241
laud, where we spent the whole summer; but the Swiss air seemed to have lost its virtue. Rosy was no better. At last, when winter was near at hand, we went to Wiesbaden, Germany. This is a very beautiful city, as you all know, and famous for its hot springs. Many invalids go there to be cured. We had been there only a short time when we met a kind lady, who, hearing of Rosy’s condition, told us that she knew of a dolls’ hospital, not very far from Wiesbaden, where old dolls were made young and sick ones quite restored to health.
After much thought and discussion we at length decided to send our darling there. We bade her good by with many tears and kisses, laid her in a narrow box—how funeral it seemed!—and sent her away. She had been gone only a few days when the winter rains began, and soon there were great floods throughout Germany.
For many long weeks we did not hear one word from her, says Mildred L. C—, in St. Nicholas. ‘Every day we went down to the doll establishment from which she had been sent, to inquire about her; but all in vain. At last, however, our sad hearts were made very glad. One morning, going down on our daily errand, we found Miss Rosy had arrived, and was waiting impatiently to see us. Oh, joy! there she lay in a box, just as plump and rosy as she could be. Her long golden curls fell about her lovely face, and reached down to her waist.
When we arrived at home and tried on her dresses, none of them would fit. Would you believe it? She had grown a whole inch! -- A MORTIFYING MISTAKE
I studied my tables over and over, and backward and forward, too;
But I couldn’t remember six times nine, and I didn’t know what to do,
Till sister told me to play with my doll and not to bother my head,
‘ If you call her ‘Fifty four’ for a while, you’ll learn it by heart,” she said
So I took my favorite, Mary Ann (though I thought’t was a dreadful shame
To give such a perfectly lovely child such a perfectly horrid name).
And I called her my dear little “Fifty Four” a hundred times, till I know
The answer of six times nine us well as the answer of two times two
Next day Elizabeth Wigglesworth, who always acts so proud.
Said, “Six times nine is fifty two.” and I nearly laughed aloud!
But I wished I hadn’t when teacher said, “Now, Dorothy, tell if you can,”
For I thought of my doll and—sakes alive!—I answered—“Mary Ann!”
—ANNA M PRATT, in May St Nicholas -- WHO WOULD FARDELS BEAR? -- Paul Sterling sat in the darkness, and he was looking into a darkness deeper yet. For as he sat there, with his eyes straining at nothingness, his hand went round and round the cold muzzle of a little steel instrument of death. He had always heard it spoken of as cowardly. But now it seemed to him not only the bravest, but the most honorable thing to do. He had often been foolish, but until now he had kept himself free from contemptibility. Now, suddenly, he found himself guilty of treachery. Was it his fault, or his fate? He said to himself proudly that he would not shuffle upon anyone, not even upon God, the blame for a fault that was his own. Yet he had intended nothing but truth and directness. And he would not walk in devious ways. He had kept a straight path. And now, suddenly, that path seemed to lead to the grave. Fancy, it had happened only the night before. It was the end of a long struggle. He had known for a long time that he ought to go away. There had been two reasons for this. One was that he husband was his best friend. The other was that whenever he met her he trembled. He had avoided her. Yet last night they had met. And there had been a moment—only a moment! but it was enough! The truth could never again be hidden. He said to himself that long as they lived they must carry that terrible knowledge. He had taken her back to her husband and laid her hand softly in his arm and then gune out into the streets, and after some hours, home, and there he had sat since, immovable.’
If he had gone away at the first prompting of his conscience it would have been spared him—this shame and this consciousness of having burdened her! But motives strong as those which bade him go, implied him to stay All the money which his father had left him, as the result of his life of hard work and self-sacrifice, were involved in a business which, owing to a depression generally felt, had pressed upon him so hard that only the utmost judiciousness and attention could save it from wreck. From early morning till late night he had been at his office. Every expedient that his inexperience could suggest had been resorted to. He felt that he held that money in trust someway. He knew it had been the dream of his father’s life to leave a little fortune which should go toward found an American family. His father was an enthusiast on the subject of American families He believed in good stock. He wanted men and women to be at least as carefully bred as horses His son had this pride In him, too. It was his heritage, and he had always felt it to be a proud one. At college, though he was full of life, and had mixed up a deal of pleasure with his work, he always remembered that he could not afford to make the mistake of spoiling the career he had laid out for himself. He meant to succeed. He meant to follow in his father’s idea and select a woman who had been well bron and well taught. One who would be sure to bear him sons and daughters of amiability, and intelligence and industry. In short, whatever there is in a republic that makes good men in the most democratic and high sense of the word had been embodied in his theories of himself and of life.
And yet, a few days ago he had been obliged to give up his fight with business adversity, and own himself vanquished. The fortune he had so proudly taken from his father’s keeping in the solemn but not disastrous hour when, with his dying hand, in love and trust, his father cosigned it to him, was gone. And on the heels of that had come the loss of honor. For instead of choosing from the world of women one true and good for his own, he had looked with the hotmadness of treason and passion into the humid eyes of his friend’s wife.
He was a dishonored man. The fabric of an honorable career lay suddenly shattered at his feet lie felt that though he should fly to the uttermost parts of the earth he could not escape from the knowledge of his failure or of his sin. If there had been some physician at hand he would perhaps have told this young man that what he needed was a touic for his mind and for his body. But there was no physician there—there was nothing except but two gaunt companions, Regret and Remorse.
And that was how it came about that Paul Sterling sat in the darkness, rubbing one nervous finger up and down the cool steel barrel of his pretty little instrument of death, and taking the trouble to go over for one last time the arguments for and against self slaughter.
He wondered if the belief in the future state was a mere bit of heredity? Why not, just like the taste for certain foods Almost everything becomes instinctive in the course of a few generations. A man does not form his habits—not even his habits or thought. They are born in him. They are bequeathed him by his ancestors. If he had been further east, might he not have had in him as indelibly fixed as his present prescience of immortality. some vague beliefe in an ultimate fixed and endless calm and abeyance.’
‘It’s all a matter of training,” he said to himself, feeling round and round that cold muzzle ‘Why, I can hardly get out of my mind the whole tawdry paraphernalia of harp and gossamer wang [esught?] from the material lore of the Sunday school. Is it for men to make his puny guess at the quality and sort of the vast hereafter? Am I not above the foolish impertinence of manufacturing and upholstering my own particular sort of heaven’ I guess if mother were here she’d say I’d better get out of this before I got in any worse mischief She’d think death was better than dishonor. And there is nothing but dishonor before me, especially if I look at the matter from her point of view. She always said that the man was corrupt in his thought was as bad as the man who was corrupt in fact. I don’t know whether she was right or not. But she believed only those were good who were pure in heart” He sat there staring before him in a sudden fresh realization of the blackness of his misery. “And I’m not that,” he groaned, “I’m not pure in heart.”
There were other thoughts, more intolerable and less noble, that came to him. There were delirious moments when the pangs of acute jealously seized and shook him, and he paced the floor tortured. remembering that the woman whose lightest touch opened heaven, was for always and always the wife of another man. And he recollected how dear that man had been to him—how they had talked together about making an art of life and how they had agreed together that living in itself was merely an opportunity, and that it became significant only in proportion as the opportunities it offered were utilized. And here he stood with the horrible consciousness of having wasted them.
Then to know that by this scurvy trick of fate he had been cheated of his rights it would never be possible, his burning heart asserted over and over, for him to offer his love to any woman. He could never have a wife. He would never again have any love to offer. His fate had been met And it offered only shame and disaster. Life did not look sweet. He had no temptation to live. All through those swift hours that he had sat there thinking, there had never been a time when he was tempted to put away that cruel little instrument in his hand. Only he wanted to settle things with himself. He had never for a moment vaccilated or hesitated. He had been merely finishing up life before he took to death. For after the last word is said there is a suspicion that death may be a Silence.
But it was all thought out at last. He was ready. Death was best He felt curiously young—like a very little child, indeed. He almost wanted to cry. He remembered how his mother used to rock him to sleep after he had come in tired from his play in the summer. And she need to bathe his head with water, and her hands were very soft, and their touch was caressing.
So, just a trick, a mere motion of the finger, oblivion so near and so easy to get.
He leaped as if the bullet had pierced his heart, although as a matter of fact his finger had not pressed the trigger! There was a noise at the window! Only a slight noise, yet to ears attuned for the silence of eternity, sharp as the crack of ice in the northern seas. Sterling’s back was toward the window. He did not turn his body, but moved his head cautiously around and looked apprehensively over his shoulder. The room was very dark, and so was the night without, yet in the window he could see a blackness a little blacker than the night. Sterling trembled so that he could hardly hold the weapon in his hand His nerves, screwed to the sticking point of one terrible purpose, had not the adaptability to unflinchingly face a new apprehension
Suddenly the window flew up noiselessly—it could hardly have been locked—and a bulk moved cautiously forward into the room, and then a sharp light was thrown full on Sterling’s face.
It was then that he turned, with his muscles tightening again. The trembling ceased as he moved in three long steps toward that bulk, and the next moment he grappled with it.
As his hands clutched that struggling figure he felt something relax in himself A wave of perfect relief swept over him. It was as if after long madness he had suddenly found sanity again. He was elated at his own strength. He put his teeth together as a strong, young god does when it sees it’s opponent. And he held the man’s arms down fast to his sides. Neither said a word. There was no chance to waste breath in that way.
Sterling had his revolver in his hand but he could not use it for the reason that while his hand heled the revolver. it also clasped the left arm of the intruder, and he could not draw the weapon without losing that hand, which might find its way to a defense before Sterling could act.
So they stood there, rocking back and forth, straining and tugging, each desperately bent on victory
Not for a moment did it occur to Sterling that here was a way to get rid of life he has found so hateful and yet save himself the consequences of self slaughter. Not for a second did he contemplate relinquishing his tenacious hold
Sterling felt the drops fall down from his face. But he liked the sensation. His exulted in the struggle. All his apprehension was gone. Once or twice he actually laughed sternly. Suddenly he got a violent push which sent him backward. But he caught himself and raised his weapon. It was too dark to aim well, but he fired. There was another report almost simultaneously. Then he saw the bulk at the window again, and there was silence. The man was gone.
He wondered if he were wounded. He had always heard that at first a man felt little pain from a bullet. There was a pounding at the outer door of his flat.
“Let me in, Sterling,” the voice cried clamorously, “Are you hurt? If you don’t answer I’ll break in the door. I say, old fellow, speak if you can, quick! Can you hear me? Answer!”
Sterling got the door open.
“Come in, Henderson,” he cried. “Light the gas. I say, old fellow, I don’t believe I’ve got a scratch! The man went out that window there. No, I hadn’t gone to bed yet By Jove! I’m as sound as a nut. I guess my time hasn’t come yet. And, I say, Henderson, shake hands with me. I’ve a great deal to be thankful for. I hope I’ll manage to live a few years yet without making a mess of it. There’s something for me to do yet, no doubt. Yes, you’re right. I’m a lucky fellow—if you call it luck. Perhap’s it’s Providence No, I’m not nervous, thank you. But I’ll lock my windows. Good night.”
ELIA W. PEATTIE. -- MASONRY USED FOR BRIDGES. .
Embryo Architect: Many German engineers prefer masonry to iron for bridges, and they have revived the practice of building masonry bridges with lead joints at key and points of rupture near the spring lines. The Romans used sheets of lead between cut stones, and in bridges built in England in 1833 bands of lead were placed in the joints for two-thirds of the distance above the spring line. The used of the lead is for maintaining the proper interval of joint and for uniformly distributing the pressures
Bucklen’s Arnica Salve.
The best salve in the world for cuts, bruises, sores, ulcers, salt rheum, fever sores, tetter, chapped hands, chilblains corns and all skin eruptions, and positively cures piles or no pay required It is guaranteed to give perfect satisfaction or money refunded. Price 25 cents per box For sale by Goodman Drug Company.
TRUTHS OF NATURAL HISTORY.
Minneapolis Tribune: A fish dealer in Bath, Me .found eight twenty-penny nails in the stomach of a yellow perch. Evidently the unfortunate fish had been making preparations to nail a few fishermen’s [?es] during the season.
EVERY MAN AN ARCHITECT.
Somerville Journal: A man never realizes how much valuable advice his neighbors have to give away until he announces his intention to build a house
ABOUT IT.
Cultivator Teacher—Now, Johnny, since I have told you about the crusades, perhaps you can tell me what a pilgrim was’
Johnny—A holy tramp, mum.
Mr. John C. Ferlman, Albien, Ill. writes on January 18, 1891 ‘My wife has been a great sufferer from heachaches for over twenty years, and your Bradyrotine is the only medicine that has ever relieved her I can get you all the recommendations you want from here We take great pleasure in recommending it on all occasions’
242
"God Bless Us Every One"
An Unusually Attractive Christmas Number of the "World-Herald"
Has 13 en Prepared for Sunday,
December 20
Among the Most Distinguished Contributors Who Have Been Secured for this Occassion are the Following:
Sarah Bernhardt,
The distinguished French actress, contributes a short but remarkably strong Christmas story, entitled "A CHRISTMAS REPENTANCE." Both the French original and the English translation will be given.
Mrs. Frances Hodgson Burnett
Puts a period to her child's serial, "GIOVANNI AND THE OTHER,"
Luke Sharp
Is represented by an exceedingly powerful installment of his story. "FROM WHOSE BOURN."
Rev. JOHN WILLIAMS,
Rev. H. A. CRANE,
Rev. W. J. HARSHA,
Rev. C. H. GARDNER, Dean,
Rev. P. F. McCARTHY of St. Philomena's
Will each preach 400-word Christmas sermon.
"Met,"
In the brilliant Washington "special" of the World-Herald, has a peculiarly appropriate letter from the national capital.
Miss Jessie Allan,
Omaha's popular librarian, will tell of the CHRISTMAS BOOKS one ought to read.
Edgar L. Wakeman,
The traveler writes of "AN ENGLISH SAILORS ORPHAN HOME,"
Hon. J. Sterling Morton
Appears as the author of a
Sermon on Taxation,
Which will challenge the thinkers of the state.
Phillip Andres,
A Few Thoughts on Yule Tide.
Mr. Elia W. Peattie
Has a discriminating article on the PORTRAY OF SIR EDWIN ARNOLD.
The Local Staff,
That force the tireless workers to whose energy and enterprise Omaha is indebted for the best newspaper ever published in this city, will produce a symposium of pleasant reading for this occasion.
Among the Features Will Be:
A NIGHT WITH THE GERMAN "BEARS" : "DAN" a Nebraska story with a horse in it; HOW KITTIE CAUGHT SANTA CLAUS: THE BLAZING YULE LOG; BRINGING IN THE BOARS HEAD; CHRISTMAS IN A SNOW BANK; THE NIGHT EDITORS CHRISTMAS; "THE ENGINEER'S GOOD TURN"; ONE CHRISTMAS EXPERIENCE, "SHE FOUND HER PAPA," etc.
Christmas POETRY, JOKES, SUPERSTITIONS, STORIES, FASHIONS, GIFTS, SHOPPING HINTS, CAROLS, SERMONS.
Christmas Society, Christmas Sport, Christmas Trade and Traffic, Christmas Telegrams, Christmas Cablegrams, Christmas Local News, Christmas Advertisements, Christmas Editorials-Christmas from beginning to end-flavored with Turkey, and sage and cranberry sauce, redolent with Plum Pudding and garnished with Holly and Mistletoe.
With the best wishes of the season to its advertisers and its readers, the WORLD-HERALD dedicates this holiday edition to Omaha, Nebraska, and the West.
243
THE SENTIMENTAL MEREDITH
The Late Lord Lytton and His Place in the Literature of His Age.
His Fame Rests on "Lucille"-- An Effeminite Writer and a Noted Eccentric- A Failure as a Diplomate.
If there had been nothing to remember Lord Lytton by excepting his vice royalty experience in India, he would have had a jeer rather than a eulogy for his epitaph. It was [d'lserali?] who appointed him, and that statesman liked splendor and pretense. Owen Meredith was both splendid and pretentious, and he had a Holly adroitness which suited the illustrious adventurer who wrote "Lothair," D'Iserall's idea of a ruler was one who loved spangles and glitter, and this Lytton undoubtedly did, and it is said that when d'Iserall made Victoria Empress of India that Lytton second this errant ostentation with much gaudiness over in India.
The men of England never had any liking for Lytton. They said he was not English in his tastes. They didn't like his slickness. And they didn't like his verses.
But with women it is different. There never was a more popular poem written than "Lucille." It had a delicacy, and sentiment, and pathos. The women wept over it, quoted it, made presents of couples of it to their lovers. Men of letters refused to criticize it. They considered it beneath them. Its fine discriminations seemed to them [mawkish?]. They had no use for the prettiness of its lines nor the daintiness of its metrical elaboration. If by chance any of them did quote from it, they chose the most material verse in the volume. These are the lines and they are, from a poetical point of view, the poorest in the whole book:
We may live without poetry, music, and art; We may live without friends; we may live without books; But civilized man cannot live without cooks. We may live without books-what is knowledge but grieving? We may live without hope-what is hope but deceiving? We may live without love-what is a passion but pining? But where is the man who can live without dining? Even Meredith must have been ashamed of the cheap smartness of these lines.
Critcs whom one trusts so positively assert that there is no good "Lucille" that I hesitate to say that I think differently. I am free to confess that not one gleam of genius illumines its pleasant pages, but I do affirm that here and there are passages which a much greater poet need not have blushed for. Perhaps because I am a woman, with belongs to the sex, I am fond of the following lines, which close the poem of "Lucille," and strive to give in brief the character of the fascinating woman who is the heroine:
Power bid in pathos a fire veiled in cloud Yet still shining outward: a branch which through bowed By the bird in its passages, springs upward again: Through all symbols I search for her sweetness in vain! Judge her love by her life. For our life is but love. In act Pure was hers: and the dear God above. Who knows what his creatures have need of for life. And whose love included all loves, through much patient strife. Led her soul into peace. Love, though love may be given. In vain, is yet lovely. Her own native heaven More clearly she mirrored as life's troubled dream Wore away: and love sigh'd into rest, like a stream That breaks its heard over wild rocks toward the shore. OF the great sea, which bushes it up evermore. With its little wild wailing. No stream from its source. Flows seaward, how lonely soever it source, But what some land is gladdened. No start over rose. And set, without influence somewhere. Who knows. What earth needs from earth's lowliest creature? No life Can be pure in its purpose and strong in its strife And all life not be purer and stronger thereby The spirits of just men made perfect on high, The army of martyrs who stand by the throne. And gaze in the place that makes glorious their own. Know this, surely, at last. Honest love, honest sorrow. Honest work for the day, honest hope for the morrow. Are these worth nothing more than the hand they make weary. The heart they have saddened, the life they leave dreary.
This, I maintain, is poetry, although it may not be of the highest order.
It has been more than hinted that "Lucille" was a steal from first to last, and I have seen printed columns of French verification identical line for line with Owen Meredith's poetry. But I have never seen that French book from which "Lucille" is said to be taken nor had any proof that even if such a book exists it was written before "Lucille" I am inclined to the belief that though Lord Lytton was not a particularly good man, that at least he was an honest author. Certainly, there is something peculiar and personal in "Lucille" which finds its repetition in many of his shorter poems. The reason that "Lucille" is so popular is that it is so sentimental. The temptation is bewitchingly [?] with and virtue finally triumphs. The reader gets all of the charms of playing with sin, and is saved a bad taste in the mouth in the end by having everyone suddenly become very good indeed. There is nothing stalwart about "Lucille." It has a hot house air. Indeed, the atmosphere seems vitlated, as it is in evening drawing rooms where the gas burns, and men and women crowd each other. That is to say, the poem is artificial. The work is essentially effeminate, and it is sometimes hard to believe that the delicate houses with their foolish elaboration of detail, their loving dwelling upon unimportant matters, and their dainty and sympathetic delineations, were not penned by woman, Here is the description of "Lucille's" room, it is hard to imagine a man writing these words:
Over the soft atmosphere of this temple of grace. Rested silence and perfume. No sound reached the place. In the white curtains waver'd the delicate shade. Of the heaving acacia, through which the breeze played. Over the smooth wooden floor, polish'd darkens a glass Fragrant white Indian matting allowed you to pass In light olive baskets, by window and door. Some hung from the ceiling, some crowding the floor. Rich wildflowers plucked by Lucille from the hill. Some hung from the ceiling, some crowding the floor. Rich wild flowers plucked by Lucile from the hill. Seemed the room with their passionate presence to fill. Blue aconite hid in white roses respond; The deep belladonna its vermeil disclosed; And the fail saponite, and the tender blue belt, And the purple valerian-each child of the fell And the solitude flourished, fed fair from the source Of waters, the huntsman scarce holds in his course. Where the chamole and wizard, with delicate hoof. Pause or fit through the pinnacle silence aloof. Here you felt, by the sense of its beauty reposed. That you stood in the shrine of sweet thoughts.
It must be confessed that all this is rather maudlin. But it is pretty, for all that. There is a kind of 'fancy work" tendency to it. It suits the taste of a young woman who has nothing to do but make studies and go to 5 o'clock teas. And when the ingenious "Lord Alfred" and the bewitching Lucille really get in the midst of their love sorrows one is-if one is 10-simply swathed in various woe.
Next to "Lucille" in popularity comes "Aux Haliens." Here it is;
At Paris it was, at the opera there; And she looked like a queen in a book that night. With the wreath of pearl in her raven hair, And the broach on her breast so bright. Of all th' operas that Yordi wrote, The best, to my mind, is the "Trovatore," And Maria can sooth, with a tenor note, The souls in purgatory."
The moon on the tower slept soft as snow; And who was not thrilled in the strangest way. As we heard him sing, while the gas burned low. "Non ti scordar di me?"
The Emperor there, in his box of side, Looked grave, as if he had just seen The red flags wave from the city gate, Where his eagles in bronze had been.
The Empress, too, had a tear in her eyes. You'd have said that her fancy had gone back again, For one moment under that old blue sky, To the old glad life in Spain.
Well there in our front row box we sat Together, my bride betrothed, and I; My graze was fixed on my opera but, And hers on the stage hard by.
And both were silent, and both were sad; Like a queen she leaned on her full white arm. With that regal and indolent air she had; So confident of charm!
I have not doubt she was thinking then Of her former lord, good soul that he was, Who died the richest and roundest of a men, The Marquis of Carabas.
Meanwhile, I was thinking of my first love As I had not been thinking of aught for years, Till over my eyes there began to move Something that felt like tours.
I thought of the dress she wore last time, When we stood 'neath the cypress trees together In that lost land, in that soft clime, In the crimson evening weather
Of that muslin dress (for the eve was hot), And her warm white neck in its golden chain, And her full soft hair, just tied in a knot, And falling loose again.
And the jasmine flower in her fair young breast, (Oh the faint, sweet smell of that jasmine flower), And the one bird singing one to its nest, And the one star over the tower.
I thought of our little quarrels and strife, And the letter that brought me back my ring; And it all seemed then, in the waste of life, Such a very little thing
For I thought of her grave below the hill, Whore the sentinel cypress tree stands over; And I thought, "were the only living still, How I could forgive and love her!"
And I swear, as I thought of her thus, in that hour. And of how, after all, old things are best, That I smelt the smell of that jasmine flower. Which she used to wear on her breast.
It smelt so faint, and it smelt so sweet, It made me creep, and it made me cold! Like the scout that steals from the crumbling shoot Where a mummy is half unrolled!
And I turned and looked: she was sitting there. In a dim box over the stage; and drost In that insulin dress, with that full soft hair, And that jasmine in her breast!
I was here, and she was there; And the glittering horseshoe curved between! From my bride betrothed, with her raven hair And her sumptuous scornful [?].
To my early love, with her eyes downcast, And over her primrose face the shade, (In short, from the future back to the past), There is but a step to be made.
To my early love from my future bride One moment I looked. Then I stole to the door. I traversed the passage; and down at her side I was sitting, a moment more
My thinking of her, or the music a strain, Or something which never will be express, Had brought her back from the grave again, With the jasmine in her breast
She is not dead, and she is not wed! But she loves me now and she loved me then And the very first word that her sweet lips My heart grew youthful again.
The Marchiones there, of Carabus, She is wealthy, am I young, and handsome still? And but for her-well, w [?] that pass, She may marry whomever she will,
But I will marry my own first love, With her primose face, for old things are best. And the flower in her bosom I prize above The brooch in my lady a breast,
The world is filled with folly and sin, And love must cling where it can, I say; For beauty is easy enough to win, But one isn't loved every day.
And I think, in the lives of most women and men, There's a moment when all would go smooth and even If only the dead would find out when To come back and be forgiven.
But O, the smell of that jasmine flower, And O that music! and O the way That voice rang out from the donjon tower, Non ti scordar di me! Non ti acordar di me!
Owen Meredith a few years ago consented to explain what all this meant. I heard the explanation, but I have forgotten it. It seemed to me that was the only thing anyone could do- was to forget it.
Sometimes Meredith affected a classical strain, but it always had a sophomoric sound. Often he was merely lugubrious and seemed to temporarily lose that sense of art which he undoubtedly possessed. He has a pretty trick of making happy smilies. He knew how to portray all the suffering that comes from sensitiveness. He had a light philosophy, not vicious, but certainly not very deep.
Personally, he had a very poor taste, and would wear a false jewel with conscious pomposity. While he was in India he had a gold medal made for the chief bareback rider in a circus at Calcutta, and himself presented it, with a speech before all the people. The conservative Englishmen at home fairly howled with impatience and disgust. His wife is said to have been a lady with great adroitness, who succeeded in keeping from public knowledge those little amorous episodes from which the poet sought his inspiration. He is said to have resembled his father, Bulwer Lytton, in many ways, but in all respects he was a lesser man- not that Bulwer can be counted among the great. ELIA W. PEATTIE.
THOSE EXPENSIVE FRAMES.
Something More About the Photographers- "Want to Introduce"
The questionable methods alleged to be surrounding the sale of "photograph" tickets in the north end of town continue to unfold themselves Friday B. A. Eastinan called at the WORLD-HERALD office and told his adventures with the canvassing man.
A person representing himself as T. J. Cutter called at Mr.Eastman's house, 2017 Charles street, and told his story of free pictures for the price of frames. He had but for tickets, and to make up the six for he endorsed out the back of one a request that three pictures be taken for it. No other cost beyond that for a frame was to be charged, and the purchaser might if he chose get the frame elsewhere.
However, the Knowlton people demanded 50 cents in advance for the artist. Three dollars and fifty cents extra were also asked for three faces on one picture, although the collector had stated no extra charge would be made. A request to show new proof of one sitting which had been made was met with the statement that one of the sitters had smiled and new negative must be made. The Knowitons refused to show the proof.
Mrs. Eastman then sought to get the picture and take it elsewhere to be framed, but it was found that the canvasser had substituted another contract for the one he had shown, which made it obligatory to purchase a frame of Knowlton. The only frame shown was valued at $8.
The photographer refused to refund the money paid for the contract when objection was made to this extortion, so the Eastman family is still short on family portraits as well the money paid for the contract.
At least, such is Mr. Eastman's story.
REV. MR, WARFIELD ARRIVES.
Rev. F. A. Warfield arrived in Omaha yesterday from Brocton, Mass, and is stopping at the Brunswick. He will preach at the St. Mary's Avenue Congressional church today both morning and evening.
244
Lanier's Place in Letter
A Critical Notice of the Work of Sidney Lanier's Poems.
No One Has Surpassed Him in Depth of Feeling or Appreciation of Nature-Nora Perry's Poems.
"Poems of Sidney Lanier" New York, Charles Scribner's Sons.
Like flowers that spring from the rich decay of a human grave is the love that grows for a poet after he is dead.
Sidney Lanier is a name which was known to few while the bearer of it lived but growing daily dearer to those who find out God through the messages of His posts. One hesitates to say that Lanier is the greatest of American poets because it seems like ingratitude to others who are dear-to Whitman, Whitter, Longfellow, Lowell, Stoddard and Steadman. Aldrich and Harte, Poe-but one does not count Poe, for what he thought was art was only artifice. It is impossible to be a poet unless there is love and reverence in the soul. Poe had neither love nor reverence-except for Poe. Joaquin Miller, one almost counts, because now and then when he forgets himself has verses almost thrill. Still, they embody only a sentiment or an impression. There are so few who dug deep at the roots of truth.
Of course there is Holmes. Many in Boston think he is a poet. But a poet is a star which shines eternal in the heavens. Holmes is a calcium light, used to light banquet halls and eastern college chapels. And there is Bryant. He wrote Thanatopsis. The rest of his work is an anticlimax.
The greatest poet is he who tells the most truth in the highest way. Whitman has told the truth, but he forgot to put it into poetry. Longfellow has said so many things such a kind and familiar way, and lives so intimately in the homes of us all, sitting at our board, comforting us at night when we are tired, telling us always to hope and to be true, that it is hard to remember that he lacked the passion, the splendor, the wild music of great poets. A stream which flows through a plenteous land, adding to its beauty and its richness, is a blessed thing. But its not the sea!
Judged by standards of art and by standards of ethics, Lowell came nearer to being a poet than any other of the great Americans. But circumstances forced him to do what may be termed poetic drudgery. And it is Lowell's satires that have won for him the greater part of the unique reputation.
So, looking over the held of American poetry, I know of no one whose whole expression was full of the passion of art as was Lauler's.
He was born in Macon, Ga, in 1842, and he had as fine an ancestry as America can provide; his forefathers helped to make the farms, the laws and the drawing rooms of a new continent. His passion was music, and sometimes it found expression on the violin, and sometimes in "rhymed words," But his father found these pursuits hardly respectable, and so he made a laywer of him. In this profession he was able to earn more than a competence, but the [voices?] of the dead immortals clamored for his company, and he voluntarily took privation, and late lu his short life gave himself up to singing the songs that God created him to sing. He was in the war of the rebellion-and of course fought as Georgia fought. Probably he entered the war more because it represented an enthusiasm than for any other reason. He had a wife whom he loved, and whose tenderness was balm for the wounds of sorry fate. He struggled hand to hand with death for years and his verses are made eloquent by the poignant prick of his pain.
"From the time he was of age," writes one of his biographers, "he waged a constant, courageous, hopeless fight against adverse circumstances for room to live and write."
There never was a poet from when it is more difficult to make selections, for his thoughts flow on continuously-grand, wayward, compelling, unaccountable like the wind. He had not the allocation of epigrams. He does not [pa?] out of his thoughts in marketable packages. He is incapable of neatly rhymed clap-trap verses, which are so well liked by persons of votable tongues and indolent memories. And one thing it is necessary to explain, because in this he differs from any poet he never divorces man from the rest of nature. He does not count ties as the fuel and birds as the food, and the sea as the majestic servitor of man, but all as pastor of recreation-all skin. The cloud he calls his cousin, trees are his close friends, the marsh, the sea, the dawn are "of his fellowship." He is roused at night by the voices of the marsh which call to him. The little green leaves would not let me alone in my sleep," he cries. He seems to lie with his ear at the very hear of nature. He hears "The great soft rumble of the course of things." Never were verses less artificial. Big things are big with Lanier. Petty things petty. No [miasma?] form vanity far poisons the pure at which he breathes. Pope was his attires and his second wave philosophy, Bryon with his puerile bitterness, Shelley with his gibes at Delty, all seem pitiable compared with Lanier--speaking of them as men. Of course there is no intention of saying that the art of Laner compares with that of Shelly. America is yet to her Shelly and her Keats. Yet neither one nor the other of these great masters would have refused close fellowship with the man who could write lines as musicals as these. [?]
But on a sudden lot I marked a blossom shiver to and fro With dainty inward storm, and there within A down-drawn trump of yellow [Jessamine?] A bee Thrust up its and gold body [?], All in a honey madness hotly bound On blissful burglary
Here is a song of [?]--a ballad of the divine tragedy where peace and love triumphed over pain. All the forces of nature quiver with His passion; the [?] in the trees throbs as the blood does in his quaking frame. Poetry and art each their climax when they express the highest ideals of a people. Here is the most inspiring moment of Christian history redeemed from the horror with which the church has invested it and once more made luminous.
A BALLAD OF TREES AND THE MASTER Into the woods my master went, Clean forspent, forspent Into the woods my master came, Forspent with love and shame But the olives they were not blind to him, The little gray leaves were kind to him, The thorn tree had a mind to him When into the woods he came
Out of the woods my master went, And he was well content Out of the woods my master came, Content with death and shame When death and shame would woo him last, From under the trees they drew him last "I was on a tree they saw him--last When out of the woods he came
And here is a love song, warm as Bayard Taylor could have written. Dudley Buck has composed music for it which is no shame to the words.
EVENING SONG. Look of dear love, across the sallow sands, And mark you meeting of the sun and sea, How long they kiss in sight of all the lands, Ah! longer, longer we.
Now in the sea a red vintage meets the sun, As Egypt [?] [?] dissolved in rosy wine, And Cleopatra's night drinks all, its done, Love lay thine hand in mine.
Come forth, sweet stars and comfort heaven's heart. Glimmer, ye waves, 'round else unlighted sands, Oh, night, divorce on sun and sky apart, Never our lips, our bonds
The fierce and grotesque spirit of the French revolution is embodied in this wild snatch from "The Jacquerie."
SONG FROM "THE JACQUERIE"
The hound was cuffed, the hound was kicked O the ears was cropped, O the tail was nicked, (ALL)--Oo--hoo-o, howled the hound The bound into his kennel crepts
He rarely wept, he never slept, His mouth he always open kept Licking his bitter wound, The hound (ALL)--U to-to, howled the hound.
A star upon his kennel shone That showed hound a meat-bare bone (ALL)- O hungry was the hound! The hound had but a [?] wit, He seized the bone, he crunched, he bit "An thou wert master, I had silt Thy throat with a huge wound," Quo' hound (ALL)-O, angry was the hound.
The star in Castle window shone The master lay in bed, alone (ALL)--Oh no, why not, quo' hound, He leapt, he seized the throat, he tore And rolled the head in the kennel door, And fled and salved his wound, Good hound! (ALL)--U- lu lo, howled the hound. Read this bit of sentiment. Could any thing be more purely delicate--ore daintily refined!
THE DOVE.
If haply thou, O [?] Morn, Shouldn't call along the curving sphere "He main, Dear Night, sweet Moor, nay, leave me not [?] scorn! With soft halloos of heavenly love and pain,-
Shoulds thou, O spring! a-cower in covert dark, 'Gainst proud supplanting summer sig thy plea, And moved the mighty woulds through [?] bark Till mortal heartbreak throbbe in every tree
Or (grievous if that may be [?] so on') If thou, my heart, long holden from thy sweet, Should knock death's door with mellow shock of tune, Sad inquiry to make--when may we meet?
Say, if ye three, O Morn! O Spring! O Heart Should chant [?] of grief and love Ye could not mourn with more melodious [?] Than [d?] y doth you [?] [?] dove.
But none of these selections fitly represent the genius of Lanier, because it is in his 'Hymns of the Marshes" and other such songs of nature that the depth of his perception becomes apparent. From these it is impossible to quote, for no one [par?] has its proper significance without the whole. In these the poet lives with elemental things--with those things which are "fresh from the hand of God". The wind, sun dawn and moonset, rain with its music, "the long reluctant waves," growth and decay--these are the things he counts beautiful. Sophistry would stifle in air so rare. Doubt [?] not climb such heights. By the [?] of this majestic placidity one sees how kindly is the link between life and death--how short is the step from the apprenticeship of the present to the full knowledge and equipment of eternity. ELIA W. PEATTIE
The Shape of the Earth.
"Geodesy" J. Howard Gore Houghton, [M?] & Co., Boston. J. S. Calfield, Omaha
This is the latest addition to the excellent Riverside Science series, which numbers in its contents Thurston's "Heat as a Form of Energy," Mendenhall's "Century of Electricity," and other works. In the book the author has only given a comprehensive sketch of the science, reserving as his life work a critical history of the subject. The reader is astonished at himself for becoming so interested as he does in [?] a science. This is due to the entertaining way in which Mr. Gore handles the subject. Probably no one living is so well fitted, so far as possession of facts is concerned, as Mr. Gore to write a critical history of, or in fact anything pertaining to geodesy, for he is not only in the first rank of mathematics, but he has devoted his life to this branch of the subject, and he also possesses the original reports describing the work prosecuted in many lands and at divers epochs. It is therefore a comparatively easy thing for him to write upon it, but few could have condensed into 200 small pages so graphic and understandable account (from a layman's views) of how our present valuable knowledge concerning the earth's area and curvature was evolved from mere conjectures to absolute mathematical facts.
Nora Perry's Poems.
"Lyrics and Legends," by Nora Perry, Boston Little, Brown & Co.
No one sings a sweeter strain than Nora Perry and this collection of her verses is as pure and elevated as any she has written [?] the immortal. "After the Ball." These poems are divided into songs of "Spring," "Summer," "Autumn," "Winter," "Love and Friendship," "Loss and Gain," "Hope and Memory," "Songs of New England," and "Ballads."
SECRET SOCIETY NOTES.
Echoes From the [A?]-Rooms of Omaha's Secret Orders
The Knights of the Golden Eagle will give their first ball of the season next Friday evening at G. A. R. hall.
Wednesday evening Red Cross castle will receive its supreme chief.
A union ball and supper will be given at Goodrich hall next Thursday evening by Maple, Omaha and Beech camps, Modern Woodmen of America.
Abraham Lincoln garrison, No. 13, gave its [?] social hop and high five party Thursday evening last at the post hall at Fort Omaha. Dancing and card parties were kept up until 12 o'clock, when a bountiful [?] was given by the [?]. The music was furnished by the Second Infantry band and was greatly enjoyed. It is intended to continue these socials during the coming winter the [?] one having proved such a decided success.
The badge recently adopted by the Sons of the American Revolution consists of an eight-point cross, [?] midway by a wreath in green enamel. On the obverse side is a medallion bearing the head of Washington, with the motto, "[?] at Patria". On the reverse the "Minute-Man" and the name of the society appear. This is held in suspense by the talons of an eagle, and the whole by a red and blue ribbon.
SCIENTIFIC CRACKSMEN They Make a Raid on the Sidney, Ia., Postoffice
SIDNEY, Ia., Oct. 24--[Special]-- The postoffice and Hill's clothing house were entered by cracksmen last night. The safe in the postoffice was blown open and about $200 in cash taken. The thieves procured drills, chisels, and sledges from the blacksmith shops, and did a scientific job. They wrapped the safe in canvas tie sacks, and braced the door to prevent the report being heard any distance. After smashing the safe they cooly sat down in the alley and divided the cash box and examined registered letters, strewing the ground with what they did not want. They then went to the barn of N. C. Wilson and took a bay and a black horse and a single harness. Finding the black horse lame they tied him to the McCracken's fence where, it is evident, they enjoyed a [?] pieces of egg shell and bologna being [?]. Hill is short several overcoats, jewelry, neckwear, etc. They start in to tap Hill's safe, but the drill would not work after burning a lot of matches they gave it up.
Catarrh Can't Be Cured With LOCAL APPLICATIONS, as they cannot reach the seat of the disease. Catarrh is a blood or constitutional disease, and in order to cure it if you have to take internal remedies. Hall's Catarrh cure is taken internally and acts directly on the blood and mucous surfaces. Hall's Catarrh Cure is no quack medicine. It was prescribed by one of the best physicians in this country for years and is a regular prescription. It is composed of the best tonics known, combined with the best blood purifiers, acting directly on the mucous surfaces. The perfect combination of the two ingredients is what produces such wonderful results in curing catarrh. Send for testimonials free.
F. J. CHENEY & CO. Props Toledo, O. Sold by druggists, price 75c
VERDICTS IN A CATTLE CASE. turned a verdict yesterday allowing the
The jury in the case of the Utah National bank against Burke & Frazier re-bank $7, 440.56. The suit grew out of a cattle shipment some time ago and the case has been tried several times, but never before with the result of a verdict.
245
A HOCHE-POTE OF GOSSIP
Chatter About Souvenir Spoons as an Incentive to Travel.
The Frenchman's Tea-Drinking Aunt-How Thebes Was Recalled - A Remarkable Family on Sunday Island.
The passion for collecting spoons from every city which one visits continues-as one would, say of a diphtheria epidemic-unabated. And every lady who really prides herself on having the daintest novelty in household godlets, now shows her full set of silver spoons, procured in cities as diverse as the patterns of the handles. San Francisco and Florence St. Petersburg and St. Augustine, Havana and Munich rattle together in metallic merriment, and display their roval designs, and Omaha is now represented in these collections by a most appropriate design. It is the head of an Omaha Indian-an actual portrait, and therefore, a really impressive face. The feathers of the head dress form the end of the handle, and the slope of the shoulders makes the outline of the spoon. Beneath, an open gate betrays the name of Omaha. This is the work of a very well known dealer a deal of good designing, but who has never confessed to his workmanship until recently. This maia for collecting spoons as souvenirs of one's journeyings is a harmless enough one, and does quite as well as any other device for getting rid of surplus money. But it emphasizes the fact which is undeniably true, that a good many travel, not because they want to see and know the world, but merely because they do not want to stay at home. It is somewhat irritating to know the benefits of life so frequently come to those who have not the ability to appreciate them. There are hundreds of girls in Europe today who remember very little about the cities they visit, except that they got a spoon of a certain design there on a particular street. And meantime, at home there are girls throbbing with the fine curiosity of the student or the adventurer, who would use such opportunities of travel in the largest and best ways. I remember once talking with a friend of mine who had just come back from Egypt. "Tell me something about Thobes." I said to her, stretching myself on the grass in expectation of a treat. "Tell me everything about it that you can remember." "Thebes," she said dreamily, taking a beautiful hat from her head and looking at it reflectively," is really the most surprising place. The shops are as good as those in Paris. You will hardly believe it, but I got this hat there." I was telling this story one night to a friendly little Frenchman up in the harbor of Lake, in Alaska. "Your friend was young," he cried charitably, "and you say she was also pretty." One forgives everything to such-even to be filled by one- that is also not past forgiveness. But consider my case. I have an aunt who is horribly old, but who never dies. When she does, what she has will be mine. She adores me, principally because when I go to see her I tell her very wild stories. All the time I am telling them she holds up her fan and emits little shrieks of horror. But all the same, she has cut off all her nephews, who are good young men, and do not amuse her. Fancy, then, my feeling when six months out of every year this dear aunt of mine exhausts her strength and consumes her fortune by traveling over the globe. And for what purpose? My dear madam, only to see in how many latitudes she can drink tea! Even if it were coffee the thought would not be so revoiting. But tea! She learned to drink it from an English lover whom she once had. He died, and I suppose her enternal tea drinking is a sort of votive offering-as one burns a lamp before the Virgin for the repose of a friend's soul. This aunt of mine has steeped tea in the shadow of the pyramids and never once looked up at the monuments. She has set her pot in the geyser water of New Zealand, and returned with poor reports of the country because her tea tasted of sulphur, she has roasted in Algiers and drunk tea with the notables of the English colony, and last year, if you can believe me, she actually went to South Africa and drank tea with a Dutch woman who whips her slaves with her own hands. She can show you a dent that her tea pot got in the Indian ocean, and another that it got on the steppnes of Russia, and I don't distinctly remember, but I think she told me she once dropped it off the matterhorn and walked down herself and picked it up off the ledge of a precipice." He was a nice little Frenchman, and I highly valued him and his lies, but I found out that with all his cleverness he made mistakes. There was an English woman on board our boat who divided her stateroom with me. She got on at a port somewhere in British Columbia, and at the close of a day in harbor. I had been ashore all day engaged in the pleasing occupation of wrecking buggies. That is to say, I had a good horse, who had a mouth of cast iron and a will as an unbending as the British lion's . And this brute instead, whenever we met a horse and vehicle on the road of turning out to the left. I resisted I swore by the American eagle that I would not be conquored by a bloody British quadruped. And I wasn't. I had my way. But to my astonishment I ran into nearly every team I encountered. it was not till the day was nearly ended that I found out that the horse was right and I was wrong, and that it was the custom of the country in driving to turn to the left. "Well, I came back from this day's exciting experience to find a most astonishing pile of bags and bandboxes and paceils before my stareroom door, and our them was sitting a quiet looking woman whom I immediately took for a lady's maid. "I am sorry you were kept waiting without," I said, "why didn't you ask the stewards to let you in?" "I wished to wait and see if you would be willing that I should share the stateroom with you." she said sweetly. She had a lovely voice and a fine enunciation and a second later I thought that what she was really waiting for was to see if she wanted to stay with me. And then I knew she was not a lady's maid at all, but a middle aged gentlewoman, who was seeing the world I found. In fact, that she was making a journey around the world, and that she had given herself four years to do it in. "She also," cried the little Frenchman when I told him about her, "is trying to see how many elimates she can drink or tea, or perhaps she is knitting an afghan, and wishes to add each row in the territory of a different monarch." But he was wrong. She was a great traveler. She had the spirit of those old Englishmen in her who conquered the unknown continent of America, who penetrated the orient and Africa and the wild islands of the Pacific. She would sit in a frail boat that was being forced up the rapids and never open her thin lips; she would not even shut her eyes when a frightened shoal of salmon swerved the boat from its course, and then in their frenzy dashed against the stones and incarnadined the shallows with their blood, she would plod all day through the ranking chaperal drenched and without food, and never complain; she would wade a creek or climb a mountain or go down in a mine or ruin with the miners from a dynamite binast, or slide down an incline in a quartz mill, and all with an unassuming. spinster-like air that was the very acme of modesty and feminity to be sure she usually had her knitting along, but she took that for the same reason that the gentlemen took their tobacco. The needles used to protrude from her pocket when she stood on the glorified ice of a glacier lit by the sunset. Crevasses of ultra in arine, terribly beautiful, yawned at her feet and beneath goined the ice in its never ending struggle sounding like a world a making back of her the uprising wall of crystal flushed into red. transparent and mystic But this English gentlewoman was undismaved. She knew that her boots were water tight, that her purse was in the ship's safe and that her knitting needles were in her pocket. Fate could not harm her. Folk with hysterical sensibilities are usually called eloquent. My friend, because her digestion was so good and the action of her heart perfectly normal, was not eloquent, but she used to tell in lucid and accurate language about the places she had visited and the people she had seen. The temperance of her language made her relations positively classical. I have never met man or woman who was so unaffectedly truthful and realistic. This accuracy was of course much more valuable than eloquence. Here is one of the stories she told me: "A number of gentlemen of New Zealand engaged a steamer for three months for the purpose of taking them among the islands of the Pacific. With them were their wives and children; and every comfort was provided which would make the surroundings home-like and ease-giving. One day when we were cruising around in the midst of the Tabiti group it was discovered that our supply of water was unexpectedly low, and the captain said we would be obliged to land at the first island we came in the way of. It was not long before land was sighted, and in a few hours we anchored off a rocky coast. The boats were lowered, and the day being beautiful and calm, the passengers were told that it was safe for them to go ashore if they wished to explore the island. But so very uninviting was the aspect of the black rocks that few availled themselves of this opportunity, and among the women only I went with my little piece. There was a tissue in the black rock, and we had some difficulty in getting our boat safely through, because a strong sea surged in and out, but once beyond this cleft we entered upon a very small horbor, almost as round as a sancer, and beautifully calm, with green clear water in it and a shelving beach on which we could see the white pebbles. We had never one of us a doubt that we were visiting an uninhabited island, and you can therefore fancy our surprise when we saw a very pretty skiff, well painted-though most curiously-anchored where the tides would not injure it by dashing it out the beach. "A moment later three girls full grown or almost so, appeared upon the sands and upon seeing us stood perfectly still, something in the way a bear does after it has leaped out of the brush and first catches sight of a hunter. After a few seconds, survey of us, one of them started to run, but the others caught and held her. Then the three walked together toward the water. Their feet were bare, and so were their arms to the shoulders. Their skirts were of faded blue jean, and they wore bodices of untanned leather, laced in front with little thongs. After their first fear had been quieted they waited for us with dignity, standing squarely on their feet, with their arms hanging down at the sides. I said to one of the gentlemen that they looked like women who could run a long way without tiring, and he replied that I was right, and that it was only persons with developed and educated muscles who knew the value of letting them rest supinely when they were not in active use. We had much curiosity to know what language they would speak, and the men called out to them: "Ahoy there, and they answered: "Ship ahoy." They had fine strong voices, which were sweet, but not in the way that a woman's voice usually is- They were more like masculine voices which were very musical in their quality. When we were landed Iran to them and held out my hand, to which they each gave a hearty grasp, and in ten minutes I learned that they had been born on the island and had never set foot on any other land. The oldest of them was 18. The youngest was 13, but she was almost as large as the others. They spoke elegent English, but with a little burr on the r, which was explained by the fact that their name was Campbell. I asked them to take me to their mother, which they did, after inviting the gentlemen and sailers to follow. Some of the ground had a barren look, as if it were composed of lava or slag; but these were the higher portions of the island, and in the lower lands were very fruitful fields. These were in a high state of cultivation, and wheat was growing there and what you Americans call corn, and many kinds of vegetables. There were besides rows of bushes bearing small fruits, and some orchards composed of wild trees, which had been set out in an orderly fashion and cultivated. The house was part of stone and part of logs, all cemeted together so that no storm could penetrate it. It had no noticeable deliciency expecting the lack of glass. For, though small panes were set in the large wooden shutters, they were not great enough either as to size or as to numbers to furnish sufficient light. But they told me that it was seldom indeed that they had occasion to close these shutters. The interior of the house was wonderful. You cannot imagine the simplicity of it, or how much better and less material that simplicity seemed than all the wasteful and hampering elaboration we burden our homes with. A large, strong table, well shaped chairs, in which one might rest, but not lounge, a fine clock, a fire place, lamps without chimneys, but with large, round wicks, and a shelf of books-these were the furnishings of the apartment. An alcove showed shelves containing dishes, most of which were of baked earth. In the rear was a shed containing household and farming tools. A the side was a long room divided into several parts with rustic screens made of crooked twigs nailed on frames, and on the sides of these rooms were bunks for sleeping, filled up with sweet hay, and having stout elegant blankets of Scottish material, folded across the foot. They were blankets which would stand fifty years of use. The mother received us with some excitement, but with courtesy of manner, and confirmed my opinion that these were gentlefolk. Soon, the father came in with his four sons. One of these sons was about 17 years of age, but the rest were younger than the girls, and it was explained to me that the girls had been obliged to do a large part of the farm work, which accounted for their fine physical development. The father had been off the island on two occasions since he landed on it eighteen years ago. Both times he had been for supplies, and had ventured in a small boat, but had been brought back by a steamer. We could not learn from his conversation why he had chosen to isolate himself in such an extraordinary manner. He was a gentleman of education and of originality, and had a peculiar way of expressing himself, which made one remember everything he said. He was not without firtune, for he told us that he thought of sending his children to England to finish their education He had taught them Latin and even the higher mathematics, and he had also instructed them on the violin. All of the family also spoke French and Mr. Campbell said he had passed several years in Paris. When he and his wife were set off the steamer on this lonely island with their implements for farming and housekeeping they had no children. They said, indeed, that it had not occured to them that they would have children, and that they never dreamed of such happiness and peace as had come to them. It was, of course, apparent that they had some vital reason for leaving the world, but the person does not live, I suppose, who would have the tomerity to ask what it was. Both Mr. and Mrs. Cambell were persons of such dignity that I was almost temped to call their behavior majestic. I never saw royal personages behave with more statellness. They would have us all eay with them, and they gave us coarse bread from flour of their own making and plum sauce, potatoes, a sort of shade and tea of excellent flavor. Mr. Cambell had brought cattle to the island five years before, and we had butter, cheese and cream. We afterward saw his cattle, of which he now had five, two of them being young heifers which he had taught to wear a yoke and which were of great service in farming. You might have expected such people to be heavy in conversation, but they were the very contrary. Their manners of joking was quaint and strange. It reminded me of the jokes that were in fashion in Shakespeare's day, and as Shakespeare was one of their few books it is not impossible that they got the fashion from him. They laughed much and very musically. None of them wore hats. They had very few clothes on, but they did not give one the impression that they were unclothed. There was nothing about them that suggested the savage. None of them apologized for their manner of living. On the contrary, I felt impelled to apologize for mine so ignoble did it seem when compared with theirs We were taken over the island, which was a curious, volcanic formation, rising by a succession of grotesque hills to a considerable mountain, at the apex of which was a crater. But it was silent and cold, and we were told that we might go down into it with safety. Near the apex a sort of observatory had been built, and here. when any of the family had been to the far side of the island, they sometimes slept. As they had first landed on the island on the seventh day of the week, they called it a Sunday island, but it is not that Sunday island which is designated on the maps. In fact, I do not think the island we visited appears on the map at all. "When we had bade them farewell and got back to our vessel, the other members of our party were most incredulous. And it was only when we loaded a boat with delicacies to send ashore, that they would believe us. We also put in two books, one was Ben Hur and the other Bryce's American Commonwealth We would willingly have added many more, but we feared to disturb the serenity of those finely balanced minds. Caesar's Commentaries, the Illiad, Shakespeare, Burns, Cornelle, Fenelon, Milton, Racine, Rousseau and Wordsworth were not books easily companioned. There were of course, a number of modern books that I would gladly have sent them had I had copies with me, but it would have been sacrillege to have given them any of the novels with which we amused ourselves on shipboard. In return for our gifts we received a quaint and elegant note from Mr. Campbell. I suppose I shall never hear of this strange family again, but they impressed me more than any. Family that ever I met: and I like to remember and talk of them. For they were a little commonwealth to themselves They had no laws and were therefore perfectly moral-" "Dear me," I cried, "what an anarchistical sentiment!" The good lady looked suprised at herself, and to hide her confusion worked in a row of lilac on her canvas toilet bag. Elia W. Peattie.
AN EDITORIAL SERMON. Rockport (Lex.) Picayne: Take things as they are and make the best of them. Prudence in a woman should be an instinct, not a virtue. Happiness is like the echo - it answers but does not come. Vice in the young fills us with horror-in the old, disgust. Caution is often wasted, but it is a very good risk to take. The man who never makes any blunders seldom makes any good hits. The great difficulty about advice is the preponderance of quantity over quality. When a man has the reputation of being pinin spoken it is a sure sign that he never sees anything good in others. The slowest and dullest woman soon gets on to a new wrinkle. If it appears in another woman's face. Don't think that because you have exhausted all your own recources you have exhausted all in the world. There are acres to be ploughed outside your own gate. Because a man makes a loud noise by continually shooting off his mouth. don't think for an instant that it is an overflow of brain power. Consdider the mule: he is a good example. A Sale Investment: In one which is guarenteed to bring you unsatisfactory results, or in case of failure a return of purchase price On this safe plan you can buy from our advertised Druggist a bottle of Dr. King's a New Discovery for Consumption It is guarenteed to bring relief in ever case, when used for any affection of Throat, Lungs or Chest, such as Consumption, Inflammation of Lungs, Bronchitis, Asthma, Whooping Cough, Croup, ect. It is pleasant and agreeable to taste, perfectly safe and can always be depended upon. Trial bottles free at Kubb & Co's Drug Store.
HIS FIRST DAY ON. Galveston News. A Texas newspaper man lately promted from the position of agricultural editor to that of book reviewer notes an observation called to his attention by the the change when he writes: I have been transported from the environments of the barn-yard to the dust-covered surroundings of the library and notice with painful surprise that an able-bodied cockroach can devour the entrails and back of a muslin-covered tome as quick and slick as a cow can chew up a shuck collar." CURED books on blood and skin diseases free. The Swift Specific Co Atlanta, GA MY BOY.
Swift's Specific S.S.S. cured my little boy of sorfula, from which he had suffered a long time. I had tried the best physicians and great quantities of medicines without avail. A few bottles of S.S.S. did the work He is now enjoying the best of health and has not had any symptoms of the disease for over a year. W.A. Clayton, Addie, N.C. Books on Blood and Skin Diseases Free. The Swift Specific Co. Atlanta Ga
Manhood Restored. Sanativo the Wonderful Spanish Remedy, is sold with a written guarenteed to cure all Nervous Diseases, such as weak memory, loss of brain power headache wakefulness lost manhood, nervousness latitude all drains and loss of power of the generative organs in either sex caused by over -exertion, youthful indescretions, or the excessive use of tabacco, youthful indescretions, opium or stimulants which ultimately lead to infirmity consumption and insanity put up in convenient form to carry in the veer pocket. Pocket is a package or 8 to 5 with every order we give a written guarenteed to cure or refund the money. Sent by mail to any address. Circular free mention this paper. Address Madrid Chemical Co, Branche office for USA chicago ill for sale in omaha nkb, by Kuhn &co Cor 14th and Douglas Sta. A.D, Foster &Co. Council Bluffs. Il A French Female Regulator. Dr. Le Due's Periodical Pills She warranted to relieve tardy irregular and delpayed mestruations established in Europe is 1880 England 1880 United States 1887 we sell this branch pull at a box or three for regularies or refund the money These goods can be sent direct per mail on receipt of money These pulls act directly on the genstrative organs in females and cure suppression of the menses from whatever cause All jobbers druggists and the public supplied by Goodman Drug Co. Omaha. Neb. WOODS' PENETRATING PLASTER is QUICK. Others in comparison are slow or DEAD. If suffering try WOOD'S PLASTER. It penetrates, its heves, cures. All Druggists. Gonorrhea, Glert and Positively cured in two days By the remedy trade marked the King formity of Paris, France. It ommits no odor of the breath does not stain the clothing can be carried convention in the vest pocket and is the only remedy in America that can be sent per mail. it is dissolved against and is at absorbed into the infamel paris. We will refund the money if is causes structure it never does we warrant packages the public druggists and jobbers supplied with the genuine by Molormick Lund, druggists wholesale and retail agents Omaha.
STOVE REPAIRS of all kinds ranges and furnaces water attachments fitted and connected. Gasoline stoves and gas burners repaired stoves stored also.
James Hughes 504 N. 16th and 607 S. 13th st. Minn's and quick tooth and headache cachets 14 the only known one remedy that relieves in 15 minutes without fail headaches toothace and nenraigia stope toothache by quieting nerves and acting as a sedetive it is the cheapest having it doses for 50c we warrant this remedy to do as above goodman drug co and leslie and leslie and all druggists and jobbers, omaha.