
he was by nature much of a recluse and seems never to have shone in
society. Only one woman is known to have inspired a deeper feeling than
friendship, and the fates were against their marriage. The lady
subsequently became Mme. Necker. That Gibbon was sincerely attached to her
is certain, and that had it not been for untoward circumstances she would
have married him seems to be almost equally certain. Their paths in life,
however, were divided; her fate was to become a shining light in the
French capital and his was to spend the noon and evening of his life in
solitude at Lausanne.


SIR FRANCIS DRAKE (England--1540-1596).

A renowned man of action and a celibate was Francis Drake, the navigator
and discoverer. The sea was his mistress, and fighting the Spaniards was
his lifework. Queen Elizabeth crowned him with honors, and he repaid the
compliment by capturing stores of Spanish gold and taking possession of
California in her name. In 1595 he waged his last attack against the
Spanish colonies in America, which proved unsuccessful, and in which both
he and Sir John Hawkins died of fever.

Honored throughout England as a courtier and a seaman, Drake ever
maintained his high reputation. Constantly at sea, he had really no home
on land. No woman had a nest ready for him after his travels; no children
looked out for his home-returning ship. For fifty years he waged a good
fight against England's foes and then rested forever from his labors.


LUDWIG VAN BEETHOVEN (Germany--1770-1827).

Great artists have much of the recluse in them, and Beethoven, the
composer, was no exception to the rule. For art he lived, and the joys and
sorrows of domestic life he never knew. Yet the story goes that he was
once deeply in love and that his unconquerable shyness alone prevented him
from becoming a happy lover and husband.

Indeed, his aversion to society was abnormal. Melancholy and morose, he
shunned his fellows and found pleasure only in his music. Monarchs
showered compliments and gifts on him, but to the imaginative eye he
appears always solitary and abstracted. Seated in a reverie before his
piano, in his silent, gloomy chamber, he wrote passionate love music for
others, but he won no woman's love for himself.


JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER (United States--1807-1892).

In America, also, there has been no lack of bachelors who have achieved
fame. The poet Whittier is, perhaps, the best known.

The son of a Quaker farmer, his boyhood was spent mainly upon the farm,
but he early displayed a talent for verse, and learned the art of
slipper-making to support himself while improving his education. In 1829
he was made editor of a Boston paper, and soon, aside from his poetry,
became a real force in the anti-slavery movement in Massachusetts.

Yet in all his long and active life as editor, author, legislator,
reformer, and poet, he had no thought--so far as we can tell--of marriage.


SAMUEL JONES TILDEN (United States--1814-1886).

There is perhaps no better example of the bachelor statesman in America
than Samuel J. Tilden.

The story goes that he was once deeply in love with a Southern lady, but
that fate, in some form, intervened. He never married, however, nor did he
allow disappointment to interfere with his career. He became governor of
New York, and later was nominated for president, being defeated by one
electoral vote (though he was the popular choice by a majority of two
hundred and fifty thousand). At his death he left more than five million
dollars, chiefly to philanthropic purposes, of which the Tilden Foundation
Fund of the New York Public Library received about one half.




Little Glimpses of the 19th Century

  The Great Events in the History of the Last One Hundred Years, Assembled
  so as to Present a Nutshell Record.

[_Continued from page 46_.]


SECOND DECADE.


1811

The French army under Masséna was finally driven from Portugal by the
British under Wellington. France, the south and middle German states, and
Austria formed an alliance against Russia. Bernadotte, Crown Prince of
Sweden, and formerly one of Napoleon's marshals, refused aid to France.
Napoleon threatened Sweden and began preparations against Russia.

The United States seized West Florida. The American ship President and the
British ship Little Belt exchanged shots, and friction between the two
countries increased. At Tippecanoe, General Harrison defeated the Indians
under Tecumseh. Resentment against Great Britain because of her conduct on
the sea, and her assertion of her right to search American ships,
increased in the United States.

The Mamelukes decoyed to attend a festival in Cairo and slaughtered by
Mehemet Ali. Dutch settlements in Java captured by the English. The King
of Rome, son of Napoleon and Marie Louise, born on March 20. Agitation in
England against flogging soldiers and sailors. Luddites smashed machinery
in Nottingham. Heinrich Kleist, German poet, committed suicide. Bishop
Percy, ballad compiler, died.

=POPULATION.--Washington, D.C., 8,208; New York, 96,373; London (including
Metropolitan District, census 1811), 1,009,546; United States, 7,239,881;
Great Britain and Ireland (census 1811), 15,547,720.=

=RULERS--The same as in the previous year, except that the Prince of Wales
became regent of Great Britain.=


1812

The English under Wellington captured Ciudad Rodrigo, and began to press
hard on the French in Spain. Badajos, held by the French under General
Philippon, stormed by the British after a fight in which five thousand men
fell. American privateers began to prey on British commerce. June 18, war
began between America and England. The first contest was between the
American ship President and the British ship Blandina; the Blandina
escaped. The Essex, Captain David Porter, and with Midshipman David G.
Farragut, aged thirteen, on board, captured a British transport with two
hundred soldiers, and forced the Alert to surrender. The United States
frigate Constitution sunk the British frigate Guerrière, but the British
Poictiers captured the American sloop Wasp. Other naval duels ended in
favor of American ships. Decatur, commanding the frigate United States,
took the Macedonian, while the Constitution captured the Java. President
Madison refused the services of General Andrew Jackson; Jackson thereupon
organized an independent corps, which was reluctantly accepted when
reverses came. General Hull led the Americans to Canada, and was defeated
at Mackinaw. Hull surrendered Detroit to Brock, British governor of Upper
Canada, who had formed an alliance with the Indians. Fort Dearborn
(Chicago), was burned by the Indians, and the settlers massacred. In a
battle near Fort George, on October 13, General Brock was killed, but the
Americans were forced to retreat. Dearborn made a fruitless attempt to
invade Canada.

On June 22, Napoleon, with over six hundred thousand men, began his
disastrous Russian campaign. The Russians devastated the country as they
retired before his advance. At Smolensk they inflicted upon the French a
loss of fifteen thousand, fired the city, and retreated. The French,
stricken with disease, suffering from lack of food, and beset on all sides
by the Russians, pushed on toward Moscow. At Borodino, after a desperate
battle, Napoleon won a disastrous victory; nearly a hundred thousand men
fell on both sides. The French entered Moscow, but within a few hours the
city was in flames--fired by the Russians at the order of the governor,
Rostopchin. Russian peasants slaughtered thousands of French stragglers.
Napoleon's peace overtures being rejected, he was compelled to evacuate
Moscow, after blowing up the Kremlin. The retreat of the French was worse
than the battles, and thousands of them perished from cold or lack of
food. The Russians pursued, and won battle after battle. Of the grand army
that invaded Russia, only a tenth recrossed the frontier. In Spain, the
French lost Cadiz and Madrid, and were defeated by Wellington at
Salamanca. In December, Napoleon hurried to Paris, crushed Malet's
conspiration against him, and called for a new conscription of three
hundred and fifty thousand men. This year more than a million lives were
lost in the Napoleonic wars.

Louisiana admitted to the Union. Iodin discovered by Dr. de Courtois, of
Paris. An earthquake in Caracas killed twelve thousand persons. The
English publisher of Thomas Paine's books fined and pilloried. Luddite
anti-machinery agitation increased in England.

=RULERS--The same as in the previous year.=


1813

Napoleon set Pius VII at liberty, and arranged the Concordat between
church and state in France. Prussia joined Russia against Napoleon, who
fought a series of battles with the allies in central Germany, the most
important being those of Lützen and Bautzen. Wellington's decisive victory
over the French at Vittoria--where shrapnel shells were first used in
warfare--gave renewed vitality to the combination of England, Russia,
Prussia, and Sweden against France and Denmark.

In America, eight hundred Americans were captured by the British at
Frenchtown, in Michigan. At sea, the American Hornet, Captain Lawrence,
sunk the Peacock; the Hazard captured the British frigate Albion, but the
Shannon took the American frigate Chesapeake, killing Captain Lawrence,
who said as he died: "Don't give up the ship!" The Enterprise captured the
British brig Boxer. On Lake Erie, September 12, Commodore Perry fought the
famous battle which he thus reported: "We have met the enemy and they are
ours; two ships, two brigs, one schooner, and one sloop." General Harrison
put an end to the Creek rebellion by his victory at Fort Malden.

Austria joined the allies against France, and Moreau, hero of Hohenlinden,
and Bernadotte sided against their old leader, Napoleon. At Dresden
(August 26, 27) Napoleon won his last great victory; Moreau was killed. At
Wahlstatt, Blücher routed the French, and Ney met disaster at Dennewitz.
King Jerome Bonaparte was forced to flee from Westphalia. Bavaria refused
longer to support Napoleon. The campaign in Germany culminated in the
great battle of Leipzig, fought October 16 to 19, in which four hundred
thousand Germans and Russians totally defeated two hundred thousand
Frenchmen, killing or capturing nearly half of them, and sweeping Germany
free of invaders. Meanwhile Wellington invaded France from the south, and
Napoleon's empire began to crumble fast. Spain was forever lost to him.
Napoleon dissolved the Corps Législatif, determined to carry out his plans
for prosecuting the war, and called for a new conscription of three
hundred thousand men.

Cape of Good Hope ceded to the British by the Dutch. George Stephenson
built his first locomotive. The Jesuit order restored by Pius VII.

=RULERS--The same as in the previous year.=


1814

On January 1 Blücher crossed the Rhine to begin the invasion of France. He
was defeated at Brienne, but won at Rothière, and with the aid of the
Russians pressed Napoleon hard in a series of battles. In March the allies
won decisive victories at Laon and Arcis-sur-Aube. England, Russia,
Prussia, and Austria bound themselves together for twenty years more,
England agreeing to pay each of the other powers two million pounds;
France was to be reduced to its original boundaries. Napoleon refused the
terms offered him. Marie Louise fled from Paris. The allied armies entered
Paris on March 31, and on April 11, after trying to poison himself,
Napoleon abdicated at Fontainebleau. He retired to Elba, which was
assigned to him as a mimic kingdom. Talleyrand now became dominant in
Paris, and the Bourbons were restored, Louis XVIII being crowned King of
France. Ferdinand VII resumed power in Spain. By the Treaty of Paris,
France retained her old territory, received back the colonies captured by
England, kept Alsace-Lorraine, and much of the plunder gathered by
Napoleon. Russia held Poland and Finland.

In June the Americans, under Brown, seized Fort Erie and fought indecisive
actions with the British at Chippewa and Lundy's Lane. In August a
British force, under Ross and Cockburn, landed in Maryland, defeated the
Americans at Bladensburg, and advanced to Washington. Madison and his
cabinet fled. The defenseless city was entered by the enemy; the White
House and uncompleted Capitol were burned, and the government stores and
buildings at Alexandria were destroyed. An attack on Baltimore was
repulsed, inspiring Key's "Star-Spangled Banner." On Lake Champlain,
McDonough captured four vessels of a British squadron and put the rest to
flight. Two hundred men from a British fleet on its way to New Orleans
attempted to board the privateer General Armstrong (Samuel Reid, captain),
in the neutral harbor of Fayal. They were repulsed. Three British vessels
closed in, and after a plucky fight Reid and his ninety men scuttled the
General Armstrong, and escaped, having seriously damaged the British
fleet. Jackson took Pensacola, in Florida, from the British; he also
killed eight hundred Creeks for their massacre of the inhabitants of Fort
Mims, and finally broke the power of the Indians in Alabama and Georgia by
his victory at Horseshoe Bend. During all this time New England had held
practically aloof from the war with the British, giving little assistance
to the other States. On Christmas Day a treaty of peace between England
and the United States was signed at Ghent.

Norway accepted the King of Sweden as ruler--an arrangement only recently
abandoned. The Bourbons entered on reprisals in France and Spain, having
"learned nothing and forgotten nothing." Jesuits permitted to return to
France. Despotism renewed in the German states. The Prince Regent of
England excluded his wife, Caroline, from court. Count Rumford, scientist,
and the ex-Empress Josephine, Napoleon's first wife, died.

=RULERS--The same as in the previous year, except that the Bourbons were
restored in France and Spain; Louis XVIII King of France, and Ferdinand
VII King of Spain.=


1815

On January 8, the news of the peace not having reached America, Jackson
won the battle of New Orleans, inflicting a loss of two thousand on the
British, and losing only twenty-one men. At Mobile, the Americans captured
another British force, but off New York Commodore Decatur had to
surrender, with his ship, the President, to the British blockading
squadron.

England restored Java to Holland, but retained Demerara and the Cape of
Good Hope. The Papal States were reestablished, and the Swiss Federation
formed. On February 26 Napoleon slipped out of Elba; on March 1 he landed
in France, where he was received with joy by his old soldiers, and on
March 20 he entered Paris, beginning the Hundred Days. Ney deserted Louis
XVIII to join Napoleon, and practically the whole army followed. Louis
fled to Ghent.

England, Austria, Prussia, and Russia at once united against Napoleon. In
a few days he mobilized and equipped an army of one hundred and twenty
thousand veterans, and in June he was ready to attack the British and
Prussian forces in Belgium. At Quatre-Bras, on June 16, Ney fought an
indecisive engagement with the former, while at Ligny, on the same day,
Napoleon defeated the Prussians under Blücher. On the 18th, Napoleon's
army confronted that of Wellington before Waterloo. Before noon the fight
began. Ney made repeated and gallant charges against the solid British
squares, but his cavalry was slaughtered. Late in the day Blücher, after a
forced march, arrived with part of his army, and, joining the British,
sent the French forces flying. Napoleon barely escaped, and the allies
pursued the shattered remnants of his army. The Napoleonic wars, which had
cost nine million lives and untold treasure, and had remade the map of the
world, were ended.

On June 20 Napoleon reached Paris, and on June 22 he abdicated, the House
of Representatives having adopted by acclamation Lafayette's motion that
the chamber should sit permanently, and that any attempt to dissolve it
should be high treason. On July 7 the allies again entered Paris; on the
15th Napoleon surrendered to Captain Maitland of the British ship
Bellerophon, at Rochefort. He was taken to England, and thence sent as a
prisoner to the island of St. Helena, where he arrived October 15.

Madison reelected President of the United States. Philadelphia began
construction of waterworks system. United States victorious in the war
with Algiers. The Holy Alliance formed, including all the rulers of Europe
excepting the Sultan of Turkey, the Pope, and the King of England. Davy
invented the safety lamp. Wollaston, English scientist, by means of
electricity, brought platinum to incandescence--the forerunner of the
incandescent electric light. Daniel O'Connell killed D'Esterre in a duel.
Anti-corn-law riots in England. Robert Fulton died. Financial depression
throughout the United States.

=RULERS--The same as in the previous year, except that for a hundred days
(March to June) Napoleon was in power in France, Louis XVIII having fled
from Paris.=


1816

Twenty years of continual warfare had left England with a debt of eight
hundred million pounds, with business at a standstill, riots general
throughout the country, and hundreds of thousands of discharged sailors
and soldiers added to the unemployed. Fouché was expelled from France by
the Bourbons, and Talleyrand replaced in the ministry by the Duc de
Richelieu. The Inquisition was reestablished in Spain, and stringent
measures employed in the effort to put down the revolts in the American
colonies. Bolivar, in Venezuela, inflicted serious losses on the
Spaniards. Argentina, Bolivia, Uruguay, and Paraguay, declared themselves
independent of Spain.

The United States still suffered from a general commercial and industrial
depression. First tariff imposed; New England, with Daniel Webster as its
leading orator, was at that time for free trade; the South, led by
Calhoun, was for protection. New England's shipping trade was practically
suspended as a result of the new tariff. Seminole Indian uprising in
Florida quelled. First savings-bank in the country opened in Philadelphia.
Indiana admitted to the Union. Freemasons expelled from Italy. Goods of
English manufacture excluded from Russia. Rebuilding of Moscow begun.
First form of the stethoscope invented by Laennec, of Paris.

Gouverneur Morris, American statesman, and Richard Brinsley Sheridan,
English dramatist and statesman, died.

=RULERS--The same as in the previous year.=


1817

The United States entered upon the prosperous period known as the Era of
Good Feeling. Government land rapidly taken up by settlers, and people
began to push westward. Resumption of the trouble with the Seminoles on
the border of Florida. Jackson took command of the troops after many white
settlers had been massacred. First line of steamships between New York and
Liverpool opened. On July 4 ground was broken for the Erie Canal. First
school for deaf-mutes opened at Hartford. First insane asylum in America
opened by the Friends in Philadelphia. Mississippi admitted to the Union.

Depression continued in England; several Luddites executed for smashing
machinery; eighteen persons hanged for forging Bank of England notes;
habeas corpus suspended. Pindaree and Mahratta wars in India; Lord
Hastings, the English governor-general, won a series of victories and
greatly extended the British power. The Prince Regent of England hooted by
mobs because of his conduct to his wife.

Eleven persons in Philadelphia and seven in Norwich, England, killed by
steamboat boiler explosions, resulting in violent public opposition to
steam vessels. Cholera epidemic started in Bengal, spread over Asia and
Europe, crossed the Atlantic, and caused a million deaths before it was
checked some years later. Béranger, French poet, imprisoned for blasphemy.

Mme. de Staël, French writer, and Thaddeus Kosciusko, Polish patriot and
soldier in the American Revolution, died.

=RULERS--The same as in the previous year, except that James Monroe became
President of the United States on March 4.=


1818

The army of occupation withdrawn from France. King Frederick William III
of Prussia, at the instigation of Metternich and the Russian Czar
Alexander, having become an implacable opponent of liberalism and popular
education, began to suppress schools and colleges. General discontent in
Spain, and several abortive uprisings occurred against Ferdinand VII,
whose misgovernment had left an empty treasury and an unpaid army. Andrew
Jackson invaded Florida, and Congress refused to rebuke him; negotiations
with Spain for the purchase of Florida. Illinois admitted to the Union,
and the contest over the admission of Missouri commenced in Congress.
Pensions granted to needy Revolutionary soldiers, and to the widows and
children of Revolutionary soldiers--the beginning of the pension system.
The number of stripes in the United States flag reduced to thirteen, the
number of stars to be equal to the total number of States in the Union.

Polar expeditions sent out both from America and from England. In the
latter country, Abraham Thornton, accused of murder, claimed the right to
prove his innocence by meeting his accuser in battle; under an ancient
statute this was possible, and as Thornton's accuser declined the proposed
combat, the prisoner was set free. The obsolete law was thereupon
repealed. Patent leather and strychnia discovered. Steam first used for
heating purposes.

Independence of Chile finally declared, after eight years of fighting, on
February 12.

=RULERS--The same as in the previous year, except that Charles XIV
(formerly Marshal Bernadotte) succeeded Charles XIII as King of Sweden and
Norway.=


1819

Most of the Cherokee Indians removed from Georgia to lands west of the
Mississippi. Congress agitated by the Missouri discussion; bill to
prohibit slavery in the territory of the Louisiana Purchase north of the
parallel of thirty-six degrees and thirty minutes, excepting in Missouri,
introduced, and passed the following year. Opposition to slavery increased
in the Northern States. Yellow fever in New York. Alabama admitted to the
Union. Würtemberg abolished serfdom. August Kotzebue, German playwright
and leader of the opposition to liberal ideas and education, assassinated
by Sand, a Jena student; severe measures of repression, under the
influence of Metternich, the great Austrian minister, followed. Throughout
the German States censorship of the press was established, wholesale
arrests of liberals occurred, student societies were forbidden, and
ninety-four students were executed for wearing black, red, and yellow
ribbons, the emblems of liberalism.

Richard Carlisle, of London, arrested for reprinting Paine's "Age of
Reason." Velocipedes, hobby-horses, and other forerunners of the bicycle
became popular. Oersted, of Copenhagen, made important discoveries in
electromagnetism.

Queen Victoria born; James Watt, Scottish inventor; General Blücher,
Prussian soldier; and Warren Hastings, first governor-general of India,
died.

=RULERS--The same as in the previous year.=


1820

Riego's revolt in Spain failed, but was followed by other movements in
favor of liberalism. In Madrid, the prison of the Inquisition was
stormed, and the political prisoners it contained set at liberty. King
Ferdinand was forced to convoke the Cortes and agree to restore the
comparatively liberal constitution of 1812. Divorce suit of George IV of
England before the House of Lords; when the prosecutor had just started
his opening address, the peers rose suddenly and rushed out in a body to
witness an eclipse of the sun; the suit failed. Sir Walter Scott was the
first baronet created by George IV.

The Duc de Berry, heir presumptive to the French throne, assassinated by
Louvel, February 13. The Carbonari, or charcoal burners, forced Ferdinand
I, King of Naples, to grant a constitution, which he swore to uphold, but
almost immediately repudiated. The people of Portugal also rebelled and
obtained a constitution. Russia sold to Spain a fleet of fighting vessels,
which proved later to consist of rotting hulks.

In the United States, the Missouri Compromise Bill was passed and signed
by Monroe, who was reelected to a second term in the Presidency. Maine was
admitted as a State, and Spain agreed to cede her title to Florida for the
sum of five million dollars.

Hydropathy introduced by Priessnitz. Ampère discovered the galvanometer.
Caffeine separated by Oudry, and quinin by Pelletier and Caventou.

George III, King of England; Benjamin West, American artist; Henry
Grattan, Irish statesman; and Arthur Young, political economist, died.

=POPULATION.--Washington, D.C., 13,247; New York, 123,706; London
(Metropolitan District), 1,225,694; United States, 9,638,453; Great
Britain and Ireland (1821), 22,566,755.=

=RULERS--United States, James Monroe; Great Britain, George III, died
January 29, George IV succeeded; France, Louis XVIII; Spain, Ferdinand
VII; Prussia, Frederick William III; Russia, Alexander I; Austria, Francis
I; Pope Pius VII.=


    The reason why so few marriages are happy is because young
    ladies spend their time in making nets, not in making
    cages.--=Jonathan Swift.=




POE AND LONGFELLOW

ON THEIR LOST LOVES.


Though the love of man for woman has been one of the most fruitful sources
of inspiration to the poets, verses in which famous authors have sung the
praises of women who have become their wives are comparatively rare. The
belief is common that the natures of poets are more sensitive than those
of other persons. If this is true, it is only reasonable to infer that a
poet possesses the power of giving more forceful expression to his sense
of bereavement than any other person would be capable of doing.

In the case of Poe, the poem "Annabel Lee," written shortly after the
death of his beautiful young wife, is said to have been inspired by the
writer's loss. Mrs. Poe, Virginia Clemm, a first cousin of the poet,
became his wife before she was fifteen years old. Her wedded life was one
of sorrow and hardship, and eleven years later she died of consumption.

The wife of Longfellow died in 1861. Shortly afterward the poem "Via
Solitaria" was written. It was not intended for publication, and during
Longfellow's lifetime it was not included in any collection of his poems,
for the reason that its author regarded it as being too distinctively
personal for the public eye.


ANNABEL LEE.

BY EDGAR ALLAN POE.

    It was many and many a year ago
      In a kingdom by the sea
    That a maiden there lived whom you may know
      By the name of Annabel Lee,
    And this maiden she lived with no other thought
      Than to love and be loved by me.

    I was a child and she was a child,
      In this kingdom by the sea,
    But we loved with a love that was more than love,
      I and my Annabel Lee;
    With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven
      Coveted her and me.

    And this was the reason that, long ago,
      In this kingdom by the sea,
    A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling
      My beautiful Annabel Lee,
    So that her high-born kinsman came
      And bore her away from me
    To shut her up in a sepulcher
      In this kingdom by the sea.

    The angels, not half so happy in heaven,
      Went envying her and me.
    Yes, that was the reason (as all men know),
      In this kingdom by the sea,
    That the wind came out of the cloud by night
      Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.

    But our love it was stronger by far than the love
      Of those who were older than we,
      Of many far wiser than we,
    And neither the angels in heaven above
      Nor the demons down under the sea
    Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
      Of the beautiful Annabel Lee.

    For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams
      Of the beautiful Annabel Lee,
    And the stars never rise but I feel the bright eyes
      Of the beautiful Annabel Lee.
    And so all the nighttide I lie down by the side
    Of my darling, my darling, my life and my bride,
      In her sepulcher there by the sea,
      In her tomb by the sounding sea.


VIA SOLITARIA.

BY HENRY W. LONGFELLOW.

    Alone, I walked the peopled city,
      Where each seems happy with his own;
    Oh! friends, I ask not for your pity--
            I walk alone.

    No more for me yon lake rejoices,
      Though moved by loving airs of June.
    Oh! birds, your sweet and piping voices
            Are out of tune.

    In vain for me the elm tree arches
      Its plumes in many a feathery spray,
    In vain the evening's starry marches
            And sunlit day.

    In vain your beauty, Summer flowers;
      Ye cannot greet these cordial eyes;
    They gaze on other fields than ours--
            On other skies.

    The gold is rifled from the coffer,
      The blade is stolen from the sheath;
    Life has but one more boon to offer,
            And that is--Death.

    Yet well I know the voice of Duty,
      And, therefore, life and health must crave,
    Though she who gave the world its beauty
            Is in her grave.

    I live, O lost one! for the living
      Who drew their earliest life from thee,
    And wait, until with glad thanksgiving
            I shall be free.

    For life to me is as a station
      Wherein apart a traveler stands--
    One absent long from home and nation,
            In other lands;

    And I, as he who stands and listens,
      Amid the twilight's chill and gloom,
    To hear, approaching in the distance,
            The train for home.

    For death shall bring another mating,
      Beyond the shadows of the tomb,
    On yonder shore a bride is waiting
            Until I come.

    In yonder field are children playing,
      And there--oh, vision of delight!--
    I see the child and mother straying
            In robes of white.

    Thou, then, the longing heart that breakest,
      Stealing the treasures one by one,
    I'll call Thee blessed when Thou makest
            The parted--one.




The Beginnings of Stage Careers.

By MATTHEW WHITE, Jr.

  A Series of Papers That Will Be Continued from Month to Month
  and Will Include All Players of Note.


BLANCHE BATES BALKED.

  As a School Marm She Got Behind Footlights
  to Dodge Promotion from
  Kindergarten to Primary Grade.

I knew that Blanche Bates came of a theatrical family, and that,
therefore, she had an open sesame to the stage, but I did not know just
when she made her first appearance, and to learn this for THE SCRAP BOOK I
sought her out in the brief interval of rest she has, without a costume
change, between the first and second acts of "The Girl of the Golden
West."

"How did I make my start?" she repeated in answer to my question. "Well, I
rather think it was because I balked at the idea of being known as a
'school marm.' I'll tell you about it. Although both my father and mother
were on the stage, I didn't care for the life in the least. In fact, in my
small young mind, I set up to being a very grand lady.

"'An actress? No, indeed,' I told myself. 'Something much better than that
for me.' I was interested in young children and became a kindergarten
teacher in San Francisco, where my mother was playing with L.R. Stockwell.
But it was my very success with the youngsters that brought about the
close of my career as a teacher. If I could do so well in the
kindergarten, the committee argued, I was worth promoting, so one day they
came to me with the announcement that I had been advanced to the charge of
a grade in the primary department.


To Teach or Not to Teach.

"I suppose I should have felt duly honored, but I didn't. I sat down and
began to look ahead, through the vista of years to come. A teacher, a
schoolmistress! That somehow didn't agree with the ideas of the grand lady
my fancy had conjured up. And, at that psychological moment mother came
home with a proposition from Mr. Stockwell.

"It seemed that they were to give him a benefit, and he suggested to her,
by way of novelty in the bill, that I should appear in a one-act play.
Coming as it did just as I was wavering in my mind about my prospects in
the teaching business, the idea caught me, and I said: 'Yes, I'd like to
do it.'

"The play was 'The Picture,' by Brander Matthews, and I was the only woman
in it, with the gamut of all the passions to run in the portrayal of the
part. But I was too young and inexperienced to be frightened at the
notion. I went on, and got through, and with the smell of the footlights
possessing me I became thoroughly set upon a New York appearance."

After her experience with the Stockwell forces, Miss Bates secured an
opening with the Frawley stock as utility woman at twenty dollars a week,
which led to the realization of her hopes in the way of a chance on
Broadway. And this came in the shape of an engagement with no less famous
a company than Augustin Daly's. She made her début in February, 1899, but
lasted only two nights.


Too Good for Daly's.

"The resignation of Blanche Bates from Augustin Daly's theatrical company
will give a good many persons the chance to say 'I told you so,' the
dramatic critic of the New York _Sun_ observed at the time. "A short
career for Miss Bates on that stage was predicted on the opening night of
'The Great Ruby; or, The Kiss of Blood.'

"She was called before the curtain four times after her best scene, and
the applause was enthusiastic and genuine. That would have been enough to
base the belief on. But there was a second and bigger reason, said the
prophets, why her stay would be brief.

"The curtain later fell in silence on what should have been an impressive
climax for Ada Rehan, and was lifted a single time after the ushers had
incited a mild demonstration of personal regard for that favorite.

"It has never been customary to have at Daly's any other actress of
dramatic strength than Miss Rehan. The rôles secondary in serious
importance have been played by charming but weak young women. As soon as
rivalry began, as in the case of Maxine Elliott, it was removed.

"In the sensational melodrama from Drury Lane, with the singularly
felicitous title or sub-title of 'The Kiss of Blood,' is a Russian
adventuress, who has an honest love affair, though she is a thief, and who
is the only female character to figure in the heroics of the play. Miss
Bates was assigned to it.

"She had come from California, and was unknown here. She proved to be
handsome, fiery, forceful, and very talented. She was a revelation to the
first audience, and it was disposed to go wild over her.

"Maybe it would have been better for Miss Rehan if the part had been given
to her. Perhaps she had disliked to enact a wicked woman. Anyway, she had
chosen instead to appear as a vain, frivolous, but clean and cheerful,
wife of a London tradesman.

"This had been written as an eccentric character, and at the Drury Lane it
had been played with irresistible drollery by Mrs. John Wood. But Miss
Rehan had no mind to look grotesque, and as to low comedy, it is clear out
of her line.

"In a serio-comic scene of somnambulism, where Mrs. Wood had been a fright
in curl papers and a funny nightgown, Miss Rehan sacrificed nothing to the
comic requirements. She was as dignified and stately as any _Lady
Macbeth_. For those reasons the sleep-walking episode, which had been very
valuable in London, counted for nothing here, and at its end the actress
had good reason to know that it had failed with the audience.

"It was then that experts foretold the withdrawal of the California
actress. She appeared at Daly's only one more night. She had not found
Daly's Theater comfortable."

Naturally, Miss Bates did not long remain without an engagement. She was
snapped up by the Lieblers for _Miladi_ in "The Musketeers," and soon
caught the eye of Belasco, who featured her in "Under Two Flags." Her real
arrival, however, was with "The Darling of the Gods," which brought her
seven hundred and fifty dollars a week salary and a percentage of the
receipts, not a mean advance from the twenty dollars she had been getting
from Frawley less than five years before.


MILLER'S STAR OF DESTINY.

  It Led Him from His Native London,
  Through Canada, and Finally to the
  Old Lyceum Stock Company.

Henry Miller was born in London, but brought up in Canada. He was only a
schoolboy when he chanced to read a magazine article about Henry Irving.
This fired him with the ambition to act, but he set about realizing it in
a most matter-of-fact and sensible way.

Instead of running off to join some theatrical troupe as a super, he began
the study of elocution under the late W.C. Couldock, best remembered
perhaps as the worthy miller, father of _Hazel Kirke_. This was at
Miller's home, in Toronto, and here he had four years of grounding in the
text of Shakespeare.

He was barely nineteen when the chance came, at a Toronto theater, for him
to show what his studying had taught him. He was assigned to the part of
the bleeding _Sergeant_ in "Macbeth," and the very fact that the company
was merely a scratch affair, not far removed from the barnstorming
category, really worked to young Miller's advantage.

He was the first leading man with the old Lyceum stock, in "The Wife," and
the second at the Empire. In 1899, he expressed his greatest ambition as
being the management of a New York theater. This he has realized the past
winter at the Princess, where he organized and produced "Zira" for Miss
Anglin.


STORM FOR MISS RUSSELL.

  As a Child of Ten She Excited Rose
  Eytinge's Anger Because She
  Lacked Experience.

Annie Russell, like Miss Bates, comes of theatrical stock, so the door to
the stage was on the latch for her.

Miss Russell's first appearance took place in Montreal when she was ten
years old, and was preceded by a heart-breaking episode. Rose Eytinge was
playing "Miss Multon" against Clara Morris. Two children are needed in the
piece, and when Miss Eytinge ascertained that one of them--_Jeanne_,
assigned to Annie Russell--had never been on before, she was furious.

"Do you want to queer the show when so much depends on it?" she demanded
of E.A. McDowell, her manager.

The girl, Annie, chanced to overhear her, and fell to weeping bitterly.
Miss Eytinge noticed her, had her heart touched by the spectacle, soothed
the child, and allowed her to play the part. Later on she appeared in the
chorus of a juvenile "Pinafore" company, and was soon promoted to be
_Josephine_.

Then she made a big jump--to the West Indies, to look out for her small
brother Tommy, the "child actor" of the company, later one of the two
famous _Fauntleroys_ and now a dramatic critic on a New York paper. While
with this troupe she was pressed into service to fill a big variety of
parts, giving her a good foundation on which to build her big hit in the
sun-bonnet of "Esmeralda."

She followed this with another success, in an altogether different
line--the poetical one of "Elaine," and then fell ill. For some years she
remained off the boards, close to death's door, and returned to them
finally in a weakling play by Sydney Grundy, "The New Woman."

She took the taste of this out of the public's mouth by a triumph both
here and in London with "Sue," and then went into the background once more
with "Catherine," from the French.

Her real arrival as a popular star was made in the autumn of '99, at the
Lyceum, in "Miss Hobbs."


MEDAL SET MANTELL GOING.

  He Was Encouraged to Become an Actor
  by a Prize Which, as a Boy, He Won
  for Proficiency in Declamation.

Mantell, now in Shakespeare, made his professional start as a sergeant.
This was in 1874, in the Rochdale Theater, Lancashire, England, under the
stage name of Hudson. The play was "Arrah-na Pogue." He was born in
Irvine, Ayrshire, Scotland, on the 7th of February, 1854, but was brought
up in Ireland, where he won a medal at school for his proficiency in
declamation. This turned his attention to the amateur stage, where his
first appearance was made as _De Mauprat_ in "Richelieu."

He came to America in the same year that he began to act professionally,
and he procured an engagement with the Museum stock company in Boston. But
he soon returned to England, where he remained for four years, acting in
the provinces, and when the States saw him again it was in 1878, when he
and Miller were with Modjeska.

His first real lift into popularity arrived when Fanny Davenport engaged
him for _Loris_ in "Fedora." In this part he was accounted one of the
best-looking men who had trod the American boards, and he established a
vogue for himself that paved the way for his stellar career of several
years in the one play "Monbars."


GILLETTE DESERTED LAW.

  Abetted by Mark Twain, the Future Playwright
  and Star Took to "The Road,"
  Which He Found a Thorny One.

William Gillette may be said to have reached the stage on the run, for he
ran away from home in order to gratify his ambition to become an actor.
His family were staid citizens of Hartford, Connecticut, where his father
once ran for Governor of the State.

The idea was to make a lawyer of William, but after he got over a taste
for mechanics, which led him to construct secretly a steam-engine in his
bedroom, he conceived for the stage a craze that refused to be snuffed out
by parental opposition.

Mark Twain, a neighbor in Hartford, was on the boy's side. His "Gilded
Age" was being dramatized, and the author lent his influence to get young
Gillette a place in the cast as foreman of the jury in the company of
which John T. Raymond was the head. In this rôle he was entrusted with the
onerous task of saying these four words in response to the question of the
judge: "We have. Not guilty."

Gillette was barely nineteen at the time, and after the run of "The Gilded
Age" was over he found himself in New Orleans without another engagement
or the chance of obtaining one. Finally he secured an opening on these
magnificent terms--agreeing to play without salary and to furnish his own
costumes.

The post was that of leading utility man for a New Orleans stock company,
and when, after serving for a while under these humiliating conditions for
the sake of the experience it would bring, Gillette mildly suggested that
he be paid a small honorarium, he was told there was one alternative that
was always open to him--he could leave, which he did.

Thereupon ensued a rough and tumble period of existence for the young
actor, who did not arrive at pleasant pastures again until he took to
writing plays himself. And yet his first production to reach the
footlights was by no means an overwhelming success. This was "The
Professor," produced at the Madison Square Theater, with himself in the
leading part, when that house was managed by an Episcopal clergyman and
his brother.


Success Follows Failure.

It is such a superhuman task to secure a manager's attention for a play
that the new playwright is prone to feel that the Rubicon has been passed
once the manuscript has been accepted. But in reality this is only a
halting-place on the roadside where he may tarry to obtain his second
wind. And young Gillette needed all the recuperative powers possible, for
when "The Professor" was brought to public attention the critics hurled at
it their keenest shafts.

The actor-playwright managed to survive, although his play didn't, and,
failing to be discouraged, he went ahead with his work on "Esmeralda."
This was a story written by Frances Hodgson Burnett, in which the Mallorys
of the theater had become interested, and the dramatization of which, in
association with the author, they had entrusted to Gillette. This proved
to be a big hit, with Annie Russell in the name-part, and ran to over
three hundred performances.

Another adaptation success quickly followed--that of "The Private
Secretary," in which Gillette also played. Meantime he was at work on
another original piece, "Held by the Enemy," a war drama which almost beat
"Shenandoah" on its own ground in the race for popularity.

Inspired by the success he had achieved, Gillette was not content to go
ahead on the same lines. He ached to branch out, to astonish folks, to do
something big, and with his record behind him he had little difficulty in
persuading Charles Frohman to go halves in the production of "Ninety
Days."

This was a melodrama of the most lurid type, but the Third Avenue edge of
it was supposed to be taken off by the elaborate fashion in which it was
staged and the care with which the mechanical effects were looked after.
It failed completely, running a bare month, and carrying down all
Gillette's savings in its collapse. The disappointment shattered his
health, and he retired to a cabin in South Carolina, where, after a time,
he set to work on some more adaptations--"Too Much Johnson," "All the
Comforts of Home," and "Mr. Wilkinson's Widows."

These were all produced successfully, which could not be said of what
eventually turned out to be his most famous work; for "Secret Service,"
called originally "The Secret Service," was looked upon coldly when it was
launched in Philadelphia, with Maurice Barrymore in the lead.

Gillette gave the piece a thorough overhauling, and it was put on in the
new form, and with the author as the hero, at the Garrick, New York, in
1896, and made the hit that was really the beginning of Gillette's career
of fame as actor-playwright.


BELLEW WAS A SAILOR.

  He Studied for the Ministry and Ran
  Away to Sea Before He Got Into
  the Spot-light.

Kyrle Bellew, soon to follow "Raffles" with "The Right of Way," is the son
of an actor who bore the reputation of being the handsomest man in
England. He married the daughter of a commodore, and left the stage to
enter the church, becoming Bishop of Calcutta. Harold Kyrle (by which name
Bellew was then known), being the eldest son, was destined to follow in
his father's footsteps, and studied for holy orders at Oxford.

But he soon found that he had made a mistake. His flesh constantly warred
against the confining life of the scholar, and at nineteen he ran away to
sea, in the old-fashioned way of the story-books.

After five years on salt water he found himself back in England, no
further advanced in this world's goods than when he cut stick from Oxford.
He wandered about London, not daring to go home, and without money in his
pockets. It was at this crisis that he chanced to read an advertisement
calling for a light comedian to join a company for the provinces, the
salary to be two pounds (ten dollars) a week.

The blood that had come from his actor-father stirred in his veins, and he
went at once to apply for the post. His good looks and pleasing address
outweighed his lack of experience, and he was transported with joy at
being engaged.

While playing in Dublin as _George de Lesparre_ in Boucicault's "Led
Astray" his work and appearance so impressed a critic that he wrote to
Boucicault, in London, about him. The dramatist at once sent for the
unknown actor, and gave him a position in the company at the Haymarket,
where in three years' time he rose to be leading man. From there he went
to the Lyceum, under Henry Irving, where he first used the name "Kyrle
Bellew."




TRIBUTES TO DEAD BROTHERS.

  EULOGIES PRONOUNCED AT THE GRAVE BY SIR
  ECTOR ON SIR LAUNCELOT, AND BY ROBERT
  G. INGERSOLL ON E.C. INGERSOLL.

However unemotional man may be, his deepest sentiments are stirred when he
stands face to face with death. The sense of loss; the uncertainty; the
vastness of the mystery, which can be solved only by conjecture or the
intuitions of faith--all these solemn elements call out the most interior
thought and feeling.

Among the recorded utterances of grief we have selected two for our
readers. Each is a funeral oration over the body of a brother. In
literature we go back to old Sir Thomas Malory for the "doleful
complaints" of Sir Ector de Moris over the dead Sir Launcelot, his
brother. It will be remembered that after the death of Queen Guinevere, as
recorded in the "Morte d'Arthur," Sir Launcelot "ever after eat but little
meat, nor drank, but continually mourned until he was dead." They bore him
to Joyous Gard, where he had desired to be buried, and thither came Sir
Ector, who for seven years had been vainly seeking his brother.

The second utterance is the eulogy which was pronounced by the late Robert
G. Ingersoll at the funeral of his brother, E.C. Ingersoll. Under similar
conditions of grief no deeper note has been so eloquently sounded. Colonel
Ingersoll touched the meanings of life, and, infidel though he was,
ventured a noble hope in death.


SIR ECTOR TO SIR LAUNCELOT.

    And then Sir Ector threw his shield, his sword, and his helm
    from him; and when he beheld Sir Launcelot's visage, he fell
    down in a swoon; and when he awoke, it were hard for any
    tongue to tell the doleful complaints that he made for his
    brother. "Ah! Sir Launcelot," said he, "thou wert head of
    all Christian knights. And now, I dare say," said Sir Ector,
    "that Sir Launcelot, there thou liest, thou wert never
    matched of none earthly knight's hands; and thou wert the
    courtliest knight that ever bear shield; and thou wert the
    truest friend to thy lover that ever bestrode horse; and
    thou wert the truest lover of a sinful man that ever loved
    woman; and thou wert the kindest man that ever struck with
    sword; and thou wert the goodliest person that ever came
    among press of knights; and thou wert the meekest man, and
    the gentlest, that ever eat in hall among ladies; and thou
    wert the sternest knight to thy mortal foe that ever put
    spear in the rest."


INGERSOLL'S EULOGY.

    Dear Friends: I am going to do that which the dead oft
    promised he would do for me. The loved and loving brother,
    husband, father, friend, died where manhood's morning almost
    touches noon, and while the shadows still were falling
    toward the west. He had not passed on life's highway the
    stone that marks the highest point; but being weary for a
    moment, he lay down by the wayside, and, using his burden
    for a pillow, fell into that dreamless sleep that kisses
    down his eyelids still. While yet in love with life and
    raptured with the world, he passed to silence and pathetic
    dust.

    Yet, after all, it may be best, just in the happiest,
    sunniest hour of all the voyage, while eager winds are
    kissing every sail, to dash against the unseen rock, and in
    an instant hear the billows roar above a sunken ship. For
    whether in mid-sea or 'mong the breakers of the farther
    shore, a wreck at last must mark the end of each and all.
    And every life, no matter if its every hour is rich with
    love and every moment jeweled with a joy, will, at its
    close, become a tragedy as sad and deep and dark as can be
    woven of the warp and woof of mystery and death. This brave
    and tender man in every storm of life was oak and rock; but
    in the sunshine he was vine and flower.

    He was the friend of heroic souls. He climbed the heights,
    and left all superstition far below, while on his forehead
    fell the golden dawning of the grander day. He loved the
    beautiful, and was with color, form, and music touched to
    tears. He sided with the weak and with a willing hand gave
    alms. With loyal heart and with the purest hands he
    faithfully discharged all public trusts. He was a worshiper
    of liberty, a friend of the oppressed. A thousand times I
    have heard him quote these words: "For justice, all place a
    temple and all season summer."

    He believed that happiness was the only good, reason the
    only torch, justice the only worship, humanity the only
    religion, and love the only priest. He added to the sum of
    human joy; and were every one to whom he did a loving
    service to bring a blossom to his grave, he would sleep
    to-night beneath a wilderness of flowers.

    Life is a narrow vale between the cold and barren peaks of
    two eternities. We strive in vain to look beyond the
    heights. We cry aloud, and the only answer is the echo of
    our wailing cry. From the voiceless lips of the unreplying
    dead there comes no word; but in the night of death hope
    sees a star and listening love can hear the rustle of a
    wing. He who sleeps here when dying, mistaking the approach
    of death for the return of health, whispered with his latest
    breath, "I am better now."

    Let us believe, in spite of doubts and dogmas, of fears and
    tears, that these dear words are true of all the countless
    dead. And now, to you, who have been chosen from among the
    many men he loved to do the last sad office for the dead, we
    give his sacred dust. Speech cannot contain our love. There
    was, there is no gentler, stronger, manlier man.




America's First Great Poem.


In the history of literature there are occasionally noted the names of
some distinguished writers whose best remembered work was accomplished at
the very beginning of their careers. One remarkable illustration is found
in the poem "Thanatopsis," which was composed by William Cullen Bryant
(1794-1878) when he was but seventeen years of age.

His father found the poem in his son's desk, together with the manuscript
of "The Waterfowl," and was so affected by the discovery of verse so
unusual that he hastened to the house of a neighbor, thrust the
manuscripts into his hand, and then burst into tears as he exclaimed:

"Oh, read that. It is Cullen's!"

"Thanatopsis" was taken by Dr. Bryant to the editor of the newly
established _North American Review_; but this gentleman and the friends to
whom he showed it were at first unwilling to believe that an American
could have written so fine a poem. It was, however, published (in 1817);
yet even then, and for a long time after, most persons credited it to Dr.
Bryant rather than to his son.

The importance of "Thanatopsis" is at once literary and historical. It is
in reality the first original note ever sounded in American poetry. Until
that time Americans had merely imitated whatever style of writing happened
to be current in England. Bryant, however, attained spontaneous
self-expression and distinct individuality. He drew a direct inspiration
from Nature itself; and his lines were vivified by the imagination that is
unforced. The publication of "Thanatopsis," therefore, is now held to mark
the date at which the national literature of America begins.


THANATOPSIS.

BY WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.

    To him who in the love of nature holds
    Communion with her visible forms, she speaks
    A various language: for his gayer hours
    She has a voice of gladness, and a smile
    And eloquence of beauty; and she glides
    Into his darker musings with a mild
    And healing sympathy, that steals away
    Their sharpness ere he is aware. When thoughts
    Of the last bitter hour come like a blight
    Over thy spirit, and sad images
    Of the stern agony, and shroud, and pall,
    And breathless darkness, and the narrow house,
    Make thee to shudder and grow sick at heart,
    Go forth under the open sky, and list
    To Nature's teachings, while from all around--
    Earth and her waters, and the depths of air--
    Comes a still voice: Yet a few days, and thee
    The all-beholding sun shall see no more
    In all his course; nor yet in the cold ground,
    Where thy pale form was laid with many tears,
    Nor in the embrace of ocean, shall exist
    Thy image. Earth, that nourished thee, shall claim
    Thy growth, to be resolved to earth again;
    And, lost each human trace, surrendering up
    Thine individual being, shalt thou go
    To mix forever with the elements--
    To be a brother to the insensible rock,
    And to the sluggish clod, which the rude swain
    Turns with his share and treads upon. The oak
    Shall send his roots abroad, and pierce thy mold.

    Yet not to thine eternal resting-place
    Shalt thou retire alone, nor couldst thou wish
    Couch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie down
    With patriarchs of the infant world--with kings,
    The powerful of the earth--the wise, the good--
    Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past,
    All in one mighty sepulcher. The hills,
    Rock-ribbed and ancient as the sun--the vales
    Stretching in pensive quietness between--
    The venerable woods--rivers that move
    In majesty, and the complaining brooks
    That make the meadows green; and, poured round all,
    Old ocean's gray and melancholy waste--
    Are but the solemn decorations all
    Of the great tomb of man. The golden sun,
    The planets, all the infinite hosts of heaven,
    Are shining on the sad abodes of death,
    Through the still lapse of ages. All that tread
    The globe are but a handful to the tribes
    That slumber in its bosom. Take the wings
    Of morning; traverse Barca's desert sands,
    Or lose thyself in the continuous woods
    Where rolls the Oregon, and hears no sound
    Save his own dashings--yet the dead are there;
    And millions in those solitudes, since first
    The flight of years began, have laid them down
    In their last sleep--the dead reign there alone.
    So shalt thou rest; and what if thou withdraw
    In silence from the living, and no friend
    Take note of thy departure? All that breathe
    Will share thy destiny. The gay will laugh
    When thou art gone, the solemn brood of care
    Plod on, and each one, as before, will chase
    His favorite fantom; yet all these shall leave
    Their mirth and their employments, and shall come
    And make their bed with thee. As the long train
    Of ages glide away, the sons of men--
    The youth in life's green spring, and he who goes
    In the full strength of years, matron, and maid,
    And the sweet babe, and the gray-headed man--
    Shall one by one be gathered to thy side
    By those who in their turn shall follow them.

    So live that when thy summons comes to join
    The innumerable caravan which moves
    To that mysterious realm where each shall take
    His chamber in the silent halls of death,
    Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night,
    Scourged to his dungeon, but, sustained and soothed
    By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave
    Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch
    About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams.




PRE-EASTER PHILOSOPHY.

  A Few Reflections, Pertinent and Impertinent, on the Subject of Clothes,
  Their Cost, and the Consequences of Sartorial Splendor.

    Dwellers in huts and marble halls--
      From shepherdess up to queen--
    Cared little for bonnets, and less for shawls,
      And nothing for crinoline.
    But now simplicity's not the rage,
      And it's funny to think how cold
    The dress they wore in the Golden Age
      Would seem in the Age of Gold.

    HENRY S. LEIGH--_The Two Ages_.


              Nothing is thought rare
    Which is not new, and follow'd; yet we know
    That what was worn some twenty years ago
    Comes into grace again.

    BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER--_Prologue
    to the Noble Gentleman_.


    Dress drains our cellar dry,
    And keeps our larder lean; puts out our fires,
    And introduces hunger, frost, and wo.
    Where peace and hospitality might reign.

    COWPER--_The Task_. Bk. II.


He that is proud of the rustling of his silks, like a madman, laughs at
the rattling of his fetters. For indeed, Clothes ought to be our
remembrancers of our lost innocency.

Fuller--_The Holy and Profane States_.


    I'll be at charges for a looking-glass,
    And entertain some score or two of tailors,
    To study fashions to adorn my body:
    Since I am crept in favor with myself,
    I will maintain it with some little cost.

    _Richard III_. Act I. Sc. 2.


    So tedious is this day,
    As is the night before some festival
    To an impatient child, that hath new robes,
    And may not wear them.

    _Romeo and Juliet_. Act III. Sc. 2.


    Costly thy habit as thy purse can buy,
    But not express'd in fancy; rich, not gaudy;
    For the apparel oft proclaims the man.

    _Hamlet_. Act I. Sc. 3.


    The glass of fashion and the mold of form,
    The observ'd of all observers.

    _Hamlet_. Act III. Sc. 1.

    Their clothes are after such a pagan cut too,
    That, sure, they've worn out Christendom.

    _Henry VIII_. Act I. Sc. 3.


    You, sir, I entertain for one of my hundred;
    only I do not like the fashion of your garments.

    _King Lear_. Act III. Sc. 6.


    He is only fantastical that is not in fashion.

    BURTON--_Anatomy of Melancholy_.


    And as the French we conquer'd once,
    Now gives us laws for pantaloons,
    The length of breeches and the gathers,
    Port-cannons, periwigs, and feathers.

    BUTLER--_Hudibras_. Pt. I. Canto III.


    Thy clothes are all the soul thou hast.

    BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER--_Honest
    Man's Fortune_. Act V. Sc. 3.


    A winning wave, deserving note,
    In the tempestuous petticoat;
    A careless shoe-string, in whose tie
    I see a wild civility--
    Do more bewitch me than when art
    Is too precise in every part.

    ROBERT HERRICK--_Delight in Disorder_.


    Fashion--a word which knaves and fools may use,
    Their knavery and folly to excuse.

    CHURCHILL--_Rosciad_.


    As good be out of the world as out of the fashion.

COLLEY CIBBER--_Love's Last Shift_.


    Who seems most hideous when adorned the most.

    ARIOSTO--_Orlando Furioso_. XX. 116.


    I see that the fashion wears out more apparel than the man.

    _Much Ado About Nothing_. Act III.
    Sc. 3. L. 148.


    Be plain in dress, and sober in your diet;
    In short, my deary, kiss me! and be quiet.

    LADY M.W. MONTAGU--_Summary of
    Lord Littelton's Advice_.




Classics From Carlyle.

  Two of the Most Celebrated Passages in "Sartor Resartus," Penned By
  the Great Scottish Philosopher in What He Called "The
  Loneliest Nook in Britain."

    "The selections printed here are taken from what is regarded
    by nearly every one as the masterpiece of Thomas Carlyle
    (1795-1881). "Sartor Resartus" (The Tailor Retailored) is
    the title of a book which exhibits the very soul of Carlyle
    himself, with all its mingled scorn, lawlessness, humor, and
    pathos. He wrote in what he called "the loneliest nook in
    Britain"--a little Scottish farm at Craigenputtoch.

    To this place Carlyle had taken his bride, Jane Welsh, a
    very brilliant woman, and there the two lived for years amid
    the most desolate surroundings and after the rudest fashion.
    They were a strange and ill-assorted couple--he in manner
    and appearance a gaunt and uncouth peasant; she a delicate
    and nervous woman of the world. Carlyle suffered tortures
    from dyspepsia, which often made him as savage as a wolf.
    His wife, who had married him less from love than because
    she thought he had a great career before him, suffered from
    his heedlessness and roughness, yet took her revenge upon
    him by the sharpness of her tongue, and by the burning
    record which she left of their mutual bitterness and spite.

    It was in this lonely place that Carlyle wrote "Sartor
    Resartus," which first appeared in _Fraser's Magazine_
    (1833-1834). It is one of the strangest and most eccentric
    of literary productions. It has no form. Its language is
    often exclamatory, vociferous, and wild--interlarded also
    with foreign words, and words that Carlyle himself invented.
    It really sets forth the personal opinions, the fanciful
    speculations, and the mental writhings of its author; and it
    foreshadows the almost demoniac power wherewith Carlyle
    afterward wrote the story of the French Revolution, which he
    himself called "truth clad in hell-fire."

    Carlyle, as a man, was so erratic as to be almost
    impossible. His opinions were extreme, and he was fond of
    bellowing them forth in the fiercest and most furious words,
    insulting those who differed with him, eaten up by a
    colossal vanity, and yet unquestionably a genius of the
    first order.




Night View of a City.


"Ah, my dear friend," said he once, at midnight, when we had returned from
the coffee-house in rather earnest talk, "it is a true sublimity to dwell
here. These fringes of lamplight, struggling up through smoke and
thousandfold exhalation, some fathoms into the ancient reign of Night,
what thinks Boötes of them, as he leads his Hunting-Dogs over the zenith
in their leash of sidereal fire?

"That stifled hum of Midnight, when Traffic has lain down to rest; and the
chariot-wheels of Vanity, still rolling here and there through distant
streets, are bearing her to Halls roofed-in, and lighted to the due pitch
for her; and only Vice and Misery, to prowl or to moan like night-birds,
are abroad; that hum, I say, like the stertorous, unquiet slumber of sick
Life, is heard in Heaven! Oh, under that hideous coverlet of vapors, and
putrefactions, and unimaginable gases, what a Fermenting-vat lies
simmering and hid!

"The joyful and the sorrowful are there; men are dying there, men are
being born; men are praying--on the other side of a brick partition, men
are cursing; and around them all is the vast, void Night.

"The proud Grandee still lingers in his perfumed saloons, or reposes
within damask curtains; Wretchedness cowers into truckle-beds, or shivers
hunger-stricken into its lair of straw; in obscure cellars,
_Rouge-et-Noir_ languidly emits its voice-of-destiny to haggard, hungry
Villains; while Councillors of State sit plotting and playing their high
chess game, the pawns being Men.

"The Lover whispers his mistress that the coach is ready, and she, full of
hope and fear, glides down, to fly with him over the borders; the Thief,
still more silently, sets-to his pick-locks and crowbars, or lurks in wait
till the watchmen first snore in their boxes.

"Gay mansions, with supper-rooms and dancing-rooms, are full of light and
music and high-swelling hearts; but in the Condemned Cells the pulse of
life beats tremulous and faint, and bloodshot eyes look out through the
darkness, which is around and within, for the light of a stern last
morning. Six men are to be hanged on the morrow; comes no hammering from
the Raven's Rock?--their gallows must even now be a-building.

"Upward of five hundred thousand two-legged animals without feathers lie
around us, in horizontal positions; their heads all in nightcaps, and full
of the foolishest dreams. Riot cries aloud, and staggers and swaggers in
his rank dens of shame; and the Mother, with streaming hair, kneels over
her pallid dying infant, whose cracked lips only her tears now
moisten--all these heaped and huddled together, with nothing but carpentry
and masonry between them--crammed in, like salted fish in their barrel--or
weltering, shall I say, like an Egyptian pitcher of tamed vipers, each
struggling to get its _head above_ the others; _such_ work goes on under
that smoke-counterpane! But I sit above it all; I am alone with the
Stars."


In Nature's Wilds.

"Mountains were not new to him; but rarely are Mountains seen in such
combined majesty and grace as here. The rocks of that sort called
Primitive by the mineralogists, which always arrange themselves in masses
of a rugged, gigantic character; which ruggedness, however, is here
tempered by a singular airiness of form and softness of environment; in a
climate favorable to vegetation, the gray cliff, itself covered with
lichens, shoots-up through a garment of foliage or verdure; and white,
bright cottages, tree-shaded, cluster around the everlasting granite. In
fine vicissitude, Beauty alternates with Grandeur; you ride through stony
hollows, along strait passes, traversed by torrents, overhung by high
walls of rock; now winding amid broken, shaggy chasms, and huge fragments;
now suddenly emerging into some emerald valley, where the streamlet
collects itself into a Lake, and man has again found a fair dwelling, and
it seems as if Peace had established herself in the bosom of Strength.

"To Peace, however, in this vortex of existence can the Son of Time not
pretend; still less if some Specter haunt him from the Past; and the
Future is wholly a Stygian Darkness, specter-bearing. Reasonably might the
Wanderer exclaim to himself: Are not the gates of this world's Happiness
inexorably shut against thee; hast thou a hope that is not mad?
Nevertheless, one may still murmur audibly, or in the original Greek if
that suit thee better: 'Whoso can look on death will start no shadows.'

"From such meditations is the Wanderer's attention called outward; for now
the valley closes in abruptly, intersected by a huge mountain mass, the
stony, water-worn ascent of which is not to be accomplished on horseback.
Arrived aloft, he finds himself again lifted into the evening sunset
light; and cannot but pause, and gaze round him, some moments there.

"An upland, irregular expanse of wold, where valleys in complex branchings
are suddenly or slowly arranging their descent toward every quarter of the
sky. The mountain-ranges are beneath your feet, and folded together; only
the loftier summits look down here and there as on a second plain; lakes
also lie clear and earnest in their solitude.

"No trace of man now visible; unless indeed it were he who fashioned that
little visible link of Highway, here, as would seem, scaling the
inaccessible, to unite Province with Province.

"But sunward, lo you! how it towers sheer up, a world of Mountains, the
diadem and center of the mountain region! A hundred and a hundred savage
peaks, in the last light of Day; all glowing, of gold and amethyst, like
giant spirits of the wilderness; there in their silence, in their
solitude, even as on the night when Noah's Deluge first dried!

"Beautiful, nay solemn, was the sudden aspect to our Wanderer. He gazed
over those stupendous masses with wonder, almost with longing desire;
never till this hour had he known Nature, that she was One, that she was
his Mother and divine.

"And as the ruddy glow was fading into clearness in the sky, and the Sun
had now departed, a murmur of Eternity and Immensity, of Death and of
Life, stole through his soul; and he felt as if Death and Life were one,
as if the Earth were not dead, as if the Spirit of the Earth had its
throne in that splendor, and his own spirit were therewith holding
communion.

"The spell was broken by a sound of carriage-wheels. Emerging from the
hidden Northward, to sink soon into the hidden Southward, came a gay
Barouche-and-four; it was open; servants and postilions wore
wedding-favors; that happy pair, then, had found each other, it was their
marriage evening! Few moments brought them near; _Du Himmel!_ It was Herr
Towgood and--Blumine!

"With slight unrecognizing salutation they passed me; plunged down amid
the neighboring thickets, onward, to Heaven, and to England; and I, in my
friend Richter's words, _I remained alone, behind them, with the Night_!"




THE ACTUAL HEIGHT OF SEA WAVES.

  Average in Different Oceans--Fifty-Two Feet the Height of the Tallest
  Billow Yet Measured--Not More Than Thirty Feet in North Atlantic.

Waves are the agents of tremendous force, as the batterings received by
the big ocean liners in the winter storms tend to prove. But in spite of
the stories told by timid or imaginative passengers on the Europe-America
ferry, the surges of the North Atlantic are not the highest waves nor the
most forcible. The most tremendous of seas are those that form south of
the Cape of Good Hope and Cape Horn, where the oceanic belt is unbroken by
land.

How high those southern waves rise has not been accurately measured, so
far as can be discovered; but probably they are not very much higher than
the waves farther north. Says the New York _Sun_:

    Sailors in modern times have never seen such waves as those
    which the early navigators declared attained heights of one
    hundred to one hundred and thirty feet. La Perouse asserted
    that he saw waves towering in the Pacific to a height of
    nearly two hundred feet. In these more scientific days we
    may say that the highest wave yet measured had an altitude
    of about fifty-two feet.

    This was in the southern ocean, a little north of the
    Antarctic regions; and it is quite certain that the highest
    waves ever seen in that region did not surpass fifty-eight
    feet in altitude. A wave of that height would certainly be a
    formidable looking object, and its crest would wash the
    windows of the fifth story of many New York buildings.

    The average height of the waves in different oceans has been
    ascertained with some approach to accuracy as the result of
    a great many measurements. The highest waves observed in the
    Indian Ocean, for example, are about forty feet. The highest
    waves in the North Atlantic are from twenty-five to
    twenty-nine feet, and in the Mediterranean from sixteen to
    nineteen feet.

    Even the smallest of these great waves has considerable
    destructive power. Some of them travel along at a speed of
    twenty-five miles an hour. A wave about thirty feet high
    contains thousands of tons of water, and when this immense
    force is dashed against any structure the ruin wrought is
    likely to be impressive.




BASEBALL BARDS "ON DECK."

  A Garland of Truly American Verse--Poems, New and Old, That Sing the
  Glories of the Great National Game.


THE OLD ENTHUSIAST.

By S.E. Kiser.

    There's a glad old-fashioned feeling stealing over me once more;
    I forget that I'm gray-headed and am verging on threescore;
    There are many weighty matters that my earnest care should claim--
    But come, old man, let's knock off and go out and see the game.

    Let's get a bag of peanuts, and be boys again and shout
    For the men who lam the leather and who line three-baggers out;
    Let's go out and root and holler, and forget that we have cares,
    And that still the world has markets which are worked by bulls and
        bears.

    Every year or two they tell us that baseball is out of date;
    But each spring it's back in fashion when they line up at the plate,
    When the good old, glad old feeling comes again to file its claim--
    When a man can turn from trouble and go out and see the game.

    I can feel the warm blood rushing through my veins again--hooray!
    See those slender pennants waving? Hear the umpire calling "Play!"
    Yah, you bluffer--no, you didn't--aw, say, umpire, that's a shame!
    What? Two strikes? Come off, you robber! Well, you're rotten all the
        same!

    Oh, if we'd a man like Anson or Dan Brouthers used to be,
    To hold down that first bag--say, what a corker that was! Gee!
    Go it! Slide, you chump--you've got to--never touched him! Yip! Hurrah!
    Say, that boy's a wonder--hold it! Ah, the dub, they've caught
        him--pshaw!

    Ever see John Ward as short-stop? There's the boy that had the head!
    Why, if we had him out yonder he would scare those fellows dead!
    And Mike Kelly--Whee-e-e! A beauty! Home run, sure as Brown's my name!
    Downed 'em nine to eight, by golly! Wasn't it a corkin' game?

    _Chicago Record-Herald_.


THE BOY WHO KEEPS THE BATS.

By Bide Dudley.


    Just see him stride from bench to plate--
         The boy who keeps the bats;
    With truly a majestic gait--
         The boy who keeps the bats.
    His clothes are old, his feet are bare,
    His face unwashed, unkempt his hair,
    He's still in pride a millionaire--
         The boy who keeps the bats.

    A most important man is he--
         The boy who keeps the bats;
    Possessed of great activity--
         The boy who keeps the bats.
    He knows each player by his name,
    His age, his weight, from whence he came,
    And just how long he's played the game--
         The boy who keeps the bats.

    He'll lug ten sticks and laugh with glee--
         The boy who keeps the bats.
    "De gang" regards with jealousy
         The boy who keeps the bats.
    Although he's not employed for pay,
    He "gets inside to see 'em play,"
    Which beats his former knot-hole way--
         The boy who keeps the bats.

    He knows each player's stick, you bet--
         The boy who keeps the bats.
    'Twould break his heart should he forget--
         The boy who keeps the bats.
    Whene'er a ball is knocked away,
    He throws them one with which to play,
    He's there for business ev'ry day--
         The boy who keeps the bats.

    He yells when worthy work is done--
         The boy who keeps the bats.
    He "hollers" after ev'ry run--
         The boy who keeps the bats.
    He's overjoyed at victory,
    And tells the other kids how "we"
    Won out as easily as could be--
         The boy who keeps the bats!

    _St. Joseph News_.


CASEY AT THE BAT.

BY PHINEAS THAYER.


    It looked extremely rocky for the Mudville nine that day;
    The score stood two to four, with but an inning left to play.
    So, when Cooney died at second, and Burrows did the same,
    A pallor wreathed the features of the patrons of the game.

    A straggling few got up to go, leaving there the rest,
    With that hope which springs eternal within the human breast,
    For they thought: "If only Casey could get a whack at that,"
    They'd put up even money now, with Casey at the bat.

    But Flynn preceded Casey, and likewise so did Blake,
    And the former was a puddin', and the latter was a fake,
    So on that stricken multitude a deathlike silence sat,
    For there seemed but little chance of Casey's getting to the bat.

    But Flynn let drive a "single," to the wonderment of all,
    And the much-despised Blakey "tore the cover off the ball."
    And when the dust had lifted, and they saw what had occurred,
    There was Blakey safe at second, and Flynn a-huggin' third.

    Then, from the gladdened multitude went up a joyous yell,
    It rumbled in the mountain-tops, it rattled in the dell;
    It struck upon the hillside and rebounded on the flat;
    For Casey, mighty Casey, was advancing to the bat.

    There was ease in Casey's manner as he stepped into his place;
    There was pride in Casey's bearing, and a smile on Casey's face.
    And when, responding to the cheers, he lightly doffed his hat,
    No stranger in the crowd could doubt 'twas Casey at the bat.

    Ten thousand eyes were on him as he rubbed his hands with dirt,
    Five thousand tongues applauded when he wiped them on his shirt;
    Then while the New York pitcher ground the ball into his hip,
    Defiance gleamed in Casey's eye, a sneer curled Casey's lip.

    And now the leather-covered sphere came hurling through the air,
    And Casey stood a-watching it in haughty grandeur there.
    Close by the sturdy batsman the ball unheeded sped--
    "That ain't my style," said Casey. "Strike one," the umpire said.

    From the benches, black with people, there went up a muffled roar,
    Like the beating of storm waves on a stern and distant shore.
    "Kill him! Kill the umpire!" shouted some one on the stand.
    And it's likely they'd have killed him had not Casey raised a hand.

    With a smile of Christian charity great Casey's visage shone;
    He stilled the rising tumult; he bade the game go on:
    He signaled to Sir Timothy, once more the spheroid flew;
    But Casey still ignored it, and the umpire said, "Strike two."

    "Fraud!" cried the maddened thousands, and echo answered "Fraud!"
    But one scornful look from Casey and the audience was awed.
    They saw his face grow stern and cold, they saw his muscles strain,
    And they knew that Casey wouldn't let that ball go by again.

    The sneer is gone from Casey's lip, his teeth are clenched in hate;
    He pounds with cruel violence his bat upon the plate.
    And now the pitcher holds the ball, and now he lets it go,
    And now the air is shattered by the force of Casey's blow.

    Oh, somewhere in this favored land the sun is shining bright;
    The band is playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light.
    And somewhere men are laughing, and somewhere children shout:
    But there is no joy in Mudville--mighty Casey has struck out.




FOIBLES OF LITERARY MEN.

Many qualities which would be regarded as censurable if possessed by
ordinary men and women are often regarded with a respect that is tinctured
with admiration when they are possessed by persons of genius.

There is scarcely an author or musician of note who has not been
distinguished by some foible that has excited the amusement of his
friends. In many instances these foibles afford an index to the character
of their victim. Some are natural, while others would seem to be the
result of some inexplicable affectation. Viewed in any light, however, all
are interesting.

    =Keats= liked red pepper on his toast.

    =Sardou= imagines he has a perpetual cold.

    =Dickens= was fond of wearing flashy jewelry.

    =Ernest Renan= wore his finger-nails abnormally long.

    =Walter Savage Landor= threw the dishes around to relieve
    his mind.

    =Edgar Allan Poe= slept with his cat. He was inordinately
    proud of his feet.

    =Alphonse Daudet= wore his eye-glasses when asleep. He did
    his best work when hungry.

    =Thackeray= used to lift his hat whenever he passed the
    house in which he wrote "Vanity Fair."

    =Thomas Wentworth Higginson= possesses a singular power over
    wild birds, and can easily tame them.

    =Alexandre Dumas=, the younger, bought a new painting every
    time he had a new book published.

    =Robert Louis Stevenson's= favorite recreation was playing
    the flute, in order, as he said, to tune up his ideas.

    =Robert Browning= could not sit still. With the constant
    shuffling of his feet holes were worn in the carpet.

    =Longfellow= enjoyed walking only at sunrise or sunset, and
    he said his sublimest moods came upon him at these times.

    =Washington Irving= never mentioned the name of his fiancée
    after her death, and if anybody else did so, he immediately
    left the room.

    =Nathaniel Hawthorne= always washed his hands before reading
    a letter from his wife. He delighted in poring over old
    advertisements in the newspaper files.

    =Macaulay= kept his closets crammed with elaborately
    embroidered waistcoats, and the more gaudy they were the
    better he liked them.

    =Disraeli= wore corsets. The older he grew, the greater
    became his desire to dress like a young man. He had a pen
    stuck behind each ear when writing.

    =F. Marion Crawford= carries his own stationery, pen, and
    ink, and never writes with any other. He has written every
    word of every novel with the same penholder.

    =Bjornson= kept his pockets full of the seeds of trees,
    scattering handfuls broadcast in his daily walks. He even
    tried to persuade his associates to do the same.

    =Darwin= had no respect for books as books, and would cut a
    big volume in two, for convenience in handling, or he would
    tear out the leaves he required for reference.

    =Zola= would pass whole weeks in the belief that he was an
    idiot. While in this state he wrote more than at any other
    time. He would never accept an invitation to dinner.

    =Oliver Wendell Holmes= used to carry a horse-chestnut in
    one pocket and a potato in another to ward off rheumatism.
    He had a great fondness for trees, and always sat under one
    when he could.

    =Voltaire=, as a preliminary to his day's work, would
    sharpen an even dozen lead pencils. He would untie and retie
    his stock whenever an idea concerning his work particularly
    pleased him.

    =Count Tolstoy= used to go barefoot and hatless the year
    round. He is fond of French perfumes, and keeps his linens
    scented with sachet powder. There is always a flower on his
    desk as he writes. Although rich, he wears the cheapest
    clothes he can buy.

    =Sir A. Conan Doyle=, even in the coldest weather, never
    wears an overcoat. When he gives an afternoon lecture he
    removes his vest and buttons his Prince Albert coat close to
    his body. He is a golf enthusiast, and spends all the time
    possible on the links.

    =Bret Harte=, when the inspiration was on him, would hire a
    cab for the night, and drive, without stopping, through the
    darkness until the struggle for ideas was over, and he grew
    calm enough to write. Nothing pleased him more than to be
    taken for an Englishman.




The World's Fastest Trains.

  Great Britain Leads in Speed, with France a Good Second, and the United
  States Only a Slow Third.--Some Passenger Statistics.

Speed is the magician that makes the world smaller. Compare the hourly
runs of the old stage-coaches with the hourly runs of the modern railroad
train, and we can figure without difficulty just how much the world has
shrunk in seventy-five years--though, as always happens in magic, the
shrinkage is apparent, not real. Motor cars now are made so powerful that
the fastest can go more than two miles in a minute--a speed which is not
yet considered practicable for ordinary travel. Railroad trains have made
phenomenal time over short distances, and there is one train which
regularly travels one hundred and eighteen and one-half miles at about
sixty miles an hour.

It is something of a surprise to learn that American trains are not the
fastest. England is first, with France second. The following article from
the New York _Sun_ gives the speed figures of the fastest trains of all
countries where good speed is made:

    The fastest regular long-distance run without stop in the
    world is on the Great Western, from London to Bristol, 118½
    miles in 120 minutes, or practically sixty miles an hour. In
    order to leave passengers at Bath a car is dropped from the
    train without stop, a time-saving device in operation on a
    number of European roads, though still unknown here.

    The longest run without stop made in any country is from
    London to Liverpool on the London and Northwestern, 201
    miles, made at the rate of fifty-four miles an hour. The
    next longest is on the Midland, from London to Leeds, 196
    miles, at the rate of fifty-two miles an hour.


    The Empire State Express.

    The train in this country coming nearest to these long runs
    without stop is the Empire State Express on the New York
    Central, from New York to Albany, 143 miles, at the rate of
    53 64-100 miles an hour; and the time of the same train to
    Buffalo, 440 miles in 500 minutes, is just a trifle faster
    than that of the Midland express from London to Glasgow,
    447 miles in 510 minutes. Each makes four regular stops. The
    Northwestern runs a train from London to Glasgow, 401½
    miles, in eight hours, making two stops.

    The Great Northern runs a train from London to Doncaster,
    156 miles, without stop, in 169 minutes, at the rate of 55½
    miles an hour, and the Great Central train runs over
    England's new road, from London to Sheffield, 165 miles, in
    170 minutes, better than 58 miles an hour, slipping a car at
    Leicester without stop.

    Such runs as that between London and Birmingham on the Great
    Western, a distance of 129¼ miles, made without stop in
    140 minutes, or at the rate of more than 55 miles an hour,
    are less remarkable; for this seems to be about the regular
    gait of many trains in England.

    These fast and long runs are common to all the trunk lines
    in England, while in the United States the fast runs are all
    confined to two roads, the New York Central and the
    Pennsylvania. Compared with many English fast runs, the time
    between New York and Washington and Boston is slow. The
    distance to the two cities from New York is about the same,
    and in both cases the fastest trains make it in five hours
    (or a little over, now, to Boston), or at 46 miles an hour.

    For runs of nearly 1,000 miles no country can show trains to
    compare with the New York and Chicago trains on the New York
    Central, the best trains making the 980 miles in 1,080
    minutes, or at 54 miles an hour. While this is not quite so
    fast as the time made by the fast trains from Paris to Lyons
    and Marseilles, the distance is twice as great as across
    France.


    Fast Time to Atlantic City.

    Coming to short runs and special summer trains, undoubtedly
    the fastest are from Camden to Atlantic City. Here some very
    fast time has been made over an ideal country for fast time
    by both the Reading and the Pennsylvania. The best Reading
    time is 56½ miles in 50 minutes, or 66 miles an hour, while
    the best Pennsylvania time is 59 miles at the rate of 64
    miles an hour.

    These constitute all the very fast regular trains in the
    United States. The fastest run in New England outside the
    Boston-New York run is from Boston to Portland at the rate
    of 44 miles an hour, and the showing is still poorer in the
    West and South. Chicago, in many respects the greatest
    railroad center in the world, has no fast trains outside the
    New York Central and Pennsylvania trains referred to.

    Throughout the West, though the best trains are very
    luxurious, the runs are all short, averaging about 30 miles
    between stations and the speed nowhere averages 40 miles an
    hour.

    Next to speed may be considered the frequency of trains,
    their appointments, etc. In this respect a still more
    pronounced difference appears in different countries with
    almost equal population.

    More trains leave the great South Terminal in Boston in one
    day than are moved in one direction on all the roads of
    Spain and Portugal in two weeks. From one terminal in London
    more trains leave daily than move in ten days to supply the
    whole population of Russia.


    The World's Largest Station.

    The South Terminal in Boston not only is the largest station
    in the world, but sends out daily more than 400 trains,
    nearly twice the number despatched from the Grand Central
    Station by the three roads starting from there. The next
    largest number sent from any station in this country is
    about 350 from the Boston and Maine terminal in Boston, and
    the next about 325 from the Broad Street Station,
    Philadelphia. Then come the Grand Central Station, New York,
    and the Reading Terminal, Philadelphia.

    But these figures do not equal those of the great London
    terminals. There one station sends out 700 trains daily, the
    greatest number from any one station in the world, and all
    of the twelve great terminals send out large numbers of
    trains.

    Including all suburban trains, and figuring on a mean
    average of winter and summer, the regular scheduled trains
    leave the four great centers in the following numbers daily,
    the figures being for all roads and approximately correct:
    New York city, 1,400; Boston, 1,000; Philadelphia, 850;
    Chicago, 850. No other American city has 400.


    Good Road-Beds Abroad.

    The road-bed and the operating equipment are better in
    England and some parts of France and Germany than in
    America, and, owing to the ever-prevailing precautions,
    accidents are only about one-fifth as frequent as in
    America. All the principal roads in England have two tracks
    and many main lines have four.

    In this respect Americans are making great improvements now,
    as the Pennsylvania is four-tracked from New York to
    Pittsburgh, and the New Haven from New York to New Haven,
    while the New York Central is three-tracked part of the way
    to Albany, and four-tracked from there to Buffalo.

    Turning to continental Europe it is found that France alone
    indulges in really fast trains, and possibly she is ahead
    even of England in the number of trains running regularly
    above fifty miles an hour. The greatest travel route on the
    Continent is from Paris south to Lyons, Marseilles, and the
    Mediterranean, and here are found fine and fast trains.

    The run from Paris to Marseilles, 585 miles, is made in 750
    minutes, with only six stops. Many of the shorter runs, such
    as from Paris to Calais, to the Belgian frontier, etc., are
    at the rate of from fifty-eight to sixty-two miles an hour
    for the regular schedule.


    Europe's Fast Averages.

    According to a German authority, the average speed of the
    fastest trains in Europe is as follows: French, fifty-eight
    miles an hour; English, fifty-five miles an hour, and
    German, fifty-one. As a matter of experience, fast trains
    are hard to find in Germany, and the service in this respect
    does not compare with France.

    It takes the fastest train 227 minutes to go from Berlin to
    Hamburg, 178 miles, which is 47½ miles an hour, and the
    "luxe" train, the one fast goer between Münich and Vienna,
    runs at only 45.60 miles an hour; but there are as a rule
    frequent trains throughout Germany and the service is good.

    For all the rest of Europe the speed drops to about 30 miles
    an hour for express trains. Italy is surprisingly slow. It
    takes the express 965 minutes to go from Turin to Rome, 413
    miles, or only 26 miles an hour, though the Milan-Rome
    express makes nearly 40 miles an hour.

    Between Rome and Naples, 155 miles, there are only four or
    five trains daily, the fastest at 34 miles an hour, while it
    takes 920 minutes to go 439 miles on the best train from
    Rome to Brindisi, a rate of less than 30 miles an hour.

    The express between Stockholm and Gothenburg, the two large
    cities of Sweden, barely makes 30 miles an hour. In the
    remaining continental countries the trains are even slower.




THE BEGINNINGS OF THINGS.


Sealing-wax in the present form was first noted in London in the middle of
the sixteenth century. A sort of earth was used by the ancient Egyptians
in sealing papers and documents. The Egyptians placed such earth on the
horns of cattle, and upon it was stamped the seal of the priest. Thus were
identified the cattle to be used in the sacrifices.


The diving-bell was not mentioned before the sixteenth century. Two Greeks
in that century (1538) gave an exhibition before Charles V, descending
into water of considerable depth in a large inverted kettle. They took
down with them burning lights. The men returned to the surface without
being wet. The light was still burning.


The Lombardians were the first to use effectual quarantine methods against
the plague and infectious diseases, and mention of a quarantine is made in
Lombardy and Milan in 1374, 1383, and 1399. Prior to that time Christian
communities resigned themselves to the visitation of the plague, regarding
it as a divine punishment.


J.H. Schultze, a German, obtained the first actual photographic copies (of
writing) in 1727; and to Thomas Wedgwood is due the honor of first
producing pictures on sensitized surfaces in 1802. Between 1826 and 1833
Louis Jacques Daguerre and Nicéphore Nièpce perfected the daguerreotype
process, the first practical photography. Their discovery was communicated
to the French Academy of Sciences in 1839.


The turkey is an American bird. Lucullus and the Epicureans did not know
about him. He was found in his wild state after Columbus's time. About a
hundred years after the discovery of America broiled young turkeys became
great delicacies on the Frenchman's table.


A telegraphic line, consisting of twenty-four wires, each representing a
letter, was established by Lesage, at Geneva, in 1774; and in the same
year Bishop Watson made experiments over a two-mile wire near London. In
Germany the invention is credited to Sommering--1809.

Cork was known to the Greeks and Romans, and was put to almost as many
uses as at present, although there is no mention in Rome of linoleum,
notwithstanding its Roman sound. Glass bottles, with cork stoppers, for
wine and beer did not come into use until the middle of the fourteenth
century.


Water-mills were used in the time of Julius Cæsar. In Roman times slaves
were condemned to the corn-mills, which were propelled by treads.
Afterward cattle were used. In the third and fourth centuries there were
as many as three hundred cattle-mills in Rome.


Corn-mills are often mentioned in the Bible. The original corn-mill much
resembled the modern druggist's pestle. Moses forbade corn-mills to be
taken in pawn, for that, he thought, was like taking a man's life in
pledge.


Joseph Henry was the first to construct electro-magnets in a useful form.
In 1832, at the Albany Academy, he succeeded in ringing a bell over a mile
of wire.


Wire was first beaten out by a hammer, but the artisans of Nuremberg, in
1350, began to draw it, which was the great step forward in that art.


The first camera-obscura was invented by Giambattista della Porta, an
Italian philosopher, during the latter half of the sixteenth century.


The first cologne was called Hungary water, from the country of its
invention. It was made from spirits of wine distilled upon rosemary.


Colored glass came from Egypt. The Egyptians carried the art to great
perfection apparently before history begins to tell of it.


Buckwheat began to be cultivated in England in 1597. It had been brought
into Europe from Asia one hundred years before.


Wall paper, with fancy colored figures, began to be used in 1620. The art
was developed thereafter largely by the French.




A RESCUED POEM.

  The Scrap Book Resurrects from Distressing Obscurity a Gem
  That Might Otherwise Have Been Lost to Posterity.

History records that in 1895 Langdon Smith, at that time connected with
the Sunday edition of the New York _Herald_, wrote the first few stanzas
of the following poem. They were printed in the _Herald_. Four years
later, having joined the staff of the New York _Journal_ in the interim,
Mr. Smith came across the verses among his papers, and, reading them over,
was struck with a sense of their incompleteness. He added a stanza or two,
and laid the poem aside. Later he wrote more stanzas, and finally
completed it and sent it in to Arthur Brisbane, editor of the _Evening
Journal_. Mr. Brisbane, being unable to use it, turned it over to Charles
E. Russell, of the _Morning Journal_. It appeared in the _Morning
Journal_--in the middle of a page of want "ads"! How it came to be buried
thus some compositor may know. Perhaps a "make-up" man was inspired with a
glimmer of editorial intelligence to "lighten up" the page.

But even a deep border of "ads" could not smother the poem. Mr. Smith
received letters of congratulation from all parts of the world, along with
requests for copies. The poem has been in constant demand; and it has been
almost unobtainable. Here for the first time it is given to the public in
a suitable position, with proper recognition--proof once more that the
true spark cannot long remain hid under a bushel.

Mr. Smith has caught a note of deep interest. He has linked evolution to
the theory of soul-transmigration--has translated Wordsworth's ode on
immortality into the terms of science. "The glory and the dream" come, not
from another world, but from the Paleozoic period, in which existed the
most ancient forms of life of which traces still remain. And the author
gives us glimpses of man in several geological periods, showing him,
finally, as the cave man of the Stone Age; whence it is comparatively a
short jump to the twentieth century--and Delmonico's.

EVOLUTION.

BY LANGDON SMITH.

    When you were a tadpole and I was a fish,
      In the Paleozoic time,
    And side by side on the ebbing tide
      We sprawled through the ooze and slime,
    Or skittered with many a caudal flip
      Through the depths of the Cambrian fen,
    My heart was rife with the joy of life,
      For I loved you even then.

    Mindless we lived and mindless we loved,
      And mindless at last we died;
    And deep in a rift of the Caradoc drift
      We slumbered side by side.
    The world turned on in the lathe of time,
      The hot lands heaved amain,
    Till we caught our breath from the womb of death,
      And crept into light again.

    We were Amphibians, scaled and tailed,
      And drab as a dead man's hand;
    We coiled at ease 'neath the dripping trees,
      Or trailed through the mud and sand,
    Croaking and blind, with our three-clawed feet
      Writing a language dumb,
    With never a spark in the empty dark
      To hint at a life to come.

    Yet happy we lived, and happy we loved,
      And happy we died once more;
    Our forms were rolled in the clinging mold
      Of a Neocomian shore.
    The eons came, and the eons fled,
      And the sleep that wrapped us fast
    Was riven away in a newer day,
      And the night of death was past.

    Then light and swift through the jungle trees
      We swung in our airy flights,
    Or breathed in the balms of the fronded palms,
      In the hush of the moonless nights.
    And oh! what beautiful years were these,
      When our hearts clung each to each;
    When life was filled, and our senses thrilled
      In the first faint dawn of speech.

    Thus life by life, and love by love,
      We passed through the cycles strange,
    And breath by breath, and death by death,
      We followed the chain of change.
    Till there came a time in the law of life
      When over the nursing sod
    The shadows broke, and the soul awoke
      In a strange, dim dream of God.

    I was thewed like an Auroch bull,
      And tusked like the great Cave Bear;
    And you, my sweet, from head to feet,
      Were gowned in your glorious hair.
    Deep in the gloom of a fireless cave,
      When the night fell o'er the plain,
    And the moon hung red o'er the river bed,
      We mumbled the bones of the slain.

    I flaked a flint to a cutting edge,
      And shaped it with brutish craft;
    I broke a shank from the woodland dank,
      And fitted it, head and haft.
    Then I hid me close to the reedy tarn,
      Where the Mammoth came to drink;--
    Through brawn and bone I drave the stone,
      And slew him upon the brink.

    Loud I howled through the moonlit wastes,
      Loud answered our kith and kin;
    From west and east to the crimson feast
      The clan came trooping in.
    O'er joint and gristle and padded hoof,
      We fought, and clawed and tore,
    And cheek by jowl, with many a growl,
      We talked the marvel o'er.

    I carved that fight on a reindeer bone,
      With rude and hairy hand,
    I pictured his fall on the cavern wall
      That men might understand.
    For we lived by blood, and the right of might,
      Ere human laws were drawn.
    And the Age of Sin did not begin
      Till our brutal tusks were gone.

    And that was a million years ago,
      In a time that no man knows;
    Yet here to-night in the mellow light,
      We sit at Delmonico's;
    Your eyes are deep as the Devon springs,
      Your hair is as dark as jet.
    Your years are few, your life is new,
      Your soul untried, and yet----

    Our trail is on the Kimmeridge clay,
      And the scarp of the Purbeck flags,
    We have left our bones in the Bagshot stones,
      And deep in the Coraline crags;
    Our love is old, our lives are old,
      And death shall come amain;
    Should it come to-day, what man may say
      We shall not live again?

    Then as we linger at luncheon here,
      O'er many a dainty dish,
    Let us drink anew to the time when you
      Were a Tadpole and I was a Fish.




A HOROSCOPE OF THE MONTHS.

BY MARION Y. BUNNER.

SECOND INSTALMENT.

  What the Old Astrological Traditions Say of the Characteristics and the
  Destiny of Those Born Under the Sign "Aries," Representing the Period Between
  March 21 and April 19.

_Compiled and edited for_ THE SCRAP BOOK.


ARIES: THE RAM.

MARCH 21 to APRIL 19.

CUSP: MARCH 21 to MARCH 27.

The constellation "Aries"--the first sign of the zodiac, and the head sign
of the Fire Triplicity--exerts its influence from March 21 to April 19,
the period coinciding with the first month of the Roman year. It is a
cardinal, equinoctial, movable, masculine sign, the positive pole of the
Fire Triplicity, governing the face and head. The most typical attributes
of its subjects are unfailing courage, intuition, and reason.

A person born during the period of the cusp, when the sun is on the edge
of the sign, does not receive the full benefits of the individuality of
either sign, but partakes of the characteristics of both.

Persons born under this sign are positive, obedient, yet with a faculty
for commanding, paradoxical as this may appear. They are also inventive,
original, determined, and executive. Once the mind of an Aries subject is
made up, nothing can swerve him from the course he has determined to
pursue. Before undertaking any new enterprise, his habit is to study the
entire situation carefully, thereby discovering and profiting by many
seemingly minor, yet in the end important, points which would probably
have escaped the ordinary individual.

Aries people are good conversationalists, having keen intellects. Many
fine writers, poets, lecturers, and teachers come out of this sign.

They are aggressive and excitable, oftentimes going to extremes in their
excitement, and they are apt to show too much antagonism. They enter a
fight to win, and nothing can induce them to back out of it. The Aries
woman has the same fighting spirit, and stands by her friends to the end,
no matter what the circumstances may be.

The subjects of Aries are easily angered, but the fire is quickly
quenched, leaving behind no sting or grudge. They are generous,
sympathetic, and kindly, and so much do they think of their friends that
they will never acknowledge a comrade's faults. On the other hand, they
never fail to see the failings of their enemies and to speak of them in no
uncertain terms.

The traits of Aries people are perhaps more varied and peculiar than those
of any other of the twelve signs. They are not naturally patient, yet they
are extremely so with those they love.

The Aries man is usually well-built, strong, and tall.

According to some authorities, the short, broad-shouldered subjects are
much more fortunate in making money than are the tall ones. They have
intellectual eyes, a ruddy complexion. Their foreheads are broad at the
eyebrows. The eyes are generally deep set. They are more than willing to
work for what they want to secure.

The success of an Aries subject depends upon the way in which he uses his
splendid energy, action, systematic endeavor, and finally upon his
determination to stick at the work in hand and push it to completion.


Faults Are Impatience and Anger.

The chief faults of the Aries people are impatience, anger, selfishness,
and fickleness, together with a tendency to extreme aggressiveness. The
physical temperament of the subject will be nervous-sanguine if born in a
southern climate, and bilious-sanguine if born in a northern latitude.

When Aries and Sagittarius people are united, astrologists declare that a
happy domestic life is certain. The children will be physically fine,
their nature still finer, and their intellect of the highest order.

Aries children should be very carefully and tenderly brought up. They can
be readily managed only through kindness and love. In fact, Aries children
seem to demand a constant expression of love. They crave a just
appreciation of any little task they may perform.

It is most important that an Aries child be not overpraised, for in so
doing his higher development is certain to be arrested.

The ruling planets of the month are Mars and Neptune, and the gems are
sapphire, turquoise, and diamond. The astral colors are blue, white, and
pink. An old rhyme says:

  Those who in April date their years,
  Diamonds should wear, lest bitter tears
        For vain repentance flow.


Traditions of the Month.

For Aries people, Tuesday is the most fortunate day of the week, and June
and July the most favorable months in which to bring any business
transactions to a successful issue. It is well for an Aries subject to
endeavor to carry out the most important business interests during these
months.

The flower emblematic of Aries is the amaryllis, signifying unbending
pride. The ancient Hebraic tribe over which the sign has ruled is that of
Gad, and the ruling angel of the sign is Machidial.

In the old Roman reckoning, April was the second month, but it is counted
in the Julian calendar as the fourth. The traditional derivation of the
name is _omnia aperit_--"it opens everything." Among the Romans, this
month was sacred to Venus. The first twenty days were given over to
feasts, games, and equestrian combats. On the 21st, which was regarded as
the birthday of Rome, the wine of the previous autumn was first tasted; on
the 25th, the ceremony of the Robigalia, for the averting of mildew, and
on the last three days came the "Dance of the Flowers."

The 1st of April has long been a day for the playing of practical jokes.
According to an old tradition, this custom had its origin in the belief
that it was on the first day of April that Noah sent his dove on its
fruitless search for evidence of the subsidence of the flood. The dove got
back without an olive-branch, but there is no evidence on which to base
the belief that Noah regarded the failure of the bird's mission as a joke.

Singularly enough, the great day for practical joking in Hindustan is
March 31.

It is usually in the month of April, too, that Easter falls. The word
"Easter" is of Saxon derivation. Among the Teutonic races, April was
called Ostermonath--the month of the east wind. Our Easter Sunday must be
between March 21 and April 25. It is regulated by the occurrence of the
paschal moon, or first full moon between the vernal equinox and fourteen
days afterward.

Though it has long been the custom to make Easter Day the occasion of the
celebration of the resurrection of Christ, there is no trace of such a
celebration in the New Testament or in the writings of the Apostolic
Fathers.

St. George's Day is the 23d of the month, and St. Mark's Eve, with its
superstition about those who were doomed to die, falls on the 24th.

A good type of the aggressiveness, independence, singleness of purpose,
and strength of character of the Aries people is the Rev. Dr. Charles H.
Parkhurst. Bismarck was an excellent illustration of the dogged
determination and fighting characteristics of the sign.





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