The Columbian., November 16, 1883, Image 1

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THE COLUMBIAN.
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ST. HELENS, COLUMBIA CO., OR,.,
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THE COLUMBIAN.
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VOL. IV.
ST. HELENS, COLUMBIA COUNTY, OREGON: NOVEMBER 1G, 1883.
NO. 15.
' Oae tquare (10 Uses) first insertion
f? 00
1 C
Three months;
a sea suLatqcunt utaertton.
X XI -Eld
' HOT WHOLLY DXAD.
We et.ll them dead, the lored and lost
Whose faees dar bo more we see.
Tbo who the sol-ma b mod nave crowed
Tnat bordera rut Eternltv.
Yet all that in their lives wu svrett
fhe worda taey spake, the emiles they gare.
Tan kindly acta love made complete
Paired not with ta.m into the grave.
For these their blessed influence
Still round our pathway weetly east,
'An J open to the soul's pure sente
Tbe dearest memories of tbe past.
We lay our precious dead away.
Jioloceer tbeir fsir forms we see, .
And part of our lives died the day
Their moital being ceated to be.
The loving; way that made them dear.
- Their gt-atieuera untouched by art.
la tweet imrr8loua linger her-.
For of ourselves they are a pwt.
Our e'me these loved onea helped to cast
In honor', moult; they planted aeeda
Cf bop within ns that at last
Wire ripened Into life's bent deeds.
And though no more their hands we press.
Though tbey have vanished irvm our aide,
Tbe glory of their loveliDeae
Faded not with them when they died.
Tbesaeeteomosntonshln we mls
As we recall the words they sld,
But in our scuts their presence is
We cannot call them wholly dead.
IT AS IT THE SOUL OF THE BURtiO
MASTEBT I hare always professed a high es
teem, and even a sort of veneration, for
the noble wine of the Bhine; it spark
les like champagne; it warms one like
burgundy, it lubricates . the throat like
bordeaux, it stimulates the imagination
like the liquors of Spain, it renders ns
tender like tbe lachryma Christi; in
fine, and above all, it makes ns dream
and unfolds to oar eyes the vast realms
of phantasy.
In the fall of 184G I decided to make a
pilgrimage to Johannibberg. I
Mounted on a miserable horse with
hollow flanks, to whose intercostal
cavities I had disposed two canteens, I
was making the journey by short stages.
What an admirable spectacle wine
culture is! One of my cans was always
empty,' the other one always full. My
only regret was to be unable to share uiy
pleasure with one capable of appreciate
ing it. One evening, when a few sun
beams were still lingering among the
large vine leaves, I heard the trot of a
horse behind me. I turned slightly to
the left to leave him a free passage,
when to my great surprise I recognized
my friend Hippel. xou fcnow mppel,
his fleshy nose, his special month for
degustatien, his stomach bnilt in three
stories. He looked like the good Silene
pursuing the god Bacchus.
ilippel was traveling witii tne same
object as myself ; a distinguished ami
teur, he wished to fix his opinion, about
the shade f certain hills, concerning
which he had always entertained some
pany, halting now and then to inspect
our canteens.
The night was already advanced when
we arrived at a small tavern on the hill
side. We dismounted. Hippel glanced
through a small window, almost on a
level with the ground. There was an
old woman asleep near a table on which
was a lighted lamp.
"Hi!" cried my companion, "open tbe
door, mother."
The old woman startled, arose, came
to the window, and pressed her old
shrunken face against the panes.
When the old sibyl had distinguished
ns, she, grimaced a smile and opened the
door.
"Come in, gentlemen, come in," said
she, in a trembling voice, "I shall awake
my son; make yourselves at home."
Liet us have oats for our horses- and
a good supper for us," cried Hippel.
"Yes, yes," hastened to say the old
woman.
She went out and we heard her ascend
stairs more perpendicular than those of
Jacob.
We remained a few minutes in a low
and smoky dining-room. Hippel made
a tour ot the kitchen, and returned ca
ressing his stomach.
"We shall have some supper, yet,"
said be. In effect it was placed on the
table shortly after a fine ham, a bottle
on each side, one of red wine, the other
of white.
"Which do yon prefer?" asked the
hostess.
"I must taste it firs," answered Hip
pel, handing his glass to the old woman
who had poured him red wine. She also
filled mine. We tasted it. It was a
strong and sharp wine. Ic had a pecu
liar taste, a perfume of cypress. I drank
a few drops and a profound sadness took
possession of my very soul. Hippel, on
tbe contrary, clapped his tongue with an
air of satisfaction.
"Famous!" saH he, "famous! Where
do vou get it, good woman?"
"From a hill in the neighborhood,"
said she, with a strange smile.
"Famous hill,"aswered Hippel, filling
Lis glass again. It seemed to me that
he was drinking blood.
"What a face yon make, Liudwig,
said he, "what ails you?"
"Nothing." I replied, "but I don't like
that red wiue."
"There is no disputing with tastes,
observed Hippel, emptying the bottle.
"Some more," he called; "some mors,
and exactly tbe same. Ah! that's' a gen
erous, vivying wine."
Hippel leaned back in his chair. His
face seemed to benome ileoompoeed. I
emptied tbe bottle of white wine at a
draught and joy seemed to return to my
htart. My friend's preference for red
wine Keeuied ridiculous, though ex
cusable. We continued to drink until 1 o'clock
in the uiorniu. Hh the red, and I the
white wino . One o'clock! It is the hour
whf n celctttial music tickles the ear of
the dreamer, and whinners inthesonl
the harmony of invisible spheres. It i
the hour when mice gambol on the floor,
and bats unfold their velvety wiugs and
bail silently over our heads.
"One o'clock!" said I to my comrade,
"we must rest if we wish to start in the
morning."
Hippel arose, tottering. The old wom
an conducted us to a room with two beds
and wished us-a sound sleep. We un
dressed, and I remained the last to put
out the light. I had scare, ly touched
my bed when Hippel was in a profound
sleep. His respiration resembled the
rroa of the tempest. I could not oloss my
eyea. A tnouaana iantaatio figures were
flying around me. Imps and witches
were executing their cabalistic dances
on the ceiling. Singular effect of the
white wine! I arose, lighted mr lamp.
and, drawn by an invincible curiosity, I
approached Hippel 'a bed. His face was
red, his mouth partly open, the blood
seemed to' beat in his temples, his lips
moved as if ne wished to speak. I re
mained immobile, near him, and should
have liked to look to the very bottom of
bis soul, but sleep is an impenetrable
mystery ; like death, it keeps its secrets.
At times Hippel s iaoe expressed terror,
then sadness; sometimes it seemed to
contract as if he was going to cry. That
Kod face, made for laughter, had a
strange character under the impress of
pain.
What was passing at the bottem of this
abyss! I saw full well tue waves on tne
surface, but whence came the profound
commotions? All at once : the sleeper
arose, his lids opened and I saw that his
eyes were white. Every muscle in his
face was quivering, his lips seemed to
wish to make a cry of horror. Then he
fell back and I heard a sob. "Hippel!
Hippel!" I screamed, pouring a pitcher
of water over his head.
He awoke.
"Ah! thank God, it was a dream! Iam
so glad that you awoke me.""
'Very well; but yon must tell me your
dream."
"Yes to-morrow. Let me sleep. I
am sleepy."
'Hippel, yon are ungrateful; it will be
all forgotten to-morrow.
"Cordieu! leave me alone; l am
asleep."
I would not listen to it.
Hippel, you will dream again, and
this time I shall leave you to your fate
without mercy." .
These words produced a magical effect.
"Dream again!" he yelled, jumping
out of bed. "My clothes, quick! My
horse! I am going. This bouse is
haunted. You are right, Ludwig. the
devil inhabits these walls. Let us go!"
He dressed himself hurriedly. Then I
stopped him.
"Hippel." said 1, "way snouid we run
away? It is only 3 o'clock, let us rest."
I opened the window, ana tus tears
vanished as the fresh night air came in.
Leaning on the window sill he related
what follows:
"We were talking yesterday of the
famous vineyards of Bhinsau," said he.
Although I have never been in tnat sec
tion, my mind was undoubtedly preoc
cupied with it, and the rich wine I drank
cave a somber snade to my laeas. w nat
is most astonishing is that I imagined, in
my dream, that I was tne burgomaster
of Welche (neighboring village), and I
was so identified with that man that I !
could describe him like my pelf. This
burgomaster was a man of middle bight,
and almost as big as myself. He wore a
coat with long basques and brass but
tons. Down his pantaloons was another
row of small buttons like nail heads. A
three-cornered hat covered his bald head ;
in fine he was a man of a stupid gravity,
drinking only water, and thinking only
of money. As I had taken the clothes of
the burgomaster, so had I taken his
character. I should have despised my
self, I, Hippel, if I could have recognized
myself beastly burgomaster that I was.
Is it not better to live gayly and laugh
at the future than to pile up dollars and
distill bile? But that's all right here I
am, burgomaster.
"I arise from my bed, and my first
thought is to see if the men are at work
in the vines. I pnt some bread in my
pocket for breakfast. Think of it; I,
who eat my cutlet and drink my bottle
every morning. I order the old house
keeper to sweep tbe room and prepare
dinner at 11 o'clock some boiled meat
and potatoes, I think a miserable din
ner. But no matter. He goes out. 1
could describe you the road, tbe moun
tains; they are right under my eyes. 13
it possible that a man in his dreams can
thus conjure up a landscape? But dur
ing all that time I felt a sort of dizziness,
an indescribable headache. I walked
faster. The sun arcse and the heat be
came excessive. I was following a path
which led. to the ruins of an old castlo,
and a little beyond were my four acres of
vines. . I hastened to get there. I was all
out of breath as I reached the ruins. I
stopped. The blood seemed roaring in
my ears. My heart was beating against
my breast like a hammer on an anvil.
The sun was all on fire. I wished to con
tinue my road, but suddenly I was
struck as if by a mallet. I rolled behind
the wall and I understood that I was
suddenly Btruck with apoplexy. Then
despair took possession of me. "Iam
dead," said I to myself; "the money that
I have saved with so mnch hardship, the
trees that I have planted with so much
care, the house that I built, all that is
lost, all passes to my heirs!"
I felt my soul detaching itself from my
cadaver, but it remained standing beside
it.
That soul of the burgomaster saw that
its cadaver's face was purple and its
hands were yellow.
As it was very warm and a deathly
sweat was rolling from the forehead, a
host of flies alighted on his face. Tbe
cadaver did not stir, and the soul in dis
tress could not drive them away. An
hour passed. The heat was increasing
there was not a breath of air, not a
clond.
A goat wandered along the ruins. In
passing by my poor body she bounded to
one side; then came back, opened her
eyes wide, sniffed around and continued
on her way. A young shepherd started
after her, but, on perceiving the corpse,
he screamed and ran toward the village.
Another hour passed, as slowly as
eternity. Then some voices, some step,
and my soul saw ascending slowly,
slowlyiythe justice of the peace, followed
by his clerk and a number of persons. I
knew them all. They made but one ex
clamation at the sight of my body: "Our
burgomaster!"
The physician drew near, drove the
flies away, raised an arm already stiff,
and said, indifferently:
"Our burgomaster has been struck
with apoplexy. He must have been here
since morning. He must be buried as
soon as possible, for this heat hastens
decomposition.' ...
"Faith." said the clerk, "between us.
the district does not lose muob. He was
a miser and an imbecile, who did not
know anything.
"Yes." added the judge.
"and he al
ways looked as if he wanted
everybody." '
to, criticise
"That is not surprising," continued
another, "fools always imigine they have
brains.
So saying, they waited oil and my
poor soul heard them a few moments-
longer; then I remained in silence and
solitude I don t know now long.
They returned, however, and cursed
the weight of the burgomaster, whose
body they were carrying, while my soul
followed plunged in tne . uiacicest 01
grief. Finally I was deposited in a room
on a strawbed, and passed in review.
When cne of my cousins wished to take
the keys from my pocket, I wanted to
cry with rage, but unfortunately souls
have no voice. Finally, my dear Lud wig.
I saw them open my desk, count all my
money and although I could never need
anything more, I grudged every cent they
took.
At last they undressed me, nailed me
between foar boards and I assisted at my
own funeral. When they lowered me
into tbe grave despair gnawed at my
soul ; all was lost. It was then that you
woke me Lud wig; and I fancy that I
still hear the clods rolling over my cof
fin."
Hippel stopped and shuddered, chilled
through.
We remained a long time meditating,
without a word ; then went to the dining
room. The host served us tlfe remnants
of our supper, filled one of my canteens
with white wine, the other with red, sad
dled our horses and wished us a "bon
voyage, we were hot half a mile from
the inn when my friend Hippel, always
thirsty, took a drink of red wine. He
seemed seized with vertigo. "My dream!
My dream of last night!"
He started at a gallop, as if to escape
the vision. My nag forced me to lag be
hind.
With the first rays of the sun Hippel
stopped and waited for me.
"I don t know, said he, "what dark
thoughts have taken possession of me.
That red wine must have some singular
property; it flatters my throat, but it at
tacks my brain."
"We cannot deny, I replied, "that
certain liquors contain in themselves the
principles of phantasmagoria even. I
have seen chterfol men become sad, sad
men become gay, smart men become
stupid and stupid men become smart
with a few glasses of wine in their stom
achs. It is a deep mystery, and no one
is so insane as to doubt the magic power
of the bottle. Is it not the scepter of a
superior incomprehensible force, before
which we must bow, since we sometimes
feel its d vine or diabolical influence?"
Hippel reojgniztd the force of my
arguments and remained silent and lost
in a reverie.
We jogged along awhile, when sud
denly Hippel halted,. his mouth opened,
his hands stretched in tbe attitude of
stupor, then, like a flash, he turned to
flee, but I seized the bridle of his horse.
"Hippel, what on earth is the matter?"
exclaimed. "Has Satan laid himself
in ambush before you? Has tbe angel
of Balaam made his dagger shine before
your eyes?"
"Leave me alone, he said, struggling;
'it's my dream!"
"Come,"' I said, "calm yourself. Bed
wine evidently does not agree with you.
Take a drink of this wine; yon will And
it better."
He drank with avidity, and somewhat
recovered his equilibrium.
e emptied that red wine which had
become black as ink. It formed large
bubbles as it sank through the ground.
and it seemed to me that I heard deafen
ing roars, confused voices, sighs, but so
faint that they seemed to come from dis
tant regions. Hippel was too excited to
notice this phenomenon, but I was pro
foundly impressed with it. At that
moment I saw a blackbird, as large as
my fit, escape from one of the Leashes
and fly away with a little cry of terror.
"I feel, Hippel, "as if two opposite
principles were contending for suprem
acy within me the black and the white
the principal of good and that of evil.
Let us go!"
We continued on our way. "Ludwig,
said my companion soon after, "there
are such strange things in this world that
the mind trembles in humility. You
know that I have been . through this
country. Well, yesterday I dreamed
and to-day I see the reality of my dream
rise up before me. Look at this land
scape, it is tbe same 1 saw in my sleep.
Here are the rums of the old castle
where I was struck with apoplexy. Here
is the path that I went over and there
are my four acres of vine. There is not
a tree, not a bush that 1 don't recognize
as if I had seen them a hundred times.
When we shall have turned tbe corner,
we shall see at the end of the valley the
village of Welche; the second house to
the right is that of tbe burgomaster; it
has five windows and above, in front.
and four below and the door. To the
eft of my house, that is to say, that of
the burgomaster.fyou will see a barn and
a stable, that is where I usei to shut up
my horses and cattle. 1 inally, my dear
Ludwig, I am resuscitated just as you
me. Tbe poor burgomaster looks at
you through my eyes, he speaks to you
through my lips, and if I do not recol
lect that before beiBg burgomaster,
miser, rich proprietor, I have been Hip
pel, the high liver, I should hesitate to
siy who I am, for what I see recalls to
me another existence, other habits, other
ideas."
AH happened as he had predicted. We
perceived the village at a distance, the
houses scattered along the river, and the
second houso to the right had in effect
oeen that of the burgomaster.
All the individuals we met Hippel had
a vague recollecion of having seen them;
some seemed so familiar that he was on
the point of calling them by name; but
the word remained on his tongue and he
could not detach it from other recollec
tions. Besides, seeing the indifferent cu
riosity with which we were looked at as
sured Hippel that we were unknown,
and that his form was a complete mask
for the defunct soul of the burgomaster.
We stopped at the inn that my friend
Eointed out as the best in the village; he
ad been acquainted with it a long time.
A new surprise awaited us. The mis
tress of the inn was a fat woman, a wid
ow for many years, and whom the bur
gomaster had courted for a wife. Hippel
was tempted to put his arms around her,
so quickly did his old sympathies revive.
However, he controlled himself. The
veritable Hippel was combatting in him
the matrimonial tendencies of the bur
gomaster. He contented himself with
asking in the most amiable manner for a
good breakfast and the best wine possi
ble. When we were seated a very natu
ral curiosity impelled him to inquire
what had taken place since his death.
"Madame, he said to tbe hostess,
with a flattering smile, "you were un
doubtedly acquainted with the former
burgomaster of Welche?"
"Do you mean the one who died of ap
oplexy three years; agoV" she asked.
"Precisely" replied my comrade, fix
ing a pecnliar look upon the lady.
"Ob. yes; I knew the old miser; the
old iool wanted to marry me. If I had
Known tbe old fool was going to die so
so m I should have taken him. He pro
posed that the first one to die should
leave all the property to the survivor.
That answer somewhat disconcerted
my dear Hippel. The self-love of the
burgomaster was terribly wounded with
in him. However, he restrained him
self.
"And so, madame, you did tot like
him?"
"Like him! How can a woman like a
man who is so miserly, dirty and repul
sive?"
Hippel arose and looked at himself
in the glass. He smiled at his full,
rosy cheeks and returned to finish his
chicken.
"Was he any relative of your?" asked
the hostess.
"I! I did not even know him. I was
only saying that some are ugly; others
are good-looking. Because my nose is
on the middle of my face like your bur
gomaster, it does not follow that I must
look like him."
"Oh, no," hastened to say the wo
man; "you have no family resemblance
at all."
"Besides, I am not stingy, which de
monstrates that I cannot be your bur
gomaster. Bring me two more bottles
of wine."
The lady disappeared and I seized the
occasion to warn Hippel not to rush in
conversations which might betray his
incognito.
"Fer who do you take me, Lud
wig?" he yelled, furiously. "I want you
to know that I am no more the burgo
master than you are, and the proof is
that my papers are 'en regie. "
Hv drew out his passport. The hostess
was just entering.
"Madame," said he, "did yourgbur
gomaster answer this description ! '
He read: "Medium forehead, large
nose.thick lips,gray eyes, medium hight,
brown hair."
"Pretty near," said the lady, "except
that he was bald."
Hippel passed his hand throurdi his
hair, exclaiming.
"The burgomaster was bald, but no
one can pretend that I am." f
The hostess thought that my friend
was crazy, but as he paid her on arising,
she did not say anything.
At the door Hippel turned to me
roughly, Baying, "Let us go."
"One moment, my dear friend," I
said, "you must first take me to the
cemetery where the burgomaster is re
posing." "Never," he shouted, "never! Do
you want to throw me into-Satan's claws?
I, standing over my own grave! Bat
that would bo contrary to all the laws of
nature. Surely you don't think of it.
Ludwig?"
"Calm yourself, Hippel. You are this
very moment under the empire of invis
ible powerd. They are holding yon .in
sneh transparent toils that you can't see
them. You must make an effort to dis
pel them. You must make restitution
of the soul of the burgomaster, and
that is possible only over his grave.
You don't want to be the thief of that
soul; that would be a manifest larceny.
I know your delicacy too well to suppose
you capable of such infamy."
These invincible arguments dicided
him.
"Very well," said he, "I shall have
the courage to tread under my feet those
remains, the heaviest half of which I
carry with me. Ah! thank God, no such
robbery shall be imputed to me, Lud wig.
I shall lead you."
He walked with rapid, precipitate
steps, his hat in his hand, his hair flying,
shaking his arms, stretching bis legs,
like a wretch who performs the last act
of despair, and has to excite himself in
order not to fail. At last we reached the
cemet9ry.
In a corner was the charnel house,
at the other was a cottage with a small
garden.
Hippel rushed in the room. '-The
grave digger was there, sculpting a cross
and so absorbed in his work that he
aroe, quite frightened at the approaoh
of Hippel. My comrade fixed on him a
pair of eyes that must have horrified
him.
"My good man," said I, "will ycu
lead us to the grave of the burgomas
ter." "I know where it is," cried Hippel,
and without waiting for an answer he
rushed like a lunatic among the graves.
"Here we are!"
The genius of evil had evidently taken
possession of him, for he knocked down
a while cross, with a 'crown of roses tbe
cross of a little child.
The grave digger and I followed from
afar. The cemetery was large. Bank
weeds of a dark green were as high as
three feet. Cypresses dragged their
branches over the . ground, but what
struck me at first sight was a clump of
vines so magnificently loaded with grapes
that the branches were lying thickly
over each other. ,
I said to the grave digger, "You have
a small vineyard there which must be
quite profitable.
"Oh! very little," he.replied in a dole
ful tone, "what comes from the grave
return b to the crave. Nobody wants
these crapes."
I examined this man. He had a false
look; a diabolical smile contracted his
lips and his cheeks. I did not believe
what he said.
We arrived at the grave of the burgo
master. It was close to the wall. Bight
in front was that enormous vine, full of
sap like a boa. Its roots penetrated un
doubtedly into the coffins and disputed
their prey with the worms. Moreover,
its grapes were of a purple red, while
those of the other vines wer of white
slightly tinged with vennill&a. Hippel
was leaning against that Tint and seemed
a little calmer.
"You don eat those grapes," I said to
the grave digger, "but you sell them."
He tuned pale and made a gesture in
the negative.
"You sell them in the village of
Welche, and I can name you the tavern
where your wine is drunk," I exclaimed;
"it is the inn of the Fleur-de-Lis."
The grave-digger trembled in every
limb: Hippel tried to grasp that wretch
by the throat, and all 'ray strength and
intervention was-reqaired,. t-pivt
him from tearing him to pieces.
"Scoundrel!" he yelled. "You have
made roe drink the quintesscence of the
burgomaster. I have lost my identity.'
But all at once a bright idea struck him
He turned towards tbe wall and taking
the celebrated atttitude of those attacked
with seasickness he rendered unto tbe
earth the substance which had drawn iti
sustenance from tbe earth.
"Thank Ood! said be, as he came
back to me. "I have returned unto tbe
earth the soul of the burgomaster, and
feel relieved of an enormous weight."
An hour later we continued our route
and my friend Hippel had recovered his
normal cheerfulness.
A SB OUT UOSSJP ABOUT WRITERS.
In one of Byron's poems we find these
lines::
. "A drop of Ink.
Falling like dew up-n a thought, produces
i nat wnicn mares wousauca. pernapa g
.4II4sina .Kink" '
It is often a work of love to the inter
ested student of literature to trace back
these drops till they flow directly from
the facile pen of a brilliant author, tq.
note bis style of chirograghy, his meth
ods of composition, and the happy oc
casion that gave birth to some of those
wonderful word paintings which grace
the mother tongue and thrill our hearts
with their inspiration.
Among tbe famous men of our own
country there is one who will always be
remembered by his atrocious handwriting
Horace Greeley, the sage of Chappa
qua. His manuscript was very illegible.
Fancy, if you can, his disgust when the
printer gave forth to the world, "Wash
ing with soap is wholly absurd," instead
of "Virtue is its own reward." Hia copj
was a perfect string of riddles for the
unfortunate compositors. One of his
leaders on William H. Seward came
forth entitled "Bichard the Third :" his
freemen in buckram" was turned into
three men in abaok room," while "Ju
piter Plnvius" appeared ij print as "In
spector Phineas. He onc wrote a note
to a brother editor in New York whose
writing equalled his own. The recipient
of the note returned it by the boy mes
senger, unable to read it. Mr. Greeley,
supposing it to be tbe reply, glanced it
over and could not read it himself, and
said to the boy: "Go, take it back. What
does the fool mean?" "Yes. Bir." replied
tbe boy, "that's just what he said!"
Ihere is a story illustrating the beauty
of Bnfus Choate's penmanship. When
living on a farm he desired a new fence
built, and having a rough sketch of it
drawn, he handed it to the carpenter, and
hastened to catch the train. When he
returned, it was to survey in amazement
the extraordinary, zigzag, crazy lookiog
fence. In the hasty inquiry that fol
lowed, it appeared that Mr. Cuoate had
furnished by mistaae a note in his own
handwriting instead of the original plan.
Hon. Thad. Stevens, the "Old Com
moner," replied by letter to a friend's
query; in vain did the friend endeavor
to decipher it's contents; weeks after,
the letter was handed to the writer, who
could not read it himself till reminded
of the'matfer that called it forth.
A president of one of our great rail
roads wrote to an old farmer requesting
him to remove some shedding. The man
could not make it out, "guessed" it was
a free pass, and used it as such for a
year, none of the conductors disputing
his light.
During the latter part of the life of
the Duke of Wellington his writing was
often illegible. A letter of his to a min
ister in Lord Derby's cabinet has not
been to this day unraveled.
George Sand, Lamartine, and Napole
on I., could never have shown in spelling-school,
for their orthographical sins
were many.
Some of the letters received by Maria
Louisa from her illustrious spouse
looked as though a bomb shell had ex
ploded over the paper.
Many celebrated authors have been
very rapid writers; this is the case with
Sue, Dumas and Lamartine. It was at
Monte Cristo that Dumas wrote the most
of later novels. He was asked one day at
dinner how much time he would require
to write a novel in two volumes, of four
hundred pages. "Seventy-two hours,"
was the reply. A wager was made.
Dumas called for pen and paper, t and,
beginning at the dinner-table, he wrote
with but a few hours of repose, until, be
fore the number of hours had expired,
he had finished one of his most interest
ing novels, Le Chevalier Maison Bouge.
"I compose hastily," said Burns, "but
correct laboriously." "Holding the
plow," his brother Gilbert testified,
"was a favorite situation with Bobert for
poetic composition, and some of his best
verses were produced while at that exer
cise." Arioato wrote one of his stanzas sixteen
times over, while Petrarch was not satis
fied with one of his until he had rendered
it in forty-six ways. Newton remodeled
his Chronology sixteen times. Gibbon
wrote nine autobiographies before he
was pleased with his work. Samuel
Bogers achieved four harmonious lines
in a day. Gray's famous Elegy took
seven years of pen work.
Daniel Webster, on one occasion, pre
sented, with a brief epistle, a valuable
book to a literary society at Harvard.
The note, so carefully elegant and grace
ful, elicited many compliments. It was
discovered, however, when the book was
examined, that the donor had thought
lessly left between its pages a paper on
which half a dozen different forms of the
same note were written.
A daughter of Cooper,, the novelist,
sneaking of her father, remarked: "He
alwavs wrote two hours every morning
1- 11 t t. i 1,:.
own band, and seldom erased or amended
what he had written."
Thackeray was an accomplished pen
man. A few weeks before his death, he
was present at the usual Saturday dinner
of the contributors to Punch and was
challenged to give an example of his
skjll. Thackeray produced afour-penny
piece, marked the circle of the coin on a
piece of paper, drew a crown in the cen-:
ter, and filled the remainder of the space
with the Lord's . Prayer, using no con
tractions except spelling the word which
"wh."
Dickens was a methodical writer, but
his copy was a terror to the printer. The
original manuscript of Our Mutual
Friend crossed the ocean to find itself in
the library of George W. Childs, of Phil
adelphia. A lady, writing a description
of the prized treasure, says: "Almost
always writiag on thick, blue note paper,
and with blue ink, Dickens has been
faithful to his rule in this manuscript.
The firmness and closeness of the writ
ing are enough to render the most amia
ble of experienced printers temporarily
insane. There is no lover of Dickens so
ardent as to willingly read a page
through, nor would the most mercenary
peruse be th volumes for less than their
weight in gold."
Lamb was very fastidious, wrote slow
ly, and subjected every word to severe
self criticism, aided, as he doubtless
thought, by the f u res of the tobacco he
smoked.
Charlotte Bronte used to sit patiently
writing day after day with a lead pencil.
in little paper books made by herself,
which she held close to her near-sighted
eyes. The language was hardly ever
changed upon the printed page. Ar
thur's Home Magazine.
Women's Wflffes.
A writer in the Woman's Journal
sends forth the following encouracrincr
words: "I oftentimes think wbat a no
ble work for humanity our army of
working girls is doing. The next gen
eration of working women will bless
them for tbeir patient, pioneer work.
Only within the last half century have
women pushed themselves into the vari
ous vocations which had before been
monopolized Ly our brothers, who,
having buth the capital and the experi
ence, gave to their sisters only tbe
menial p!aces, with hard work and little
pay. With tbe meek submission charac
teristic of the women of fifty years ago,
they accepted the lowly position and
worked long and hard and well, only to
find that the miserable pittance paid
them would barely support life.
"iiut the day is fast approaching when
sex will no longer determine wages.
Woman is pushing herself forward in
every avenue of business life. She has
risen from the poor shop girl into the
proprietor of dry goods and millinery
stores. Instead of being only the copy
ist of tiresome law papers, she has risen
to the dignity and commands tbe fees of
the first class lawyer. Instead of the
ridiculed and scorned medical student.
she practices among our best fami
ies, and instructs by her books
and papers even, the superior sex in her
profession. From the humble, ill-paid
school teacher of a half century ago since
we see her rising to the important posi
tion of county and city superintendent,
and she in compelling by her patient
labor so faithfully performed, a larger
compensation. And in every other de
partment where women are labonnz, by
their futhful devotion to their employ
ers' interests, by their work which em
ployers themselves acknowledge could
not be done better.' Their work as work
men is becoming proverbial' and their
wages are advancing. O, my sisters, you
patient, humble toilers, despair notl A
brighter day is dawning. Your painstak
ing work of fifty years has not been all
in vain. Already, although your work
of fifty years has had to bear comparison
with masculine work perfected with long
generations of the accumulated wisdom
of fathers and sons, the world of employ
ers acknowledge your eminent fitness
and worth in all the vocations in which
you are . laboring. Your reputation once
established, corresponding wages must
follow." ;
Buttons.
" Button, button, who has the but
ton?" asked a glove that had been drop
ped on the toilet table. :
"I've got it," answered Jimmy's jack
et. "I've several buttons, in foot."
"No," replied, tho closet door. "I
have it myself; the carpenter gave it to
me.
"I had a dozen or so," said a boot,
looking rather down at the heel.
"And I had a hundred or more,
yawned an eay chair; "but they don't
button anything; they don't belong to
the working class."
" Here's a bachelor's button," re
marked a vase of flowers on the bureau.
"There is a button wood tree in the
garden," said the button hooker; "I
suppose you all grew there."
"I know better than that," pouted the
closet-door. "Mine grew in the veins of
the earth, where all the precious metals
are found. It's a poor relati n of theirs."
And we," added a pair ef ivory sleeve
buttons, "we grew in the land of the
white elephant. We were carved from
the tusks of the leader, who threaded
the jungles and swam the rivers at the
head of his troops."
"My buttons," said the glove, "were
nearly related to the gem which Cleopa
tra dissolved for Antony. They were
mother-of-pearl grown in the shell of the
earl oyster, for which divers risk their
ives."
"That's something of a fish story,"
thonght Jimmy's jacket. "My buttons
are only glass; but glass is sometimes
made of sand, and who knows but their
atoms may have been swept down to the
seashore from 'farthest India?"
"And I," whispered the bachelor's
button, "I sprang from a tiny seed, with
all my splendor of blue and purple
wings, like the Afrite from the jar which
the fisherman found on the beach. It is
a miracle how I was packed away there!"
Mary N. Prescott, in St. Nicholas..
"Mr. Jipso indulges largely in hyper
bole," remarked the high school girl to
her mother. "Yes," answered the old
ladv: "Mrs. Jones -told me he'd taken
j to drinking; I'm sorry for his wife, poor
1 11,:..
EDCCATI031LL NOTCa.
St. Louis has 20.000 scholars ttudyios
German.
Of the 167 students in the Texan cnl
I varsity, forty are women.
The admission of womea to tlm uni
versity of Louisiana is agitated.
There are over 00,000 elifldnm in
Alabama who do not attend school.-
The university of Souta Carolina has a
larger number of studeats thao tit shy
time since the war.
Professor Sylvester has resfgnoj tbe
chair of mathematics in John Lta;L:a'
university, and has boen made p.-;. oajor
emeritus. r '
The Nebraska state university is still
destitute of a chancellor, Prof. Adt.ms of
Ann Arbor, Mich., being the latest to re
fuse the position.
. The whole number of itadents ia the
colleges of the United States is ove r 35,
000. There are 7000 American students
in attendance at German universities.
The school fund in North Carolina
last year amounted to $722,153, of which
$509,736 was disbursed, leaving 3212.41G
on hand for the spring school. The
schools were attended by 115,000 white
and 83,000 colored children.
The school fund in North Carolina
last year amounted to $722,153, of which
8500,733 was disbursed, leaving $212,417
on hand for the spring schools. The s
schools were attended by 145,000 white
and 89,000 colored children.
Professor Paul Pawy of Paris, who
says that America is the dustiest country
he ever saw, and thinks our high schools
are not practical-, falls into line with the
declaration that too much Latin in the
bane of modern educational institutions.
Mr. Buskin has had scaffolds sn atad
around the Ducal Palace, Venice, so that
casts may be taken of the sculpture. He
keeps two artists constantly employed in
making drawings from the best conti
nental examples of old masters' works.
AlmaTadema's picture called "Hsp
pho," which has already been etched by
O. C. Murray and extensively published,
has now advanced to the dignity of re
production on a drop-scene of a the iter
in Edinburgh. The painting on the
drop-scene is in monochrome.
An accurate photograph was Uken
some time ago of a very ancient inscribed
palm leaf preserved in the tempi) of
Horiusi, Japan, and forwarded to Bog-
land, where it will be duplicated by the
autotype process.. Max Mailer wrote to
the Times that it is considered the most
ancient manuscript in the-Sanskrit char
acter now known. It has been a sacred
relio since A. D. 500.
The Carrier Pigeon.
Once on a time it was a swift mes
senger brought into service to convey
missiles of affection to and fro between
love-lorn individuals residing at long
distances apart.- At each end of the
"line," the dove, with a perfumed note
tied with a gay ribbon around its ceck,
wonld be turned loose, and almost with
the swiftness of electricity would faith
fully deliver the precious oharge. Lat
terly they have been employed in tho
service of war instead of that of peace.
The French used them successfully dur
ing the siege of Paris as a means of con
veying important information to the
provinces, and the Germans have nines
improved upon the idea by making them
a "regular arm" of their military service.
Trained pigeons are as regularly kept in
all the great Teutonic fortresses as are
trained artillery. They are more relia
ble than baloons, or no rial machines. It
makes no difference to them from which
quarter of tbe compass tbe wind may
blow. His diminutiveness aids ma
terially to his safety. He would
indeed be a sharp and accurate
marksman who could bring one of
them down. They fly where no one can
see, and ahead of the celerity of bullets.
Sometime ago an experiment was tried
of a race between two carrier pigeons
and a continental mail, and the bird beat
the locomotive about an hour. It must
be considered, however, that the loco
motive sped along curves and deviations
through highways that were far from
straight, while the bird flew on a com
paratively straight line. Another race
between a fast horse and a pigeon, re
sulted in an easy victory for the latter,
who made a mile and eighty yards while
his competitor at the top of his speed,
made but half a mile. The value of the
carrier pigeon in certain exigencies, is,
therefore, demonstrated. He may be
more reliable than ir -il in time of politi
cal disturbance, and more sure than
telegraph wires that are liable to be out.
He could not carry a great burden, to be
sure, but as a conveyor of cipher dis
patches, he msy come more prominently
and generally to the foreground.
Taxing Mustaches and Eggs.
Tbe following amusing dialogue,
which took place the other day between
an official and a number of revolutionary
peasants in the neighborhood of Afrram,
illustrates the nature of some of the
causes which have brought about tome
of the present troubles in Austria: "We'
wish," said the peasants, "to ses the
papers in which the new taxes are writ
ton down." "I have neither papem nor
new taxes." "Tell that to somebody
else, sir; we know very well that you
have brought the
papers.
"I aisure
you it is not so."
After a long pi.rley,
bioh ended in a search for the docu
ments on the official's body, the pet.iants
at last believed him, and one courageous
spokesman asked, "So the new taxes do
not exist?" "I assure you that they do
not." "And we have to pay taxes ac
cording to the length of our mustache?"
"Most certainly not." "Neither accord
ing to the number ef children we Live?"
"What are you thinking of?" "Niithcr
according to the number of eggs in our
houses?" "Whoever told you such a
thing?" Thereupon with loud, exclama
tions of joy the peasants, who gathered
together from many parishes, dispersed
t their homes. Singular stories equally
baseless have, however, played a prom
inent part is some of the greatest revolu
tions recorded id history. Pall Mall
Gazette. -
Don Cameron, whose health i i not
much improved,, will remain in U nope
all winter. ' - " ' -