Deworralic atc
Bellefonte, Pa., April 29, 1899.
em —
THE MAGICAL DANCE.
Dance me the dance that danced
Clarisse,
That day, with your mystical art,
When joy has fled,
And love was dead.
And you danced o'er a dead man’s heart!
Never a curve or a swerve amiss—
Dance as you danced that day. Clarisse!
you
Dance me the dance that danced
Clarisse,
From the beautiful dancers apart;
For I'm weary to-night,
\ And I'm lost to the light,
And I haven't the ghost of a heart!
Dance me a dance for a woman’s lost kiss,
In a rainbow of ribbon, Clarisse—Clarisse!
you
Dance me the dance that you danced
Clarisse,
That day with your wonderful art.
Dance down the sorrow
Of now and to-morrow,
And dance down the love in my heart!
For I'm weary at heart of a world like
this;
Here! I toss you a bracelet!
Clarisse!
Now, dance,
—Atlanta Constitution.
A KING’S RANSOM.
A few miles from what was in bygone
days a thriving town, but now presents
nothing but a wreck and a few reminders
of vanished greatness, there is still extant
the relic of what was once a stately home.
Its quaint architecture proclaims its age.
Guarded on all sides by giant pines and the
interlacing undergrowth of years, it is as
completely secluded, as shut away from
everyday human contact as the famous spot
where Rip Van Winkle dreamed away his
shiftless youth and reposed through what
had every indication of proving a trying
and troublous time of manhood. Through
the rusting remains of what was once an
ornate iron railing the hedges, now tower-
ing treelike, thrust themselves in rank
luxuriance and the unclipped growth of
years. Weeds and grass have long since
obliterated all trace of what was once order-
ly parterres, gay with flowers. Sagging
galleries creak dismally in the wind, state-
ly sweeps of steps lie moldering, having
fallen from their high estate. Doors sway
and drop hingeless, and, through holes in
the crumbling, moss-covered roof, the stars
peep and shimmer. Shutterless, eyelike
widows seem to stare unseeing on the
wreck, the dreary decay and ruin that cruel
time has wrought of former greatness.
Within a stone’s throw of the ruined
mansion, but screened therefrom by a grove
of moss-hung cedars, stands an ancient
mausoleum. Built of what was once glit-
tering white marble, time has changed its
hue to a dingy, mournful gray. Small
shrubs and weeds finding foothold in the
gaping seams of the tomb where sediment
has been deposited by wind and rain, make
brave show of veiling the sad-colored pile
in summer, but nipping winds change them"
to dry, rattling skeletons of their former
beauty, that stand as though keeping guard
over the last retreat of a proud but fallen
race.
But the story has not to do with the
dreary, deserted mansion; rather with the
people who once filled it with life and light
and laughter, who lived, loved and vanish-
ed from their place, but whose deeds form
the warp or woof of many stories that clus-
ter round the ruins of their former hearth-
stone still. Deeds of blood, perhaps of ad-
venture and chivalry from the men—for
they were adventurous, hot-headed and
chivalrous—of sweet charity, mercy and
romantic love from the women, for they
were generous, noble and lovely. !
Especially lovely and beloved was Ev-
elina, the daughter of the house and the on-
ly child. In her all the beauty of a hand-
some race seemed to centre and bloom
afresh. All the graces and witcheries of
generations of lovely women might be re-
produced and enhanced in the person of
this beautiful girl—beautiful in character
and disposition no less than in form and
feature.
She had many suitors, but she hesitated
long, gracious equally to all who would
honor her with their name and fortune,
and nota few who would bestow name and
title for the happiness of calling her wife
and, incidentally, sharing her own regal
fortune.
But she turned them all aside, gently,
regretfully may be, until her fancy was
captivated by one who seemed the least
likely of all her suitors to meet her favor.
He wasa grave and taciturn man with
bent shoulders and iron-gray hair, general-
ly considered old, though men older by
several years considered themselves gay
gallants still. He was 50 when he aston-
ished the county by proposing to aud being
accepted by Evelina. How it happened
that she fell in love with this self-contain-
ed, undemonstrative elderly man is like
the blessed mass—a mystery. But love
him she did, and the whole county was in-
vited to the betrothal feast.
Dozens of lovely women, dressed a trifle
gaily, as southern women are apt to be
and as they were wont to he at that period,
filled the drawing room and dining hall of
the mansion. Pale-colored silks vied with
wonderfully colored satins, handsome laces
veiled wealth of glittering gems and though
there were many jewels of price worn that
night none equalled in beauty and value
the magnificent gem placed on the hand of
the bride-elect by her grave, elderly lover.
Pausing near her mother in the course of
the evening, Evelina held up her hand,
making the gem flash and sparkle in the
subdued light.
‘Ah?’ ejaculated the elder woman, “‘it
is indeed superb. It is well worth a king's
ransom.’’
*‘A king’s ransom!’’
The girl smiled. It was worth far more
than that to her, for it represented more.
Its deep lights and flickering shadows
meant much. Not the mere dross of vulgar
wealth, of which it was the symbol: It
was the outward and visible sign of the in-
ward, invisible grace of a good man’s love.
The great, wistful eyes of Alec, the hand-
some olive-skinned waiter who flitted noise-
lessly among the guests bearing his silver
salver of cakes and ices, rested upon the bit
of stone gleaming upon his young mistress’
hand and many conflicting emotions agita-
ted his mind.
Alec was a slave, the son and grandson
of slaves, and though his owners were al-
ways kind, his work light and his privi-
leges very many, strange thoughts had en-
tered his mind of late and dwelt there per-
sistently. He would be free, free as his
master, to go where he listed, to study and
learn. He would go to some land where
the condition of master and slave did not
exist. But how? Many sleepless nights
had this question cost him, and still so dis-
tractingly hopeless seemed its solution.
He must run away. Opportunities for
flight were not lacking; but other slaves
had decamped only to be brought back to
punishment and increased labor, or, worse
still, were driven back from the fastnesses
of the swamps by cold and starvation. Alec
wished for no freedom to hide like a beast
in swamp or thicket--better his master’s
rule and his master’s mansion than that.
But in a flash his mistress’ low exclama-
tion solved for him the problem of ‘‘how.”’
The little glittering stone on his young
mistress’ hand should be his. He would
become possessed of it, this king’s ransom,
and escape, nobody being injured. Ev-
elina, to whom he was deeply attached,
would not grieve overits loss. She had
many more jewels, and nodoubt her future
hushand would replace its loss by a sec-
ond gem equally as brilliant.
Many schemes for becoming possessed of
the ring chased each other through his busy
brain. The first that seemed most likely
to succeed he was forced to abandon forth-
with—that of making love to Amanda Jane,
Evelina’s maid—and persuading her to steal
tne coveted treasure for him. By a few
adroit questions he learned that the ring
never left the white girl’s hand.
Then an awful resolve formed itself in
his mind. He would enter her room in the
solemn watches of the night and take it by
stealth if he could, by violence if he must,
and then away to liberty and a new life!
But Fate and Evelina together frustrated
this plan, for shortly before the night when
he resolved to put it in operation the young
woman left home for a round of visits in
the neighboring counties. She was ‘absent
many weeks and did not return until prep-
arations for the approaching wedding
were well under way. Many guests filled
the mansion then and Alec’s hands were
overfull of urgent duties.
The marriage day was close at hand and
still he could not raise his courage to the
point of executing his purpose. Each day
he promised himself that he would wait no
longer, that the coming night he would do
the work, and the morning would find him
far on his journey toward a new life. Still,
he never acted, aad the chain of days slip-
ped by, one by one, until all but one be-
fore the final day had passed. But that
night he would carry out his plans when
the proper hour arrived, and as he sat wait-
ing on the door step of his cabin it seemed
that midnight would never come.
Farther down in the quarter a field hand
strummed a banjo and a couple shuffled
nimbly in the glare of a small outdoor fire.
The dancers could see Alec as he sat alone
on his step, a shimmering white blotch
against the black square of the open door.
They called to him, and he recognized the
voice of Amanda Jane, Evelina’s maid, but
he would not join them, and finally they
also strolled away to bed.
Now! The great mansion lay in shadow
and profound repose pervaded the home-
stead. Creeping through the shadows Alec
gained a small side door left conveniently
open and groped his way to the big central
hall. Passing along softly to the wide
staircase, near the head of which Evelina’s
rooms were situated, the would-be theif
was almost paralyzed with fear-by behold-
ing his master standing at the top, a lighted
candle in his hand. Not waiting to in-
quire how the slave had gained admittance
or why he was prowling in midnight dark-
ness through the halls, when in all reason
he should have been asleep on his cabin
bunk hours since, the judge shouted in
agitated tones:
‘‘Run, Alec, run! Saddle Cannon Ball
and fly for Dr. Sage. Your mistress is ill
—dying. I'll skin you if you lose a mo-
ment}’’
Catching the infection of the judge's ex-
citement, the darky flew, shoeless and hat-
less, and was soon tearing over meadows
and through growing corn on a mad race
for the nearest physician, who lived five
miles away. It wasindeed true—the love-
ly young daughter of the house, the fair
bride-elect, lay dying. A sudden malady
developing from an indisposition too slight,
as she supposed, to notice had attacked her,
and ere the man of medicine could arrive
she was seemingly beyond medical aid.
There was mourning where festivities
were expected and grief where joy should
have reigned supreme. Loving hands
dressed her in all the white bravery of
bridal attire and bore her below to the
drawing room, where she lay in state
among banks and garlands of roses and
ferns, where the guests who expected to
congratulate her as a happy bride paid her
the last homage of a sad farewell. For
three days she held silent courtin the dim,
flower-scented dusk of the grand room and
then all the servants of her father’s house
and all the slaves on his plantation were
bidden to take a farewell look at their dear
young mistress ere she was borne to join
the silent company of generations of noble
kin who lay in the family vault beyond the
gardens.
Alec stood at the open hall door admit-
ting the black people in twos and threes as
they filed silently in and with scarcely a
pause passed on. He had looked at the
girl lying there many times and his hun-
gry eyes devoured the waxen hand among
the laces on which the coveted treasure still
gleamed. Her betrothed husband had
signified his desire that it should not be re-
moved, consequently it remained, and the
slave’s anguished eyes caught its last glim-
mer ere she who wore it was hidden for-
ever from the sight of men.
That night his duties being over, . Alec
sat again on his cabin step and still his
mind dwelt upon the ‘‘king’s ransom’
shut away from sight upon a dead hand,
while he, a living being, full of the possi-
bilities of keenest enjoyment of life, lan-
guished in the vile bondage of slavery.
The thought burned in his mind like liv-
ing fire and he experienced the depth
of despair. Yet to become possessed of the
ring were easy now that she could make no
resistance. To enter the vault, to lift the
lid from the casket and slip the ring from
her band would be the work of a few mo-
ments. Then he would be free—free as
his master—forever after.
Alec’s hair straightened and stood end-
wise upon his head, the dew of terror burst
forth and trickled down his face, his knees
trembled and his gorge rose in a very col-
lapse and ecstasy of fear. He could not!
And yet—and yet!
Without his own volition, not knowing
whither he was going, Alec found himself
wandering in the neighborhood of the big
tombs that loomed white and shining in
the watery light of a young moon. The
moss-hung cedars cast trembling shadows
across it and the entrance was in fitful
darkness. Leaning against the big, bronze
gates he peered into the dusky recess from
which a flood of cool, moist air, heavy with
the scent of fading flowers greeted him.
The gates yielding, swayed noiselessly ajar,
and as one in a trance the slave passed in.
As one in a trance he paused beside the
flower-strewn casket and with set lips and
staring eyes began to turn the silver screws
that held the heavy lid in place. For sev-
eral moments he labored as swiftly and
silently as a soft, gray shadow, the lid was
raised and the coveted treasure lay spark-
ling with mocking brilliance on the waxen
band. Almost swooning with terror and
superstitious dread, with staring eyes and
mumbling lips, as though frozen to the
very heart with terror, he took the dead
hand in his and essayed to slip the ring
therefrom. Here an awful difficulty con-
fronted him, the finger, slightly swollen,
held the jewel immovably in place. It
would not yield. In a frenzy of fear his
hand sought his pocket, a small knife was
pulled forth and before he himself fully
realized the awful sacrilege of the acts he
had severed the finger adorned with the
ring completely from the waxen hand!
A slight wind sprung up, rusting the
cedars and stirring the shadows east within
the tomb. The bronze gates stirred there-
by fell together with a soft click. In a
very panic of terror, the man fled—never
pausing to replace the coffin lid or close the
gates. Flying in the very abandon of fear,
he reached his cabin and lay crouching for
many hours in the farthest corner, his body
in the last throes of endurance, his mind
tottering almost to its fall.
* % * * *
The judge sat alone in his library. All
but he had sought their rooms to find what
repose a new and poignant grief admitted,
but he desired no rest. His lamp burned
dimly on the table, the fire fell low in the
grate, and watery gleams, the first harbing-
ers of the new day, flickered through the
undrawn window drapery. His body was
weary, his heart sore, and this new visita-
tion seemed almost too much of sorrow for
his heart to bear. In thestillest hour, just
before the dawn, the judge was disturbed
by a soft tapping. Again, and again, but
still it failed to rouse him from his lethargy
of woe. Then a voice, softly plaintive, in-
sistent, reached his ear and penetrated his
consciousness :
‘‘Father! Oh, father!’
The judge flew to the window and threw
wide the sash, and the sight that met his
view almost paralyzed his heart with ming-
led emotions, for before him on the grass
stood Evelina, the daughter for whose
death he was even then bowed in grief, re-
turned from the very tomb to lift from his
heart the awful load of sorrow her untime-
ly death had caused.
‘‘Oh, father, let me enter, Iam chilled,
chilled!’ and, with a quick movement, she
stood within the room. With trembling
hands the judge raked the remnants of the
fire together and heaped fuel thereon. A
bright blaze sprung up and warmed the
strange couple before it into new life. The
judge pressed wine upon hischild and with
tears and laughter begged her to assure
him that it was indeed herself, so miracu-
lously returned, restoied to his arms from
the very tomb.
“It is indeed Evelina. But why did you
place me in the tomb, dear? Did you be-
lieve that I was really dead ?”’
‘You seemed dead, indeed, poor child,
and your mother’s heart is well-nigh brok-
en.”
‘But we will mend it again. Come, let
us go to her.”
“Rather will Isummon her that we may,
both hear the wonderful story of how you
came back to life.”’
‘‘I do not think that I ever quitted life,
father. It could not be. Out there,’’ she
said, with a gesture toward the tomb, ‘‘my
consciousness at first was of a chill wind
blowing upon me and a sensation of cold—
awful, deathlike. Then it seemed that
someone took my hand, and a sensation of
pain thrilled me through. I awoke fully,
and, sitting up, could not realize my sur-
roundings. I was in the tomb; my grave
clothes were my bridal costume; but could
not understand. Then I remembered I had
been ill, perhaps had died; I was dead. yet
conscious of my position—alone at night in
the vault. Then I thought that although
a disembodied spirit I would visit my home
and see you and my mother, perhaps mak-
ing you understand that I wished you to
be resigned.’
The fire and the wine had warmed the
girl’s life current to renewed action, and
down the shimmering folds of the satin
gown a thin red thread was row flowing.
With a horrified glance ler father caught
her band, exclaiming: ‘Your hand, my
daughter! Who has done this to you ?”’
‘‘Ob, my ring!’’ and father and daughter
looked into each other’s faces with mingled
emotions.
Going to a bell that communicated di-
rectly with his butler’s cabin, the judge
pulled it violently. Alec heard the sum-
mons, and through force of habit prepared
to obey. Shortly he entered the library, a
limp, dejected figure, and when his eyes
rested upon the occupant of the easy chair
he fell face downward in a paroxysm of-
remorse and fear.
“Oh, miss! Oh, miss!’ he ejaculated,
‘I knew you would come to punish me,
but I meant no harm!
God’s sake. I'll give it back if you’ll for-
give and go away." I did not know you’d
care! Oh, Missy 'Lina, have mercy!’ And
the slave grovelled and chattered at the as-
tonished girl’s feet.
By degree the judge comprehended the
sitnation, especially when the abject slave
produced the missing finger and ring and
offered it to her in fearand trembling. Lit-
tle by little he was induced to tell his
story, how he desired freedom and how his
mistresses’ words suggested a means of ob-
taining it; how he had stolen into the tomb
that night and secured the treasure, even
how he intended to fly and begin life anew,
free, with the proceeds of the sale of the
em.
2 When he had finished there were tears in
Evelina’s eyes and a moisture in those of
her father.
‘You can punish me, master,’’ Alec con-
cluded, rising and standing submissively
near the door.
“I will indeed punish you as you de-
serve. You have mentioned your desire to
me and it shall be gratified. You did an
awful deed, but out of evil good has come.
Your deed has restored to me my daughter.
Take your freedom. If is yours.”’
When the doctor, hastily summoned,
confirmed the opinion that Alec’s deed had
restored Evelina from her deathlike
trance the grateful parents were not nig-
gardly in proving their gratitude to him
nor was the happy lover behindhand in
proving his joy. A handsome gift of mon-
ey from Evelina’s husband and a snug piece
of land, together with his freedom, placed
Alec on easy terms with the world. He
was industrious and prospered, and is to-
day one of the foremost men among his
race.
While his family has grown and flourish-
ed, that of his master has dwindled and
passed away. The vast estates have de-
preciated or passed into other hands. The
old family mansion, where the preceding
events transpired, has for many years re-
mained vacant, mainly through an unex-
pressed but no less superstitious dread of
what had happened there.—Chicago News.
——A disastrous conflagration occurred
at the Manordale stock farm near Harrison
City, Westmoreland county, Friday night
about 11 o'clock. The large barn and
creamery were totally destroyed and thirty
head of well bred cattle were cremated.
The loss to the owners will amount to $10,-
000. It was partially insured.
-—You ought to take the WATCHMAN.
Forgive, please, for
A Scrap of History.
How Portugal Lost the Philippine Islands.
We whosee Portugal in the period of her
decay and almost total eclipse, says the Bra-
zilian Bulletin, cannot understand how so
small a nation, occupying so insignificant a
portion of Europe—‘‘only a veranda,’ as
one of her writers has said—should cut so
important a figure in the world’s history
as she did in the fifteenth and sixteenth
centuries.
Early in the eleventh century Prince
Henry, ‘‘the navigator’ of Portugal, ob-
tained from Pope Eugenius IV a bull
which gave to Portugal all discoveries be-
tween Cape Hun, in Morocco, and India.
In 1472 St. Thomas, Annobon and Prince’s
Island were added. When the equator
was passed and Fernando Po gave his
name to an island in the Bight of Biefra he
seized 500 leagues* of the African coast,
and the King of Portugal took the title of
*‘Lord of Guinea.”
Very early in the days of discovery and
conquest, toward the end of the fifteenth
century, the most Catholic sovereigns of
Spain, Ferdinand and Isabella, and his
equally Catholic Majesty, John H. of Por-
tugal, fell out about the ownership of the
land yet to be discovered.
Like faithful children of the Church,
they referred the whole matter to the Holy
Father at Rome, Pope Alexander VI, a
Spaniard, who cat the Gordian knot by
giving them the earth and setting the lim-
its of their respective possessions. An im-
aginary line was to be drawn from pole to
pole, 100 degrees west of the Azores or the
Cape Verde Islands; all west of this line
wae to belong to Spain, and all east of it to
Portugal. King John was not satisfied,
and the treaty of Tordeselhas was made in
1494, giving to Portugal all lands east of
an imaginary line drawn 360 leagues from
the most western point of the Cape de
Verde Islands and all south of the Cape of
Good Hope. To Spain was allotted all
lands west of this line, ignoring completely
all other nations.
Fernando de Magalhaes, or, as we write
it, Ferdinand Magellan and Ruy Faleiro,
both Portugese subjects, who had differen-
ces with their King on account of some pet-
ty pensions, offered their services to Spain.
Both had served two years with Albuquer-
que and knew all about the Portugese pos-
sessions in the East.
Magellan represented to Charles V. who
then ruled over Spain, that he was sure the
world was round, a theory then credited
by few. He declared his ability to find a
shorter passage to the East than any known
to the Portugese, and would prove that the
Moluccas, rich spice islands were within
Spanish territory. Charles V had a small
fleet fitted out and sent Magellan with his
companion in charge, well equipped for
those days. He went south against the ex-
press stipulations of the treaty and discov-
ered the straits which bear his name. His
fleet crossed the broad southern ocean,
passed the Ladrones and the then unknown
Philippines, inspected the Moluccas and re-
turned by way of Cape of Good Hope.
Magellan lost his life, and out of the five
vessels which comprised his fleet only one
returned, under the command of Sebastian
del Cano, who brought Magellan’s written
report of the expedition and a map of the
route, showing that all the spice islands
and the whole Indian Ocean were within
the 180 degrees belonging to Spain under
the treaty of Tordeselhas. In the map
Magellan had deliberately cut 40 degrees
of longitude and brought the whole archi-
pelago within Spain’s half of the world.
He concealed the fact that the number of
miles in a degree of longitude decreases to-
ward the pole. .
Portugal protested and declared war,
which continued two years, when the cele-
brated ‘‘Congress of Notabilities’’ was held
in a small frontier town to discuss the mat-
ter and discover the real facts. Portugal
was at a manifest disadvantage. Magellan
was the first and only man who had sailed
around the world, and his map of the
southern seas was the only document ex-
tant. Spain refused to give up her alleged
rights, and Portugal held on to the islands.
This matter was finally compromised by
an indemnity of 350,000 cruzados of the
gold of Molucca, which Portugal paid to
Spain for the supposed 17} degrees of Span-
ish sea which she held. A new line was
drawn from pole to pole, starting from the
Ladrones. This division gave to Portugal
all west and south of the line, which was
supposed to be 180 degrees from the other
line drawn, 360 leagues west of Cape de
Verde. This treaty was approved by Pope
Julian II in the bull, Ea quoe pro bono pa-
cis, and the matter was settled.
Years afterward a Spanish expedition dis-
covered the Philippines, so named after
Philip II, who was then King of Spain.
These islands, though many degrees with-
in Portugal’s line, were taken possession of
by Spain. Portugal protested, and would
undoubtedly, have obtained possession of
them had it not been for the disaster to the
Portugese arms in Africa, which threw
Portugal into the hands of Spain, where
she remained for sixty years. This period
is known in Portugese history as the
‘Sixty Years of Captivity.”
When Portugal finally regained her in-
dependence she was much weakened and
was more interested in setling the bounda-
ries north and south of her valuable South
American colonies; so the Philippines re-
mained with Spain through laches rather
than by right. Had Portugal retained
them it is more than likely that they, like
many other of her Eastern possessions,
would have fallen into the hands of the
English, and their whole history would
have been changed.
*17}4 degrees wore reckoned as league.
Sulphur Water Instead of Oil.
Last Friday, at a depth of 820 feet, a
stream of genuine sulphur water was
struck at the oil well that was being drilled
at Osterburg, Bedford county. The stock-
holders and also the people of the neigh-
borhood are jubilant over the find. It may
be that there will be no further drilling
and the search for oil may cease, as the
company’s stockholders may be contented
with the discovery of sulphur water of
high test. The well is flowing at the rate
of 125 barrels a day. There is much de-
mand throughout the country for this
water, and it is claimed that. if the com-
pany that owns the well would establish a
hotel or sanitarium at the well and use the
water for medicinal purposes, more money
could be made than if oil should be dis-
covered.
——Mrs. Hendricks—See here, Dinah, I
‘| gave you four flannel undershirts in the
wash this week and you have bronght back
only three. How is that?
Dinah—'Deed, I dunno, ma’am, 'less’n
dey shrinked. Flannel does shrink some-
thin’ awful, ma’am.—Brooklyn Life.
——Susie—‘‘Papa, what makes a man
always give a woman a diamond engage-
ment ring?’’
Her Father—‘‘The woman.’
Boston.
Hear the rush and hear the rumble,
As we pass along the street!
Some are coming—some are going—
Hastening on with eager feet—
What a throng of human beings,
Many are the types we meet;
High and low together mingle
In the surging, crowded street.
I wonder, as I hurry along with the
throng, where they are all going; but it is
Saturday afternoon and there is much to
be seen and heard here in Boston—the
‘city of culture.” Iam on a rush to hear
Melba sing—another is off to see Richard
Mansfield; I meet a friend on her way to
hear the Symphony concert. Thus, day
after day, even Sunday is no exception!
But the rush is now toward the churches
where sermons and sacred music take the
place of drama and opera—and it seems
there is no getting out of the rush, for on
reaching Boston theatre, I take my place
in the line. Now my elite friend, no
doubt you feel like picking up your skirt
and taking a wide sweep around the long
line that hold ‘‘rush’’ tickets, but were
you here, I am perfectly certain you would
occasionally find yourself in the ‘‘rush’’—
for many who pass into the theatre on a
‘‘rush ticket’ to-day, may occupy a box
to-morrow, and although, while pushed
through the door and up the stairs, we
gasp and struggle, and wonder if we will
be—flat—the rest of our days, yet we
will be tempted to try it over again.
So, from day to day, without cessation,
the very atmosphere is saturated—for ex-
ample, walking along a day or two since—
I hear borne upon the breeze the clear
notes of a horn a step further, music of a
different sort—fainter, sweeter; and glanc-
ing into a window, I see a young man
drawing a how back and forth across the
strings of a violin; cross the street—I am
now in front of the New England Conserv-
atory of Music, from which floats a con-
glomeration of singing, piano practiee,
mingled with the majestic tones of the pipe
organ, ete., etc. I enter the elocutionary
department of the Conservatory and am
greeted by the ghostly words: ‘‘Hamlet, I
am thy father’s spirit!” Escaping out of
sound of the sepulchral toues, I stand in
the corridor, the conservatory sounds like a
great musical bee-hive, as
Far and near the music ringing,
Like the humming sound of bees—
Up and down the scale they're singing,
While fingers press upon the keys.
A word about the Conservatory, for it is
a worthy institution. No less than fwelve
hundred students study here, of which num-
ber more than four hundred young ladies
board in the building, while there are
many young men from outside. Voice and
all musical instruments are taught by as
great teachers as can he found in the
country. Mr. Chadwick, the musical di-
rector, is considered the first of composers.
There are two weekly recitals, musical and
literary lectures by Mr. Louis Eltson, Hez-
ekiah Butterworth, editor of Youth’s Com-
panion, and others. The management fre-
quently brings celebrities to the Conserva-
tory, among the musicians of note I have
heard Paderewski, and in the literary line,
Mrs. Mary Livermore, Julia Ward Howe
and others. There are many ways in which
the students are helped to complete their
studies—the beneficent society, of which
Mrs. Mary Livermore is president, has aided
many. Then the jolly times the students
manage to have! Every holiday is celebra-
ted. During the holidays there was a
Christmas tree, Washington’s birthday a
Martha Washington tea party, and I have
joined many sight seeing parties starting
out from the Conservatory, for there are
many historical points we must visit before
leaving Boston.
Our trip to Bunker Hill was of interest;
we are not satisfied until after climbing
flight after flight of steps we stand on the
summit. What a scene spreads itself be-
fore us! It is well worth the climb.
Among the points of interest is the Old
North Church. As I gaze, the lines of
Paul Revere come to me—
“But mostly he watched with eager search
The belfry tower ot the old North Church;
And lo! as he looks on the belfry height,
A glimmer and then a gleam of light.
He springs to his saddle—the bridle he turns
But lingers and gazes, till full on his sight,
A second lamp in the belfry burns.”
Do you imagine we ever feel satiety ?
No, the body may be conscious of that feel-
ing, not the mind. Our taste may hecome
like the epicures’ hard to satisfy, craving
only choice morsels. But send us to some
quiet place for six months, and like the
epicure, who after a period of starvation
will relish even a stale piece of bread, so
will we actually enjoy talent of the very
mediocrity. Such is the happy adjustment
of things in this world. Thus itis possi-
ble to be happy away from Boston, ‘The
Athens of America.”’.
MARY LEE.
The Pope in Feeble Health.
Remarkable Scenes Attended Upon the Mass at St.
Peter's.
The Rome correspondent of the Daily
News describing the thanksgiving mass
at St. Peter's cathedral says: ‘‘When
the pope came into view the people whisper-
ed. He had the appearance of a ghost
when his face, overshadowed by the glitter-
ing tiara, became discernible with the dark
eyes peering from the deep sockets. His
hands trembled violently and a sad smile
played over the colorless lips.
‘With his left hand he waved sad greet-
ings, while the right did its feeble best to
mark the act of blessing. During the mass
he sat with folded hands. Twice he rose
and he was supported while he knelt in
prayer, reading the benediction. His voice
was scarcely audible.
‘‘He tried to raise himself, but fell back
and pronounced the remainder in a recum-
bent position. A loud cry, like the burst-
ing of a storm, broke from the congregation
and the pope, stretching his hand in bene-
diction, was carried out.”
The Rome correspondent of the Daily
Telegraph, who found the contrast between
the glittering ceremony and the debilitated
figure of the pope ‘‘more painful than mov-
ing,’ says:
‘‘The whole ceremony was unduly hur-
ried. The pope remarked to an attendant
afterward: ‘Ah, how weak I feel. I won-
der if this will go down to history as my
last appearance at St. Peter’s?”’
Unreasonable Woman? *
This is the story of a love that was too
beautiful to last.
‘‘Oh, me!’ the young wife is exclaim-
ing bitterly. ‘‘Here is my husband beat-
ing me with the stove lifter, when but six
short months ago he was asking me to re-
cite poetry before company.’’ .
Yes, it is doubtless the terribly intense
passion that soonest fails, the sweetest
wine making the best vinegar.
——Father—‘‘Tommy, stop pulling that
cat’s tail.’ - Tommy—*‘‘I’m only holding
the tail; the cat’s pulling it.”’
First Sight of India.
Bombay Is a City of Monstrous Contrasts and
Strange Sights.
The first sight of India is amazing, en-
trancing, stupefying. Of other countries
you become aware gradually; Italy leads
up to the Levant, and Egypt passes you on
insensibly to the desert. Landed in Bom-
bay, you have strayed into a most elabo-
rate dream, infinite in variety, blurred with
complexity, a gallery of strange faces, a
buzz of strange voices, a rainbow of strange
colors, a garden of strange growths, a book
of strange questions, a pantheon of strange
gods. Different beasts and birds in the
street, different clothes to wear, different
mealtimes, and different food—the very
commonest things are altered. You begin
a new life in a new world.
It takes time to come to yourself. At
first everything is so noticeable that you
notice nothing. When things begin to
come sorted and sifted, Bombay reveals it-
self as a city of monstrous contrasts.
Along the sea front, one splendid public
building follows another—variegated stone
facades, with arch and colonnade, cupola
and pinnacle and statuary. At their feet
huddle flimsy huts of matting, thatched
with leaves, which a day’s rain would re-
duce to mud and pulp. You sit in a mar-
ble-paved club, vast and airy asa Roman
villa, and look out over-gardens of heavy
scarlet and purple flowers toward choking
alleys, where half-naked savages herd by
families together in open-fronted rooms,
and filth runs down gullies to fester in the
sunken street. In this quarter you may
see the weaver twirling his green and am-
ber wool on a hand loom—a skeleton so
simple and fragile that a kick would make
sticks of it; go to the street corner and you
see black smoke belch from a hundred roar-
ing mills, whose competition cuts the
throat of all the world. In the large, open
space Parsees bowl each other underhand
full-pitches and ery, ‘Tank you, tank
you,”’ after the ball; by the rail squats a
Hindoo, who would like, if only the law
would let them, to marry babies and burn
widows.
Yet, for all its inconsistencies, Bombay
never lets you forget that it is a very great
city. If it had no mills it would be re-
nowned for its port; if it had neither it
would be famous for its beauty. And if it
were as ugly as it is fair it would still be
one of the most astounding collections of
human animals in the world. Forty lan-
guages, it is said, are habitually spoken in
its bazaars. That, to him who understands
no word of any of them, is perhaps more
curious than interesting, but then every
race hasits own costume, so that the streets
of Bombay are a kaleidoscope of vermillion
turbans and crimson, orange and flame
color, of men in blue and brown and emer-
ald waistcoats, women in cherry-colored
satin drawers or mantles, drawn from the
head across the bosom to the hip, of blaz-
ing purple or green that shines like a grass-
hopper. If you check your eye and ask
your mind for the master-color in the
crowd it is white—white bordered with
brown or fawn or damson legs.— London
Mail.
Why Robin Has a Red Breast.
One of Christ's Comforters When He Hung on the
Cross.
Birds played a part at the crucifixion,
according to legend. After Jesus had been
nailed to the cross, two birds came and
alighted on the extended arms of the in-
strument of death. One was a magpie
with a beautiful aigrette on its head and a
long, waving tail, then the handsomest of
birds, but the wickedest, chirping insults
at the suffering Jesus. The other bird was
a modest little bird with gray plumage,
which approached the cross timidly, utter-
ing cries of grief. With its wings
it tried to wipe away the blinding sweat
and blood from the face of Jesus’ while
with its beak it tried to pluck away one of
the thorns which was piercing Jesus’ fore-
head. A single drop of the blood fell on
the breast of the pitying little gray bird,
and gave the world the Robin-Red-Breast.
And to it Jesus said: ‘‘Blessed be thou lit-
tle bird, which sharest my sorrows. May
joy accompany thee everywhere. Thine
eggs shall be blue as the sky above; thou
shalt be the ‘Bird of God,’ bearer of good
tidings. As for thee,” said he to the mag-
pie, ‘“Thou shalt be an accursed bird.
Thou shalt lose that brilliant aigrette and
the beautiful colors on which thou pridest
thyself so highly. Funereal bird, thy mes-
sage shall be only evil and the rain from
heaven shall always fall into thy nest.’
The peasants of France, in accordance
with this tradition, pierce the head of a
magpie with a thorn whenever they catch
one. In Spain the swallow is considered
the good hird, and they say there that
when the Roman soldiers pressed the
crown of thorns on Jesus’ brow the swal-
lows came and tried to remove the thorns
with their beaks. The Russians say that
the swallows took away the nails which the
executioners had brought, but the sparrows
carried them hack again. The Danish say
that at the moment of the crucifixion the
stork, moved with pity, cried ‘‘Styrkhain!
Styrkbain!”’ (God give him strength!) and
since that time the stork has been consid-
ered sacred. Itis also stated that Long-
inus, the Roman soldier who pierced the
side of Jesus with a spear, was converted
on account of the blood which fell upon
him. This was due to the cleansing power
of that blood, according to the church. and
his eyes were thus opened to the beauty of
holiness. — From the Philadelphia Inquirer.
Cost of Living in England.
Living, in a word, is cheaper for the
English poor than for our own, and dearer
for the well-to-do than in America, because
there are here two standards of living. The
unit of value for the well-to-do in England
is the sovereign, or the five-dollar piece
whereas our American unit of value in
housekeeping and practical affairs is a dol-
lar. The unit of value with the English
poor is a sliding standard that runs from a
penny down to a farthing, just as in Amer-
ica it is a nickel. No American of middle
circumstances who has made his home in
London will dispute my statement that it
costs more to keep a family there than it
does at home. Men’s clothing, wines and
liguors, servants, flowers and a very few
minor articles are cheaper in England, but
these advantages are offset by the higher
cost of all other necessaries. The cheapest
cat of beef is twenty-five cents a pound,
the best fish sell for as high as fifty cents a
pound, butter is thirty cents a pound, cof-
fee is forty cents, strawberries never go
lower than eight or ten cents a basket, and
good small fruits generally are very much
dearer. Peaches are a quarter of a dollar
apiece, milk is eight cents a quart, cream
is fifty cents a quart, oysters fetch a dollar
to a dollar and a half a dozen, bread is about
as cheap as at home, loin of pork is twenty-
five cents a. pound, the cheaper mutton
(from New Zealand) is twenty cents a
pound, and English mutton fetches seven
cents more. These are all West End prices
but they are not high prices. They are
the quotations of a very careful buyer.—
Julian Ralph in Harper's Magazine.
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