to
HENRY A. PARSONS, Jr., Editor and Publisher.
NIL DESPEKANDUM.
Two Dollars per Annum.
VOL. XII.
RIDGWAY, ELK COUNTY, PA., TIIUESDAY, AUGUST 31. 1882
NO. 28.
The Tryst.
There was not a cloud in the deep bine sSy,
Nor a foaming crest on the sea
The winds were asleep, in the arms of the deep,
And their breath came noiselessly.
The soft sweet rays of the harvest moon,
The heaving waters kissed,
And the light was shed on the Abbey head,
And the tombstones that watch the quiet dead.
And in calm I kept our try
The blank black sky, and the blank black sea,
Blent in the angry night ;
The wild winds met, where the waters fret,
In a belt of luminous light.
They thundered along the hollow strand,
Where the rain like a python hissed
And near and fur, from rock and scar,
Rang the mighty challenge of Nature's war,
And in storm I kept our tryst.
White, weird and ghastly crept the fog,
Over river, and moor, and coast ;
Each fast-moored boat, on the harbor afloat,
Loomed like a threatening ghost.
The sea lay muttering sullenly,
Under the veiling mist j
And the buoy-boll ring, with its ominous
tongue,
Where the tido on the lip of the rock was flung, j
Ana m gloom I kept our tryst.
For while holy grief and loving trust.
With mo kept watch together,
I reckon not, I, of sea or sky j
, Onr hearts hold tranquil weather.
So I know, in the royal right of love, '
I may claim you, and I list j
Bo my hand may reach, in its Bilent speech,
To the spirit grouting where each meets each,
In faith I kept our tryst.
All the Year Hound.
A WOOING 3Y PROXY.
She is leaning back in a deep crim
son chair, with a white dress sweeping
in long shining folds about her. She
is talking to two or three men with
. mat rauier weary grace ne has grown
' accustomed to see in her, and which is
! so different from the joyous smiles of
the Jeanne de Beaujen whom he had
. loved so long ago. He is watching her
;from the opposite Bide of the salon as
he stands beside his hostess, and he
tells himself it is for the last time. He
is going to lier presently and he knows
just how coldly she will raise the dark
eyes that once never met his without
conressing that she loved him. He
Knows just what he will say and what
she will answer, and there is no need
of haste in this last scene of his tragedy.
"A man should know when he is
beaten," he is thinking, while he smiles
yaguely in reply to Madame DeSoule's
commonplaces. "There is more stu
pidity than courage in not accepting a
.defeat while there is yet time to retreat
with some dignity. For six weeks I
have shown her, with a directness that
has, I dare say, been amusing to our
mutual friends, that after ten years'
.absence my only object in returning to
jParis is her society. She cannot avoid
meeting me in public, but she has
iBteadily refused to receive me when I
call upon her or to permit me a word
,with her alone. I have been a fool to
forget that all these years in which I
have regretted her she has naturally
despised me, but at least it is not just
jof her to refuse me a hearing." The
:monent he has been waiting for is
come. The little court about her dis
perses until there is but one man be
side her, and she glances around with
a look of mild appeal against the con
.tinaaace of his society.
De Palissier has escaped from his
hostess in an instant, and the next he
i3 murmuring, with the faintest sus
picion of a tremor in his voice, " Will
Madame De Miramon permit me a
dance?"
" Thanks, M. De Palissier, but I am
not dancing this evening," she replies,
with exactly the glance and tone he
expects.
" Will madaine give mo a few mo
ments serious conversation ?" and this
time the tremor is distinct, for even
the nineteenth century horror of melo
drama cannot keep a man's nerves
quite steady when he is asking a ques
tion on which his whole future de
pends. "One does not come to balls for
serious conversation " she begins,
lightly.!
"Whjere may I come, then?" he in
terrupts, eagerly.
, "Nowhere. There is no need for
serhJus conversation between us, M. De
, Palissier," she replies, haughtily, and
rising she takes the arm of the much-
' edilied gentleman beside her and moves
faway.
It is all as he has prophesied to him-
' self, and yet for a moment the lights
' swim dizzily before him and the pas-
sionate sweetness ot that btrauss waltz
the band is playing stabs his heart like
a knife. For a moment he does not
realize that he is standing quite mo
tionless, gazing, with despair in his
eyes, after Madame De Miramon's
'slender white-clad figure, and that two
,or three people, who have seen and
heard, are looking at him with that
amused pity which sentimental ca
tastrophes always inspire in the spec
tators. Some one touches his arm presently
with her fan, and with a start he
comes to himself and recognizes Lu
cille De Beaujen, the young sister of
Madame De Miramon, whom he re
members years ago as a child, and with
whom he has danced several times this
winter.
"And our waltz, monsieur?" she
asks, gayly. " Do not tell me you have
forgotten it. That is evident enough,
but you should not admit it."
"Mllle pardons, mademoiselle," he
mutters, hurriedly.
" I am very good to-night," she says,
putting her hand on his mechanically
extended arm. "Though the waits is
half over, there is still time for you to
get me as ice."
So they make their way through the
salon, she talking lightly .and without
pausing for a reply, while he, vaguely
frateful to her for extricating him
torn an awkward position, wonders
also that she should care to be so kind
to a man whom her sinter has treated
with such marked dislike.
The refreshment-room Is almost
empty, and she seats herself and mo
tions him to a chair beside her when
he has brought her an ice.
" Do you think, M. le Marquis, that
it was only to eat ices with you that I
have forced my society so resolutely
upon you?" she asks, with a look of
earnestness very rare on her bright,
coquettish face.
" I think you an angel of compas
sion to an oia inena or your child
hood, Mademoiselle Lucille " ..
" It was compassion, but more for
my sister than for you," she says,
graveiy.
" Your sister!" he echoes." bitterly,
" It has not occurred to me that Madame
Do Miramon is in need of compassion
and yours is too sweet to be wasted "
Chut, monsieur," she interrupted.
" i orget that I am as fond of pretty
speeches as most young women and
think of me only as Jeannie De Mira
mon s sister, who believes that much
as she loves her. you love her even
more
For the second time this evening De
Palissier forgets possible observers
and clasps both the girl's slender hands
in his, as he murmurs, unsteadily, "God
bless you I"
" 1 ou forget that we have an audi
ence, monsieur," she says, withdraw
ing her hands quickly, but with
smile of frank comradeship. "I have
a story to tell you, and not much time
to tell it in. Years ago, when Jeanne
left her convent on becoming fiancee
to M. De Miramon, she met you at her
first ball, and you loved each other. It
was very foolish, for you were a cadet
of your house and only a sous-lieuten
ant, ana Jeanne had not a sou, so both
the families were furious ; but all
would have ended as well as a fairy
tale if you had been reasonable. Jeanne
met you time after time in secret, and
promised any amount of patience, but
hue wouia not run away and marry
you in defiance of her parents ;
so you tormented her with
doubts and shamed her with
suspicions until she dreaded those se
cret meetings almost as much as she
longed for them. At last, after making
a more violent quarrel than usual, you
exchanged from your regiment at
Versailles to one in Algiers, and left
her no refuge from the reproaches of
our father and mother but to marry
M. de Miramom. He might have re
fused to marry her after hearing her
confess, as she did, that she had eriven
her heart to you, and that only vour
desertion had induced her to consent to
their marriage. But he did not; he
had a better revenge than that. He
married her, and for eight years he
tortured her in every way that a jeal
ous and cruel man can torture a proud
pure woman. He opened all her let
ters, he made spies of her servants, and
not a day passed that he did not make
some mention of your name. Our pa
rents died within a few months of the
marriage, and I was at my convent.
There was nothing to be done with her
misery but endure it, knowing that she
owed it all to your impatience. Can
you wonder that she is unforgiving?"
He is leaning on the small table
between them with folded arms and
down-bent eyes, and he is very pale,
even through the bronze of ten African
summers.
" I loved her always " he says, al
most inauuiDly; then pauses; nor does
he finish his sentence, though she
waits for him to do so.
"You loved her? You could not
have wrecked her life more utterly if
you naa natea her. can you wonder
that she has grown to fear the thought
of love that has been so cruel to her as
yours and her husband's? Monsieur
my brother-in-law died two years ago
jou is so gooar continues .Lucille,
fiercely. " Since then Jeanne has been
at peace, and she shrinks with absolute
terror from disturbing the calm which
lias come to her after such storms. She
fears you, she avoids you. because
shall I tell you why ?"
She can Bee his lips quiver even
under the heavy mustache, but he
neither speaks nor raises his eyes.
one loves you," murmurs .Lucille.
just aloud.
lie lifts his eyes now and looks at
her dumbly for an instant, then, rising
abruptly, waiKS away.
"Jiaties beaux yeux, mon Dieul"
she thinks, witli a thrill of wonder
that Jeanne should have had the
courage to refuse him anything in the
days when they were young together.
lie comes back presently.
" My child," he says, very gently.
" do not try to make me believe that,
unless you are very sure, for if I once
believe it again, I I "
lam as sure as that I live that
Jeanne has never ceased to love you.
and that you can force her to confess
it if you will make love to me."
"I? You? You are laua-hino- at
me!" with a rush of color into his dark
i ace.
"Do you think bo ill of Jeanne's
sister?" she asks, softly.
" Pardon. I am scarcely myself, and
I cannot imagine how "
"Jeanne will not receive you be
cause she knows her heart and is afraid
of it. She fears that you will destroy
the hard-won peace she values bo
highly. But you are wealthy, dis
tinguished, the head of your name a
very different person from what you
were ten years ago, and she can find
no reason for refusing you as my
suitor if I consent, and as my chape
ron she must be present at all our
meetings. You begin to understand?
Make her see that your love is not all
Jealousy; make ber remember make
ler regret."
"But, forgive me, when one has
loved a woman for ten years," with a
faint smile, "there is no room la one's
heart for even a pretense at loving an
"; If there were, monsieur, I atiould
never have proposed my plot," i he re
plies, with dignity.: "It is because I
have watched you all these weeks, and
know that your love is worthy of my
sister, that I trust you. But it is not
with one's heart that one pretends.
Eiflnt it is with you to consent or de
cline "Decline!" he echoes, with a pas
sion none the less intense for its quiet
ness. " Does a dying man decline his
last chance of life, however desperate
it may oer
The next week is full of bitter
surprises to the proud and pa
tient woman, whose pathetic cling
ing to her new-found peace Lucille so
weu understands. Though it is long
since she has permitted herself to re
member anything of the lover of her
youth except his jealousy, she has be
lieved in his faithfulness as utterly as
she dreaded it, and when she receives
De Palissier's note asking the consent
of -his old friend to his love for her
sister, the pain she feels bewilders and
dismays her. With a smile whose
cynicism is as much for herself as for
him, she gives the note to Lucille, ex
pecting an instant rejection of the man
whose motive in pursuing them they
nau uom so misunaerstooa. nut with
a gay laugh, "Then my sympathy has
Deen without cause," the girl cries,
" By all means let him come, my Jeanne.
It cannot wound you, who have long
ago ceaseu to regret mm : out he Is
the best parti in Paris, and tres bel
homme for his ago."
It is quite true there can be no ob
jection to the wealthy and distinguished
aiarquis de .Falissier If .Lucille is will
ing none but the pain at her heart
which she is ashamed even to confess
to herself. So a note is written fixing
an nour lor his nrst visit, ana Jladame
De Miramon prepares herself to meet
the man whom she last saw alone in
all the passionate anguish of a lover's
quarrel. Is this wild nutter in her
throat a sign of the peace she has re
solved to possess? Thank God! she
can at least promise herself that what
ever she may suffer, neither he nor
Lucille shall guess it.
There is a sound of wheels in the
courtyard, and she rises, with a hasty
glance at her fair reflection in a
mirror.
His old friend !" she murmurs.
scornfully. " I dare say I look an old
woman beside Lucille."
Then she turns with a look of grace
ful welcome, for the door i3 thrown
open, and a servant announces:
"M. le Marquis do Palissier." j
"Nothing could give me greater
pleasure than to receive as my sister's
suitor the old friend of whom the
world tells me such noble things." She
utters her little speech as naturally as
though she had not rehearsed it a dozen
times, and hold3 out her pretty hand
to mm.
To her surprise ho does not take it.
How should she guess that he dares
not trust himself to touch calmly the
hand he would have risked his life to
kiss any time these ten years ?
" 1 ou are too good, madame," he
replies, very low ; and she reflects that
he is of course a little embarrassed.
" I am afraid you had much to forgive
in inose uays so long ago, but time,
trust, has changed me."
" It would be sad indeed if time did
not give us wisdom and coldness in
exchange for all it takes from us," she
says, with a quick thrill of pain that
he should speak of ten years as if it
were an eternity.
" Not coldness," he exclaimed, com
ing nearer, and looking at her with
eyes that make her feel a girl again.
it you couia see my heart, you "
"May I enter, my sister?" asks the
gay voice of Lucille, as she appears
from behind the portiere at so for
tunate a moment for the success of her
plot that it is to be feared she had
been eavesdropping.
De Palissier turns at once and
presses her hand to his lips.
"Mademoiselle," he says, tenderly,
" I am at your feet."
Then begins a charming little comedy
of love-making, in which Lucille plays
her role with pretty coquetry, and he
with mnnite zeal.
And the chaperon bends over her
lace-work and hears the caressing
tones sue tnougnt sne had forgotten,
and sees the tender glances she im
agined she had ceased to regret all
given to her young sister in her unre
garded presence. Dear God! how is
she to keep the peace she so prays for.
if her future is to be haunted by this
ghost from her past? She is very pa
tient and used to Buffering, but at
length she can endure no longer, and
not daring to leave the room she
moves away to a distant writing-table,
where she is at least beyond hearing
There is an instant pause between
the conspirators, and while De Palis
sier's eyes wistfully follow Madame De
Miramon, Lucille seizes her opportu
nity with a promptness that would
have done credit to a Richelieu or a
Talleyrand, or any other prince of
schemers.
"Courage, monsieur F she mur
murs, "ishe has been cold to. me
ever since your note came. Von
would make a charming jeune
premier at the Francais, only when
you say anything very tender, do re
member to look at me instead of
J eanne." And she breaks into a lau gh
so utterly amused that he
laughs too, and the sound of their
mirth causes an odd blot in the eoor
chaperon's writing.
A month has dragged by, wretched
ly enough both to the conspirators and
their victim, and, like all things earthly,
has come to an end at last. Even Lu
eijle's energy could not keep De Palis
sier to his role if he did not believe
that in surrendering it he must give
up the bitter-sweet of Jeanne's dailv
presence, which, even in its supreme
Indifference, has become the one charm
of life to him. Madame De Mlramnn
arid her sister are Bpendinga week at hef
villa nearParis, and De; Palissier, who
is to accompany them -on a riding
party, has arrived a little late, and finds
both sisters already In the courtyard,
with some horses and grooms, when he
enters. Lucille comes to him at once
as he dismounts, with a look of alarm
instead of her usual coauetrv.
"Do not let Jeanne ride Etoile," she
says, anxiously, "bhe has thrown
Uuillaume this morning."
Madame De Miramon is standing
beside an old groom, who is holding
'uo worse ui question, una sne aoes not
look at her sister or De Palissier as
they approach. .- -
"Let me ride Etoile and take my
norse to-aay, maaame," ue .falissier
says, eagerly. "I should like to
master a horse who has thrown so ex
cellent a groom as Guillaume." -
"So should I," she says, with a hard
little laugh, and she steps on the block.
"jeannei" cries imcuie.
" I entreat you for your sister's sake,
She will be terribly alarmed," De Pal
issier says, hurriedly.
" Then you must console her. The
greater her alarm, the greater your de-'
lightful task, monsieur," and she looks
at him with a defiant pain in her eyes
like a stag's at bay. "I shall ride
Etoile."
" Then I say that you shall not," he
answers, putting his arm across the
saddle, and meeting her eyes with a
sudden blaze of command in his.
For an instant they gaze at each
other in utter forgetfulness of any
other presence than their own. then
she springs from the block and comes
close to him. -
"I hate you! she gasps, and turn.
Ing, gathers up her habit in one hand
and runs into the house, swiftly fol
lowed by De Palissier. In the salon
she faces him, with a gesture of pas
sionate pnae.
" .Leave me!' she says. "I forbid
you to speak to me."
lie Is very pale, but the light of tri
umph is in his eves, and like most men.
uemg triumphant, ne is cruel.
" by do you hate me?" he asks,
imperiously.
" I beg your pardon," she stammers.
dropping the eyes which she knows are
betraying her. " I should have said-
" l ou should have said. ' I love vou.' "
he murmurs, coming close to her and
holding out his arms. " Docs it hurt
you that I should know it at last, I who
have loved you all theso years? '
uui .Lucille," she lalters. moving
away irom him, out with eyes that
f . . . ... . .
slnno and lips that quiver with bewil
dered joy.
".Never mind Lucille," cries that
young lady, very cheerfully, from the
doorway. " It has been all a plot for
your happiness, my Jeanne, which
would never have succeeded if you had
known your sister as well as she knew
you. To think that I would be con
tent with the wreck of any man's heart !
jt done! when my day comes,
'"Like Alexander, I will reign,
And I will reign alone.' "
Harper's Weekly.
Treeless Regions.
The steppes of Asia are the grand
est of all in extent and perhaps the
most varied in character; for not only
are the vast areas of that nearly level
and treeless country which lie along
the northern and northwestern side of
all the great central elevated mass of
that continent usually designated as
steppe, but a large part of that central
region itself is described under that
name by recent eminent geographical
authorities, so that we may include in
the various forms of steppe existing in
Itussia and Central Asia the grass
covered plains of the lower regions,
and the almost entirely bren valleys
lying between the various mountain
ranges which are piled up over so large
a portion of high Asia. Absence of
trees is the essential feature in both
the "steppe" and the "high steppe,"
as theso regions have been and may
perhaps with propriety be designated,
but the lower regions are in large part
well covered with grass, and suitable
for occupation by a pastoral people, de
pendent chiefly for the means of suste
nance on their flocks and herds,
while the higher valleys are almost
uninhabitable, very sparsely covered
with a Bcrubby vegetation, and both
too cold and too dry to offer any at
fractions except to the adventurous
geographical explorer, who has still
much to accomplish on the great
plateau of high Asia before its topog
raphy and natural history will have
been anything like satisfactorily made
out.Jeven in their most general fea
tures. The vastness of the area which
may be designated as a steppe on the
Asiatic continent is almost overwhelm
ing. .Nearly half of the 18,000,000
square miles which Asia covers is es
sentially a treeless region, and perhaps
a half of that half belongs to the high-
steppe division, in which cold and
dryness are the predominant character
istics. From the fact that the steppes
of Russian Asia have been longer
known and more written about
than any others in the
world, the term steppe has been
most ordinarily applied to similar
areas in other countries. This is es-
ecially the case because such a use of
he word has been sanctioned bv Hum
boldt, who was the first to draw popu
lar attention to this variety of surface
as a feature of importance in physical
geography. In North America, where
the treeless regions occupy so large an
area, and where many of the physical
conditions so closely resemble those
prevailing on the Asiatic continent, the
use or me term steppe has never been
introduced among the people. Here, in
fact, the character of the surface and
distribution of vegetation over it, as
well as its climatological peculiarities,
have all been more satisfactorily and
fully made out than in Asia, in spite of
the fact that the latter country has
been bo much longer an object of sci
entific study.
1 PMNCES9 OF ROMANCE.
Tk. St.ry f Ike Wld.tr of th. Lut Elector
f Hem.
The London Telegraph says: Of
the strange life stories that may be
gleaned from that portion of the " Al-
manach de Gotha" dealing with dynas
tic and personal facts, few are more
romantic than that which has just been
concluded by the demise of Gertrude
von Hanau, the widow of the last
elector of Hesse. Her titular descrip
tion.taken from the German civilstands-
register, or official obituary record, is in
itself the skeleton of a three-volume
novel. It runs as follows: "Gertrude,
Princess of Hanau, Countess of
Schaumburg, neeFalkenstein, divorcee
.Lehman."
This interesting personage, who died
a snort time ago at 1'rague. in her sev
enty-seventh year, was the daughter of
a weu-to-ao wine merchant established
at Bonn about the commencement of
the present century. Endowed by na
ture with extraordinary personal at
tractions, she. had several offers of
marriage while still in her teens, and
oestowea her hand, some fifty-
eignt years ago, ..upon a young
I'russian paymaster called .Leu-
mann, then serving in the
Seventh lancers, a regiment Quar
tered at Marienwcrder, in West Prus
sia. Shortly after ber union to this
person she paid a visit to her parents
in her native town, and during her
stay with them made the acquaintance
oi ijreaencK William, electoral prince
of Hesse and a captain of Prussian
cavalry in garrison at Bonn. The
young officer, who had quitted his
father's court in consequence of
quarrel with the reigning elector's
"friend," Countess Reichenbach, and
was, oddly enough, notorious for his
disapproval of princely peccadilloes,
ieu uesperateiy in love with "Mrs,
Captain Lehmann," and soon proposed
to make practical recantation of his
high principles in her favor,. by carry
ing her off from her husband. The
fair Gertrude, however, promptly gave
him to understand that her views were
exclusively matrimonial. She was, in
deed, already a wife, but suggested to
ins sercno nignness that her husband,
Lehmann. was a sensible and
manageable fellow, open to reasons of
a certain sort, and that in all proba
bility a uttie juaicious persuasion
would convince him of the expediency
of parting with his handsome spouse
for a consideration. Negotiations were
opened between the husbands in esse
and in posse, resulting in a hard cash
transaction, whereby Lehmann became
the happy possessor of $75,000. Having
lucnei,eu uus comiortauie little com-
ucusauon ne proceeuea to institute a
divorce suit against his wife upon the
plea of " incompatibility of tempera
ment,' ana as soon as the degree of
scUeiuung had been pronounced. fier-
trude Falkenstein, ex-Lehmann. was
led to the altar by her " all-serenest "
:j i. - f . . .
siuiur, who a iew months later con
ferred upon her the title of Countess
von Schaumburg. The wedding took
place in the autumn of 1831, the year in
which popular discontent with the
elector William's regime in Hesse com
pelled that singularly dissolute poten
tate to nominate his son co-regent a
step which practically amounted to his
ibmeation in favor of Frederick Wil
liam. Frau von Schaumburg. there
fore at that time in the zenith of her
beauty had not long to wait for the
position and power to which she had
aspired when she resolved to part from
the husband of her girlhood's choice.
who, by the way, had been compelled
to throw up his commission in the Prus
sian service by his brother officers, and
vanished into dishonorable obscurity
with the price of his infamy. When she
took up her abode, however, in the Hes
sian capital her new mother-in-law, the
electress an aunt of the present Ger
man emperor refused to sit in the
same box with her at the court thea
tre, whereupon Frederick William
gave orders that his mother should
thenceforth not be admitted to that
place of entertainment. Toward the
end of the year the aged electress, ig
noring her son's prohibition, paid a
visit to the theatre one evening, and
was enthusiastically cheered by the au
dience upon her appearance in a pri
vate box. This demonstration was
continued in the streets when she left
the house, and led to the populace
being charged by the elector's body
guard, with drawn sabers, at his se
rene highness express command. The
Hessians never forgave their elector
for giving this barbarous order. By
causing his subjects to be riddon and
cut down for cheering his own mother
a venerable and deeply respected
princess Frederick William utterly
destroyed his popularity in the realm of
his ancestors. Between 1831 and 1850
Countess Schaumburg bore her hut.
band seven sons and two daughters.
Early in the latter year she was created
Princess of Hanau by the emperor of
Austria, on tho elector s death in
1875 she inherited the whole of his
enormous fortune, invested in state
securities and railwcy stock, which
will be divided among her eight surviv
ing children, the youngest of whom
is a lieutenant in the Fourth regiment
of Austrian lancers.
Flaying for Their Fingers.
The Malays have at all times been
addicted to gambling. In those davs.
in Ceylon, they would " play away the
ends of their fingers " over the draught
board. They would sit down with a
fire burning, whereon was set a pot of
wainui or sesame on, while beside it
lay a small hatchet with an exceed
ingly sharp edge. The loser placed his
hand upon a stone, and the winner
chopped off a joint, when the mutilated
finger was plunged into the boiling oil
and thereby cauterized. Some men,
fond of the game, but unskillful or un
lucky, had every finger shorn of its tip.
Ali th Ytar Round.
Coronations.
The present czar of Russia, attei
having announced that his coronation
would take place with great pomp a(
Moscow, in the middle or August, sud
denly postponed the ceremony to an
indefinite period. Several reasons werd
alleged for this singular decision. It
was said that the health of the czarina
was such as to make it necessary to
postpone it. It was declared that the
czar was unwilling to mark the occa
sion with concessions as to Russian
land, which the peasants expected and
demanded.';- Finally it was gravely
whispered that the czar feared to be
crowned, lest such an event would give
the .Nihilists an opportunity to attempt
his UfeTThe latter surmise is a very
likely one. It Is known that the author-
it ies of Moscow h av e plainly told the czar
that if he was crowned in that city
they could not answer for the preser
vation of order or for his personal
safety. Preparations to attempt the
czar's life - have been detected in the
ancient capital of Muscovy ; and more
than one plot to murder him on the
lay of coronation has been unearthed.
It may be that the Czar Alexander
III. will never be crowned. But this
is merely the omission of a traditional,
but after all, an empty ceremony. It
aoes not aaa at all to a monarch s au
thority to rule to be crowned. It is
merely a matter of historic pomp and
pageantry; it confers no new right or
prerogative. Many sovereigns have
reigned through long periods and have
aiea uncrowned.
Coronation is, indeed, a very ancient
as well as a very imposing rite. It is'
known, for instance, that Solomon was
crowned with great display; and it is
probable that the Assyrian and Egyp
tian kings were all crowned. Corona
tion, too, in almost every country and
period has been a sacred as well as a
political ceremony. The head of the
sovereign has been anointed with oil.
which signifies his consecration to the
Bervice of God as well as of the
state.
The old Saxon kings ot England
were wont to be crowned, not at Lon
don, but in the ancient and august
cathedral of Winchester, or in that
lovely riverside town, Kingston-on-Thames.
Since the time of the Nor
man kings, however, the sovereigns of
England have always been crowned in
Westminster Abbey ; and since the
time of Edward the First each sov
ereign has been crowned on the same
throne, beneath which rests the "Stone
of Destiny" brought from Scotland by
the great Edward
It was formerly the custom in Eng
land to date the reign of a
king from the day, not of his
accession, but of " his coronation.
Between these two events the sovereign
was called "Lord of England," not
king, which title he only assumed after
he had been duly crowned. This was
the case both with Richard the Lion
Hearted and his brother John.
Various reasons have served to
cause from time to tune the omission
of the ceremony of coronation. It is
said that Napoleon III. never dared to
be crowned, for fear of some ca
tastrophe similar to that which the
present czar is now threatened. Na
poleon I. had no such fear, and was
crowned with great magnificence at
Notre Dame.
The ceremony of coronation is still
kept up with much state and grandeur in
nearly every monarchy in Christendom ;
but a king is just as much a king with
out it as with it. It is the oath which
every sovereign takes at the moment
of his accession which endows him
with the right and the responsibility of
ruling over his Bubjects. Youth's
Companion.
How the Chinese Make Dwarf Trees.
We have all known from childhood
how the Chinese cramp their women's
feet and so manage to make them
keepers-at-home; but how they grow
miniature pines and oaks in flower
pots for half a century has always
been much of a secret. They aim
first and last at the seat of vigorous
growth, endeavoring to weaken it as
much as may be consistent with the
preservation of life. Take a young
plant say a seedling or cutting of
cedar when only two or three inches
high, cut off its tap-root as soon as it
has other rootlets to live upon, and re
plant it in an earthen pot or pan. The
end of the tap-root is generally made
to rest on a stone within it. Alluvial
clay is'then put into the pot, much of
it in bits the size of beans, and lust
enough in kind and quantity to furnish
a scanty nourishment to the plant.
Water enough is given to keep it in
growth, but not enough to excite a
vigorous habit. So, likewise, in the
application of light and heat. As the
Chinese pride themselves on the shape
of their miniature trees, they use
strings, wires and pegs and various
other mechanical contrivances to pro
mote symmetry or habit or to fashion
their pets into odd, fancy figures.
Jefferson's Monnment.
The new monument granted by
Congress to mark the grave of Thomas
Jefferson, at Monticello, Va., will be
shaped in accordance with a memo
randum found among the papers of
the deceased. It will consist of a cu
bical die of granite four feet square,
on which is set a granite obelisk about
eleven feet in height, the whole stand
ing on a granite platform, composed of
two stone steps, each nine inches in
height. The height of the monument
will be eighteen feet. The following
inscription, in sunken letters, will be
put upon the obelisk:
: Her. wa fcori.it Thomaa Jefferaoa, antkor of;
:th. Declaration of Amtrlcan Independence, of:
:th. aututa of Virginia for religious ttiom,:
:and father f th. CnlT.rsity ot Virginia. ;
........
On the die will be inscribed:
Bora April t, 1T4S, a 8. Died July 4, 1IM.
Theee words were penned by the
great statesman for his epitaph.
The Dead.
The dead alone are great,
While heavenly plants abide on earth
Their soil is one of dewless dearth
But when they die a mourning shower
Comes down and makes their memorree
flower
With odors sweet, though late.
The dead alone are dear.
When they are here strange shadows fall
From onr own forms and darken all
Bat when they leave ns all the shade
Is round our own sad footsteps made
And they alone are dear.
The dead alone are blest
When they are here clonds make their day,
And bitter snow-falls nip their May ;
Bnt when their tempest time is done
The light and head of Heaven's own sru
Brood on their land of rest. -i
i
HUMOR OF THE DAT. j
William Tell had an arrow escape. (
Gum Arabifj The language talked
by a toothless pasha.
The bachelor's refrain a lass I Thel
maiden's refrain ah men.
If the mosquito would only stay to.
hum but they do not; they stay to
sing.
"Yes," said a farmer, " barbed wirt
fences are expensive, but the hired man
doesn't stop and rest every time hehas
to climb it."
A woman who waits for her hus?
band to return from the lodge has au!
object in view, and more than likely
another in hand. . '
Stoves are supposed to be a some
what modern invention, but thej
Egyptians were warmed by Alexande
the Great B. C. 300.
" They tell me you have had some,
money left you," said Brown. " Yes,"i
replied Fogg, sadly, " it left me long
ago." Boston Transcript.
"Prisoner, this is the third time this
year that you have appeared before
this court. AVhat has brought yotr
here now, eh?" " The police, sirl"
This bit of conversation, which wej
find in an exchange, is both timely and
expressive: "I think this ice creami
tastes a little cowy," said he. " Minej
tastes bully," said she.
A lad who had been bathing was in
the act of dressing himself when onej
of his shoes rolled down the rock and
disappeared in the water. In attempt-;
ing to rescue it he lost the other one
also, whereupon contemplating his feet
with a most melancholy expression,!
ho apostrophized: "Well, you're a nice1
pair of orphans, ain't you ?"
Their house in the country was
raised a few feet from the ground,'
and Tommy, to escape a well-deserved
whipping, ran from his mother and'
crept under the house. Presently tho
father came home, and hearing where'
the boy had taken refuge, crept under
to bring him out. As he approached'
on his hands and knees, Tommy
asked : " Is she after you, too?" .
A French photographer boasts of
having been able to catch the impress
ion of a flying bird. There is nothing
at all wonderful about that. A man
who has no scientific attainments
whatever, without any effort on his
part, caught the impression of a flying
bat. It was a very clear .impression.
He was offering a resolution at a ward
meeting when the accident occurred.
" Guess we're all right now 1" puffed
the old gentleman as, mopping the
perspiration from his forehead, he
reached the steamboat landing with his
wife, just in time to be too late ;
" guess we're all right." " Guess we're
all right, do you ?" rejoined she, catch
ing a glimpse of the steamer as it ap
peared around a bend in the river ;
" guess we are all right ! Well, I
guess we're all left." And so they
were. Detroit Free Press.
TIIE jESTIIETIO YOUNG LADY.
There was a fair maid named Louise,
Who, for handy-work, (minted a frieze;
1 he room waa quite big,
Vet ah. cared not a 61
This zealous, aesthetic l.onise.
But, alaa I for th. Lady Louise
Who worked at ber task by degrees
The atyle of that day
Had long passed awuy
Ere ihe'd come to the end of her frieze!
So, in time, to the group at her kncea
(The grandchildren whom elio would pleas.)
Sue raid: " Twill Improve It,
I'm sure to remove it "
And that waa the end of her frieze 1
Joel Stacy, in ot A'ieholat.
Progeny in Whose Telns Flows the Blood
ortne rive itaees.
" Now. if I told vou t.hn rriH fa..
that I saw human beings in whose
veins now tne biooa or ail the five races
into which mankind is divided, you
wouldn't believe it, would you? And
you would say I never carried a little
hatchet, using mild language, wouldn't
you?" said a well-known histrionic
gentleman, just returned from the
bandwieh Islands, to a reporter.
" No, I would not believe it," was
the frank reply.
" Well, here s the case, and it is a
genuine one: The present Mrs. Brown,
of Honolulu, was born in the Hawaiian
kingdom. Her father was part negro
and part American Indian, and her
mother a native Hawaiian woman. In
Mrs. Brown's veins, therefore limvui
the blood of three races the negro, the1
maian nna tne juaiay. bo far so good,"
eh? Mrs. Brown's first. lniHlinnl uroal
a Chinaman; and a daughter by that,'
marriage, now the wife of the Kev.;
Dr. Lyman, a clergyman at Hilo, united
in her veins the blood of four
the yellow or Mongolian being added
to her moiner s mixeu lire blood. Now
Mrs. Lvman is the mother nf rtiiMran'
- . ..V4V4
by a Caucasian father, and doesn't that
1 At ......
uiukb uiese innocent uttie ones carry a
very mixed kind nf Urvul uniting
v. umviufj, OV
to speak, all the colors white, black,
red, yellow and brown ?" San Fran
cisco unronicie.
In 1870 the value of nil tlm mon1.
clothing manufactured in tho TTnioi
States was $147.000.000., In 1RR0
$125,000,000 worth was made in the
five cities of New York, Philadelphia,-
viuiagu, jjuatuu uuu viuuanau.