Galveston and the Panama Canal.
For all the region between the Mississippi and the continental divide of the Rockies, the Texas ports, chiefly Galveston, will be the natural outlets to the sea. In aggregate value of merchandise exports Galveston has left Charleston, Baltimore, Philadelphia, and Boston far behind. In the last calendar year she stood third among American ports in the value of her merchandise shipments, New York and New Orleans being the only two ahead of her. She has gained so rapidly on New Orleans in recent years, and the Crescent City led her by so slight a margin in 1905, that for the twelve months ending with next December it seems safe to predict that the Texas seaport will take second place.
Much has been said of the benefits which the Panama Canal will bring to the United States by giving us a short cut to the Pacific littoral of our own continent, to the west coast of South America, and to Asia and Australia. Undoubtedly the isthmian waterway will open new markets to Galveston and other Texas ports, and will be a powerful influence in enabling the Southwest to score further industrial and commercial conquests.
He who allows his happiness to depend too much on reason, who submits his pleasures to examination, and desires enjoyments only of the most refined nature, too often ends by not having any at all.—Chamfort.
ALL KINDS OF THINGS.
A Strange Scene in a French Law-Court—A German Botanist's Hunt for a Mysterious Native Tribe—The Pranks of a Famous Joker—The Mileage of the Blood—Tiny Republics of Europe—Average Weights of Men and Women at Various Ages—With Other Curious and Interesting Things Drawn from Many Sources.
Compiled and edited for The Scrap Book.
HOW MELODRAMA WAS ECLIPSED BY TRUTH.
COINCIDENCES IN PARIS COURT.
Official's Attempt to Convict His Unrecognized
Son Was Interrupted by Wife
He Deserted Many Years Before.
Coincidence—chance, play a tremendous part in human history. Fate is another name for the same thing; so is luck. All these words are merely our puny euphemisms for X, the unknown quantity.
Not a day passes but the story of a remarkable coincidence is brought to public notice. A stranger incident never occurred, however, than this one, the account of which we have unearthed in an old copy of the Chronique de Paris.
A youth of about nineteen was brought to trial for having broken the window of a baker's shop and stolen a two-pound loaf.
The Judge—"Why did you steal the loaf?"
Prisoner—"I was driven by hunger."
"Why did you not buy it?"
"Because I had no money."
"But you have a gold ring on your finger; why did you not sell it?"
"I am a foundling; when I was taken from the bank of a ditch, this ring was suspended from my neck by a silken cord, and I kept it in the hope of thereby discovering at least who were my parents; I cannot dispose of it."
The procureur du roi (king's attorney) made a violent speech against the prisoner, who was found guilty, and sentenced to imprisonment for five years. Immediately upon this, a woman, more worn down by poverty than age, came forward and made the following declaration:
"Gentlemen of the Jury: Twenty years ago a young woman was married to a young man of the same town, who afterward abandoned her. Poor and distressed, she was obliged to leave her child to the care of Providence. The child has since grown up, and the woman and the husband have grown older; the child in poverty, the woman in misery, and her husband in prosperity. They are all three now in court. The child is the unfortunate prisoner whom you have just pronounced guilty; the mother is myself; and there sits the father!" pointing to the king's attorney.
THE FIRST SIGHT OF A WHITE FACE.
HUNTING DOWN THE SHY NEGRITO.
How Albert Grubauer Won the Confidence
of a Timid People Who Had Never
Before Seen a European.
In the mountains of northern Malacca and southern Siam dwells a tribe of dwarf Negritos who, until a few months ago, knew nothing of the white man and his ways. From their hunting grounds they could almost see the foreign ships steam through Malacca Straits. Certain conveniences obtainable only from the whites had reached them through intermediate tribes; for example, they had become well acquainted with the Swedish safety matches, yet no white man had ever come in contact with them.
A German botanist, Albert Grubauer, not long ago set out to make acquaintance with these shy people. With a few native servants he stole quietly up into the mountains. For some time their patience was rewarded only with disappointment, but at last one morning they came upon a party of the little men. The Negritos dropped the bundles of rattan they were carrying and concealed themselves in the under-growth.
The German and his men knew exactly what they were to do in such a case, says the New York Sun, summarizing the story from the elaborate account in a German scientific journal. They were not to go an inch in pursuit. No weapon was to be shown. One of the men who could speak a little of the native dialect aired his accomplishment in the gentlest way. The white man was their good friend and had come to see them. And what wonderful presents he had brought for his friends! The white man and his servants extended their arms, which were loaded with bright cottons, strings of beads, many colored necklaces, tobacco and other tempting articles whose merits were extolled by the spokesman with all the eloquence he could command.
They knew the natives were behind the bushes looking at the tempting sight and listening to the exhortation. Then the visitors sat down, still holding out the beautiful presents. Finally, an old man, the leader of the party, stuck his head out of the bush. He broke off a green twig and held it up. It was a sign of peace and the white man nodded to him. The ice was broken. The Negrito approached the European, they shook hands, some of the presents were distributed and the visitors became the guests of the little mountaineers. They were passed on from one group to another till Grubauer, after a considerable time, had completed his studies.
HOW THEY CONSTRUCT ENGLISH IN BELGIUM.
A REQUEST TO "TWIRL THE PAGE."
American Postage-Stamp Collectors Are
Amused, When Not Puzzled, by a
Queerly Worded Circular.
"English as she is Japanned" occasionally appears on the shop signs of Yokohama, Tokyo, and other Japanese cities, to amuse travelers from America and England. But it is not necessary to search the Orient for odd perversions of the language. As near a country as Belgium is the birthplace of the following circular, which has lately been received by many American philatelists:
"Seek you good Correspondents extra-European? Want you Postage Stamps from Africa, America, Asia, Oceania? Sent immediately and advertisement for the —— Extra-European Directory, 4,000 addresses of Philatelists, residing abroad Europa. Work's price, book in 8 deg. stitched, —— The advertisements sind inserted opposite the country selected by you ... One Justificative copy gratis."
At the bottom of the page is the further instruction to English and American readers to "Twirl the page, please."
PRACTICAL JOKING OF EUGENE VIVIER.
"A MOST GENTLEMANLY EMPEROR."
How the Calf Which This Famous Hornplayer
Put in His Apartment Became
in Time an Ox.
Henry Sutherland Edwards, a London journalist, who died a short time ago, published in 1900 a volume of "Personal Recollections" which is very much alive with anecdotes of men of the past generation. Considerable space is given to a man who is now almost unremembered—Eugene Vivier, the hornplayer, "the most charming of men and the spoiled child of nearly every court in Europe." Vivier is the man who said of Napoleon III, "He is the most gentlemanly emperor I know."
"What can I do for you?" said this gentlemanly emperor one day, when Vivier had gone to see him at the Tuileries.
"Come out on the balcony with me, sire," replied the genial cynic. "Some of my creditors are sure to be passing, and it will do me good to be seen in conversation with your majesty."
Vivier was a confirmed practical joker. Once, while riding in an omnibus, he pretended to be mad.
He indulged in the wildest gesticulations, and then, as if in despair, drew a pistol from his pocket. The conductor was called upon by acclamation to interfere, and Vivier was on the point of being disarmed when suddenly he broke the pistol in two, handed half to the conductor and began to eat the other half himself. It was made of chocolate!
Vivier could not bear to see people in a hurry. According to him, there was nothing in life worth hurrying for; and, living on the Boulevard, just opposite the Rue Vivienne, he was much annoyed at seeing so many persons hastening, toward six o'clock, to the post-office on the Place de la Bourse.
He determined to pay them out, and for that purpose bought a calf, which he took up to his apartments at night, and exhibited the next afternoon at a few minutes before six o'clock on the balcony of his second floor. In spite of their eagerness to catch the post, many persons could not help stopping to look at the calf.
Soon a crowd collected and messengers stayed their steps in order to gaze at the unwonted apparition. Six o'clock struck, and soon after a number of men who had missed the post returned in an irritated condition, and, stopping before Vivier's house, shook their fists at him. Vivier went down to them and asked the meaning of the insolence.
"We were not shaking our fists at you," replied the enraged ones, "but at that calf."
"Ah! You know him, then?" returned Vivier. "I was not aware of it."
In time Vivier's calf became the subject of a legend, according to which the animal (still in Vivier's apartments) grew to be an ox, and so annoyed the neighbors by his lowing that the proprietor of the house insisted on its being sent away. Vivier told him to come and take it, when it was found that the calf of other days had grown to such a size that it was impossible to get it down-stairs.
ARTERIES AND VEINS AS A RACE-COURSE.
MILEAGE OF THE HUMAN BLOOD.
One Little Red Corpuscle May Travel One
Hundred and Sixty-Eight Miles
in a Single Day.
The speed at which the blood circulates in the veins and arteries of a healthy man is something surprising. All day long, year in and year out, the round trips continue from the heart to the extremities and back again. The red blood corpuscles travel like boats in a stream, going to this or that station for such service as they have to perform; and the white corpuscles, the phagocytes, dart hither and thither like patrol boats, ready to arrest any contraband cargo of disease germs.
The mileage of the blood circulation reveals some astounding facts in our personal history. Thus it has been calculated that, assuming the heart to beat sixty-nine times a minute at ordinary heart pressure, the blood goes at the rate of two hundred and seven yards in the minute, or seven miles per hour, one hundred and sixty-eight miles per day and six thousand three hundred and twenty miles per year. If a man of eighty-four years of age could have one single blood corpuscle floating in his blood all his life it would have traveled in that same time five million one hundred and fifty thousand eight hundred and eight miles.
SOME MICROSCOPIC EUROPEAN REPUBLICS.
ONE IS IN THE LOWER PYRENEES.
It Lies Between France and Spain, and
Every Army in Europe Has Rumbled
Pell-Mell Past Its Very Doors.
A republic without an army—without a navy—without even one policeman—with only one square mile of territory, and a population of fifty: who can tell what its name is, and where it is located?
Stranger still, it has stood in the midst of warring nations, and yet remained as independent as the United States. It has heard the roar of Napoleon's artillery. There are famous battle-fields on the north of it and on the south. Great armies from France and Spain and England have swung past it on all sides. Vast nations have arisen and gone down again to oblivion, and yet this baby republic goes on for centuries—without growth and without death.
Goust—which is the name of this wonderful little atom among the nations of Europe—is situated in the Lower Pyrenees, between France and Spain.
For over two centuries and a half Goust has elected a president every seven years, and its independence has been recognized by both France and Spain.
There are two tiny republics in Italy—the famous little state of San Marino, and the less-known islet of Tavolara. The latter did not become a republic until recently. In 1830 the absolute dominion of the island was conceded by Charles Albert, King of Sardinia, to the Bartoleoni family, whose head became King Paul I.
He was likewise Paul the last, for on his death, in 1882, he requested that his title should be buried with him and that the kingdom be turned into a republic. A constitution was accordingly drawn up, and under its terms a president, with a council of six, is elected every six years, all adults, male or female, casting a ballot. No salary is paid either to the president or the members of his council.
WEIGHTS OF THE SEXES AT DIFFERENT AGES.
MEN ARE FATTEST AT FORTY.
Average Weights of Humanity Differ
More Markedly in Relation to Age
and Sex Than Is Supposed.
If all the men and women, boys and girls, and infants—black, white, yellow, brown or red—in all parts of the world, could be weighed on the same scales, the average weight would be nearly one hundred pounds avoirdupois. Six-pound infants and three-hundred-pound giants contribute to the average.
Upon the average, boys at birth weigh a little more and girls a little less than seven pounds. For the first twelve years the two sexes continue nearly equal in weight, but beyond that age the boys acquire a decided preponderance. Young men of twenty average 135 pounds, while the young women of twenty average 110 pounds each.
Men reach their heaviest weight at about forty years of age, when their average weight will be about 140 pounds; but women slowly increase in weight until fifty years of age, when their average weight will be 130 pounds. Taking the men and women together, their weight at full growth will then average from 108 to 150 pounds; and women from 80 to 130 pounds.
SPENDS TEN MONTHS GAZING INTO MIRROR.
WOMAN'S AVERAGE IN A LIFETIME.
German Statisticians Assert That a Man
Requires Only Seven Months for This
Employment.
German statisticians, who have long been noted for their tendency to turn their searchlights on subjects that might better be left alone, have made another little incursion into the field of woman's vanity. In short, they have been calculating what part of a woman's life is spent in looking at herself in a mirror.
She begins as a rule at six years. From six to ten she has a daily average of seven minutes. From ten to fifteen she devotes a quarter of an hour to her glass.
At twenty she certainly spends thirty minutes daily admiring herself, and when past twenty a whole hour.
The statisticians are tactful enough not to say when a woman begins to take less interest in her personal appearance, but women more than sixty years do not, they say, spend more than ten minutes daily at their mirrors. All this time reckoned up—it is a simple sum in multiplication—makes seven thousand hours, or about ten months, at the mirror.
Then they proceed to compare the time which a man—a German man—devotes to this occupation, and come to the conclusion that his average is seven months.
ANIMAL ENDURANCE PUTS MAN TO SHAME.
DESPAIR YIELDS TO COURAGE.
Animals and Birds Caught in Traps Display
Spartan Fortitude, and Toads
Imprisoned in Rocks Grow Fat.
At a time when six-day bicycle races, the so-called brutality of modern football, and endurance tests of the automobile excite such a degree of popular interest throughout the English-speaking world, it might not be amiss to glance over the shoulder occasionally at a few records made by some mute four-footed or feathered champions who have established records in fields in which Nature, herself, as umpire, read the inexorable law of necessity.
In reviewing some remarkable feats of animal endurance, the Chicago News mentions the case of a dog that was dug out alive from a rabbit-hole, in the Scilly Isles, after having been lost for a fortnight.
Continuing, this same authority says that whales and eagles come at the head of creatures that longest survive the evils to which other fishes and birds are heirs. Yet a whale has been found dead from a dislocated jaw. It is also recorded that an elephant died as a result of gangrene in one of its feet.
In a Scottish deer forest not long ago a stalking party came across a magnificent golden eagle, dead, caught in a fox trap. He had been caught by the center claw of one foot and had died of exhaustion in attempting to escape.
By his side were two grouse and a partly eaten hare which other eagles had brought to sustain him in his fight for life. If a rat had been caught by his leg in a trap either he or his comrades would have bitten off the imprisoned limb and released him.
The poor despised toad is not built to stand physical violence, but he would fatten on imprisonment. Toads imprisoned in rocks for years—no one knows how many—come to light from time to time, fat and well. They have been found beneath deposits which, according to all accepted ideas of geology, must have been long ages in process of formation. Unless microbes, carried to them through the pores of the imprisoning rock, have been their fare, it is certain, according to naturalists who ought to know, that they have eaten nothing for an unthinkable period.
EGGS OF VARIOUS FOWLS MUCH ALIKE.
GOOSE'S CONTAIN MOST PROTEIN.
Despite Old Adage, It Requires About a
Pound of Eggs to Equal the Nutriment
in a Pound of Beefsteak.
The white of an egg is nearly seven-eighths water, the balance being pure albumen. The yolk is slightly less than one-half water. These figures apply approximately to the eggs of turkeys, hens, geese, ducks, and guinea-fowls.
To show how nearly alike the eggs of various domestic fowls are in respect to composition, the following figures are given by the Department of Agriculture:
Hen's egg—50 per cent water, 16 per cent "protein," 33 per cent fat.
Duck's egg—46 per cent water, 17 per cent "protein," 36 per cent fat.
Goose egg—44 per cent water, 19 per cent "protein," 36 per cent fat.
Turkey egg—48 per cent water, 18 per cent "protein," 33 per cent fat.
It should be explained that "protein" is the stuff that goes to make muscle and blood. Fat, of course, is fuel for running the body-machine. Thus it will be seen that eggs, though half, or nearly half, water, are extremely nutritious, containing all the elements required for the building and support of the human body. But the old saying that an egg contains as much nutriment as a pound of beefsteak is manifestly very far from correct. It would be nearer the fact to estimate a pound of eggs as equal to a pound of lean beefsteak in nourishing power.
A CHECK FOR THOUSANDS ON A PINE SHINGLE.
A PIONEER BANKER'S READINESS.
How Joseph C. Palmer, With Some Extraordinary
Material, Wrote for
a Large Sum.
Many different substances have been used to send communications through the mails, from bits of carved wood to leather post-cards. But banks are supposed to be more insistent upon red tape. A stamp and an address will satisfy the postal authorities; ink, paper, and indubitable signature—these are requisites in bank paper. Yet in new countries it is frequently obliged to put up with makeshifts. Here is a story of early banking in California, as related by the San Francisco Bulletin:
Joseph C. Palmer, a California pioneer, and at one time a banker and politician in the early days of California, was a member of the firm of Palmer, Cook & Co., a bank which did an immense business, and whose influence was felt throughout the State.
To show his readiness to adopt original methods in an emergency, it is related that once a depositor called to draw a large sum of money (twenty-eight thousand dollars) from the bank. Mr. Palmer's signature was necessary, but he had been called away to attend to some duty in a lumberyard at a distance of a mile or more.
Thither the depositor hastened and made known his wants and the necessity of having them attended to at once. Mr. Palmer could find neither pen, pencil, ink, nor paper. But without a moment's hesitation he picked up a shingle, borrowed a piece of red chalk, and with it wrote a check on the shingle in large and distinct letters for twenty-eight thousand dollars.
This was good when presented for all the money the depositor had in bank, and it proved an exceedingly good advertisement for Palmer. It gained confidence for the original genius of our first great banker, whom everybody trusted.
Robert Emmet's Speech of Vindication.
Robert Emmet, the Irish patriot, was born in Dublin in 1778, and was executed for treason in Dublin, September 20, 1803. A prize-winner at Trinity College, Dublin, and an eloquent speaker before the Historical Society, he lent his young energies to the cause of Ireland with a devotion that was as pure and unselfish as it was rash. Traveling on the Continent, he received from Napoleon I a promise to help Ireland. He then returned secretly to Ireland and made plans for a revolution. An abortive uprising occurred. Emmet, with a mob of followers, attempted to seize Dublin Castle, but one volley dispersed his rabble.
He fled to the Wicklow mountains, intending to escape from the country, but he made a last visit to his sweetheart, Miss Curran, and was captured. His speeches before the tribunal which sentenced him to be hanged are models of noble and eloquent dignity. Thomas Moore, Emmet's schoolfellow and friend, inscribed to his memory a touching poem:
Oh, breathe not his name—let it sleep in the shade,
Where cold and unhonored his relics are laid;
Sad, silent, and dark be the tears that we shed,
As the night-dew that falls on the grass o'er his head.
But the night-dew that falls, though in silence it weeps,
Shall brighten with verdure the grave where he sleeps;
And the tear that we shed, though in secret it rolls,
Shall long keep his memory green in our souls.
In another lyric, which begins with the line "She is far from the land where her young hero sleeps," Moore alluded to the sad after-life of Miss Curran. Her story was also told, without a mention of her name, by Washington Irving, in "The Broken Heart," which may be found in "The Sketch Book."
My Lords: What have I to say why sentence of death should not be pronounced on me, according to law? I have nothing to say that can alter your predetermination, nor that it will become me to say, with any view to the mitigation of that sentence which you are here to pronounce, and I must abide by. But I have that to say, which interests me more than life, and which you have labored to destroy. I have much to say, why my reputation should be rescued from the load of false accusation and calumny which has been heaped upon it.
Were I only to suffer death, after being adjudged guilty by your tribunal, I should bow in silence, and meet the fate that awaits me without a murmur; but the sentence of law which delivers my body to the executioner will, through the ministry of that law, labor, in its own vindication, to consign my character to obloquy: for there must be guilt somewhere—whether in the sentence of the court, or in the catastrophe, posterity must determine. The man dies, but his memory lives. That mine may not perish—that it may live in the respect of my countrymen—I seize upon this opportunity to vindicate myself from some of the charges alleged against me. When my spirit shall be wafted to a more friendly port; when my shade shall have joined the bands of those martyred heroes who have shed their blood, on the scaffold and in the field, in defense of their country and virtue, this is my hope—I wish that my memory and name may animate those who survive me, while I look down with complacency on the destruction of that perfidious government which upholds its domination by blasphemy of the Most High, which displays its power over man as over the beasts of the forest, which sets man upon his brother, and lifts his hand, in the name of God, against the throat of his fellow who believes or doubts a little more or less than the government standard—a government which is steeled to barbarity by the cries of the orphans and the tears of the widows which its cruelty has made.
I swear by the throne of heaven, before which I must shortly appear—by the blood of the murdered patriots who have gone before me—that my conduct has been, through all this peril, and all my purposes, governed only by the convictions which I have uttered, and no other view than that of the emancipation of my country from the superinhuman oppression under which she has so long, and too patiently, travailed; and that I confidently and assuredly hope (wild and chimerical as it may appear) that there are still union and strength in Ireland to accomplish this noble enterprise.
Let no man dare, when I am dead, to charge me with dishonor; let no man attaint my memory by believing that I could have engaged in any cause but that of my country's liberty and independence; or that I could have become the pliant minion of power, in the oppression or the miseries of my countrymen. I would not have submitted to a foreign oppressor, for the same reason that I would resist the domestic tyrant; in the dignity of freedom, I would have fought upon the threshold of my country, and her enemies should enter only by passing over my lifeless corpse. Am I, who lived but for my country, and who have subjected myself to the vengeance of the jealous and wrathful oppressor, and to the bondage of the grave, only to give my countrymen their rights—am I to be loaded with calumny, and not to be suffered to resent or repel it? No!—God forbid!
If the spirits of the illustrious dead participate in the concerns and cares of those who are dear to them in this transitory life—O ever dear and venerated shade of my departed father, look down with scrutiny on the conduct of your suffering son; and see if I have even for a moment deviated from those principles of morality and patriotism which it was your care to instil into my youthful mind, and for an adherence to which I am now to offer up my life!
My lords, you are all impatient for the sacrifice. The blood which you seek is not congealed by the artificial terrors which surround your victim; it circulates warmly and unruffled through the channels which God created for noble purposes, but which you are bent to destroy for purposes so grievous that they cry to heaven! Be yet patient! I have but a few words more to say. I am going to my silent grave; my lamp of life is nearly extinguished; my race is run; the grave opens to receive me, and I sink into its bosom. I have but one request to ask at my departure from this world—it is the charity of its silence. Let no man write my epitaph; for, as no one who knows my motives dare now vindicate them, let not prejudice or ignorance asperse them. Let them and me repose in obscurity and peace, and my tomb remain uninscribed, until other times, and other men, can do justice to my character. When my country shall take her place among the nations of the earth, then, and not till then, let my epitaph be written! I have done.
Mortality. It takes twenty months to bring man from the state of embryo, and from that of a mere animal, as he is in his first infancy, to the point when his reason begins to dawn. It has taken thirty centuries to know his structure; it would take an eternity to know something of his soul: it takes but an instant to kill him.—Voltaire.
The Rivals.
By BENSON J. LOSSING.
The late historian, Benson J. Lossing, whose name for a large part of the last century was connected with historical authorship and with wood engraving, was born in Dutchess County, New York, February 12, 1813, and died June 3, 1891. When a very young man he became editor of a local paper in Poughkeepsie, and, afterward, with Barritt, under the familiar signature of "Lossing and Barritt," did a very large amount of the wood engraving current a generation or more ago.
Inspired by his editorial and art experience, he began early to visit the places made notable by the battles and memorable scenes of the Revolutionary War. Of buildings connected therewith, or of their falling ruins, he made sketches. Out of this activity came his famous and still excellent work, "The Field Book of the Revolution." The history of our subsequent wars he also treated; and it was history chiefly that engaged his pen. The one exception was his publication of the Casket, in 1836 or thereabouts, which in a form similar to that of the Nation, was a very creditable literary and family magazine, conducted in a popular way, when magazines in this country were few and unimportant. One does not find, in any account of him apart from this venture of possibly not over three years' duration, that he left his purely historical themes.
Very recently, however, The Scrap Book came across a somewhat romantic story, with a touch and climax of art and love in it, which is the product of his pen; though its style is a little more ambitious and florid than the one for which he was noted. It tells, with much liberty of embellishment, the thrilling anecdote of the contest of the Grecian artists, Zeuxis and Parrhasius. As it was interesting sixty years ago, when it appeared (in 1846), doubtless it may have some interest now.
Zeuxis was the pride and boast of Athens. His pencil had no rival, and thrice he had been crowned victor of the Olympic games. The dwellings of the rich and noble, and the shrines and temples of the gods, were decorated with the fruits of his genius. He was courted by the wise and powerful. Artists and magi came from distant cities to look upon the Athenian painter, whose name was sounded worldwide.
Even the proud ruler of Palmyra, the "Tadmor of the wilderness," sent a deputation of nobles to invite his presence at the Palmyrene court. Contemporary artists acknowledged his superiority; and Apollodorus, the father of Athenian painters, declared that Zeuxis had "stolen the cunning from all the rest." Thus flattered and caressed, Zeuxis became proud and haughty. He found no rival, for he knew no equal.
The Agonothetai employed him to paint a wrestler or champion, to adorn the peristylium of the Gymnasia. Assembled thousands gave a simultaneous shout of applause when the picture was exhibited on the first day of the games. The victors in the chariot-race, the discus, the cestus, and the athletæ, were almost forgotten amid the general admiration of the picture of Zeuxis. Conscious of his superiority, the artist, with pedantic egotism, wrote beneath his picture, "Invisurus aliquis facilius quam imitaturus!"—"Sooner envied than equaled!"
This inscription met the eye of an obscure youth, who resolved to prove its falsity.
The third day of the games had terminated. The last rays of the sun yet lingered on the Acropolis, and burnished the crest of hoary Olympus that gleamed in the distance. Zeuxis sat alone with his wife and daughter, listening attentively to the strains of a minstrel who swept the lyre for a group of joyous dancers assembled near the grove sacred to Psyche. As the music ceased, a deep sigh escaped the daughter, and a tear trembled in the maiden's eye.
"Cassandra, my sweet Cassandra," said Zeuxis, "why that tear, that sigh?"
A deep crimson suffused the cheeks of the maiden, and she was silent.
"Tell me, Cassandra," said the father, affectionately placing her hand in his own, and inquisitively eying the blushing damsel; "tell me what new grief makes sorrowful the heart of my daughter? Thinkest thou yet of the worthless Parrhasius—even now, upon the eve of thy nuptials with the noble Thearchus?"
"Nay, dear father," said Cassandra, "it was the music that made me weep. It awakened memory to the recollections of the many happy hours spent with my dear Portia, who is now among the immortals. Four years ago we danced together to the same strain, and the lyre was touched by the gentle Parrhasius."
"Gentle Parrhasius, sayest thou, Cassandra?—gentle Parrhasius! Wouldst thou call him gentle, the poor plebeian who sought to rival the noble Thearchus in thy affections?—who openly avowed in the streets of Athens, in the Gymnasium and the Hippodrome, that his pencil would yet make Zeuxis envious?"
"And yet he was gentle," mildly replied Cassandra, while the big round tears coursed down her cheeks, and her bosom swelled with tender emotion.
The brow of Zeuxis lowered, and indices of a whirlwind of passion were in his countenance. Four years had elapsed since Parrhasius had asked for his daughter in marriage, and was indignantly refused. Affection, deep and abiding as vitality itself, existed between the young painter and Cassandra—affection based upon reciprocal appreciation of mutual worth; but the ambition of Zeuxis made him forget his duty to his child, and, without estimating consequences, he resolved to wed her to Thearchus, a wealthy Athenian nobleman, and son of one of the judges of the Areopagus.
When Parrhasius modestly but firmly pressed his suit, Zeuxis became indignant—taunted him with his plebeian birthright and obscure lineage; and denounced him as a poor Ephesian boy, unworthy, because of his poverty, the friendship, much less the confidence of sonship, of the great Athenian painter.
The spirit of Parrhasius was aroused and, standing erect in all the dignity of conscious equality of genius, full-fledged and eager to soar, he boldly repelled the insults of Zeuxis, and with a voice that reached the listening ear of his beloved, exclaimed:
"Know, proud man, that thou, the unrivaled master of Greece, of the world, wilt yet envy the talent and fame of Parrhasius, though a poor plebeian boy of Ephesus!"
The rage of Zeuxis was unbounded, and he ordered his helots to thrust the youth from his presence. The order was instantly obeyed; and, ere the setting sun, Parrhasius left the walls of Athens behind him, and turned toward Ephesus, to practise his skill in seclusion there.
During the interim of the games, the young painter assiduously practised his art, in utter seclusion from the world; and those who knew him before departing for Athens, believed him dead. Nor could Cassandra, during these four years, hear aught of her exiled lover. Her constancy and hope whispered to her heart the fulfilment of the prediction of excellence, and that destiny would yet unite them in holy ties by its mysterious web.
This hope and this constancy had thus far delayed her marriage with Thearchus. Like Penelope, she framed reasons for repelling her suitor, and daily looked for the return of her lord, wearing the bay of success. Her father, wearied by procrastination, and ambitious for display, had resolved to have the nuptials celebrated during the festival of the Olympic games. His persuasions became commands, his arguments positive orders, and his paternal government by the power of love a stern executor of the behest of his ambition. The herald had already sounded the proclamation, and all Athens greeted with joy the approaching nuptials of the noble Thearchus and the lovely Cassandra.
Yet the stern ambition of Zeuxis was susceptible of tender impressions. He adored his daughter, and her tears melted the ice of his heart. He knew she loved the Ephesian, and the war of duty and ambition waxed warm as he witnessed new proofs of her constancy and love.
"Come, come, Cassandra," said he caressingly, "these tears ill become the daughter of the Athenian painter on the eve of her nuptials with one of the noblest sons of Greece. Forget that childish passion that attaches thee to Parrhasius, and thank the gods for his exile from Athens."
"Would you see your Cassandra happy?" asked the weeping maiden.
"I would, indeed," replied Zeuxis; "and it was for her happiness that I spurned the Ephesian and favored the worthy Thearchus."
"But Thearchus has no place in my affections," replied Cassandra. "I love him not; and to wed him is but to plunge me into deeper misery. What is wealth—what nobility and the applause of the people, if the affections of the heart have no participation therein? They are ministers of woe to the broken spirit. Without love there is no happiness; without happiness life is nothing worth. I would sooner wed a shepherd than an archon, did he but bring with him the riches of true affection."
"Madness, madness!" exclaimed Zeuxis. "This philosophy may do for a peasant maiden, but should not pollute the lips of a daughter of Zeuxis. Talk of love! Why, it is but a passion born of circumstances. To-day it burns with volcanic violence, to-morrow it is but a glimmering taper; to-day its intensity warms the most cheerless cabin of poverty, to-morrow its flickering rays will barely illumine the most cheerful abode of wealth. It is a delusive light, that too often dazzles to blind."
"It may be so with the sensual," replied Cassandra. "With them it is indeed a passion born of circumstances. Yet, after all, it is not love. It is but a poor semblance of the holy passion. Pure affection comes not from the dross of earth, the wealth, power, and pageantry of individuals or of society, nor from the ephemeral loveliness of the human form. Such is, at best, the gross counterfeit of love, and undeserving its divine name. When moral and intellectual worth—the beauties and amiability of character—the noble evidences of exalted genius, excite our admiration, and win our affections for the possessor, then indeed do we truly love, and love a worthy object. Such, dear father, is my love for Parrhasius. Submission to thy will must unite me to Thearchus, whom I cannot love; but the undying flame of first affection will only make me more miserable."
Zeuxis was silent. He loved his daughter with exceeding tenderness; yet burning ambition presented a paramount claim, and would not permit him again to delay the nuptials on which he had resolved. He kissed the tears from the cheeks of Cassandra, and was about to retire for the night; but the maiden seized his hand, and, looking imploringly in his face, said:
"Hear me once more, dear father, ere the decree of my unhappiness shall have irrevocably gone forth. Hope whispers in my ear that the prophetic taunt of Parrhasius may yet be verified. Thou well knowest the genius and spirit of that youth, and I know thy gentle nature will now forgive him the utterance of words spoken in passion. Forgive, and Cassandra will be happy."
"For thy sake," replied Zeuxis, "I will pardon the rashness of the Ephesian boy. But why thy hope? Wouldst thou see thy father rivaled, and the voice of Athens—of the world—loud in praises of another?"
"No," replied Cassandra, "it is not for that I hope; but thy daughter loves Parrhasius, and she desires to see him worthy of that love in the eyes of her father. This is the foundation of my hope. Is it not just?"
"Truly, such an aspiration is worthy of my daughter," replied Zeuxis; and again bidding her good night, he was about to depart. But the maiden still clung to his hand.
"One word more," she exclaimed; "one more boon, and your Cassandra will be completely happy. Promise me that I shall wed Parrhasius if his prediction be fulfilled."
"I promise," replied Zeuxis, conscious that her hopes were groundless, and that the last day of the festival would witness the nuptials of Thearchus and Cassandra, and thus crown his paternal ambition with a more valued bay than the laurel of the victor.
On the following morning Zeuxis prepared for the games. Just at the moment of starting a helot approached him with a small roll directed to "Zeuxis, the unrivaled painter of Greece." He was delighted with the flattering superscription, and, having unbound it, read:
Parrhasius, the plebeian boy of Ephesus, to Zeuxis, the great Athenian artist: Greeting. Ten days, and the games of Olympia will terminate. On the ninth I challenge thee to a trial of skill. The subject is left to the choice of the challenged.
Zeuxis rent the challenge in a thousand pieces, and, burning with rage, exclaimed: "Tell your master that Zeuxis stoops not to compete with plebeians! Tell him I trample his insolent challenge beneath my feet, even as I would crush its author. Begone! Gods, has it come to this?" continued he. "Must I first bear the taunts of that boy, and then, in the face of thousands, have him challenge me to a trial? I know him well. If I refuse, a herald will proclaim that refusal in every street of Athens, and the gymnasium and the circus will ring with my shame. It must not be." And he commanded the helot to return.
"Tell your master," said Zeuxis, "that I accept his challenge: the subject, fruit." The helot departed.
"Now," said Zeuxis, "my triumph will be complete, and Cassandra's delusion will be broken. Now will I prove the insolent Ephesian unworthy of my exalted notice and the noble Cassandra's love. It is well. Destiny bids me stoop to the trial, only to add another laurel to my brow!" And Zeuxis, with haughty step, proceeded to the circus.
Within a few hours all Athens was in commotion. A new impulse had been given to the public excitement, and the first sound that fell upon the ear of Zeuxis as he entered the circus was the voice of a herald proclaiming that an Ephesian painter had challenged the great artist to a trial of skill.
The voice of the herald also sounded throughout the streets of Athens, and fell like sweetest symphony upon the ear of Cassandra. She knew not the name of the competitor, but the revealings of hope and love assured her that it was none other than Parrhasius. And that hope and that love also gave her assurance that her beloved one would be the victor, and that holy affection rather than proud ambition would be crowned by the hand of Astrea.
The time fixed upon for the trial arrived. The thousands who had congregated in Athens to witness the games flowed like a living torrent through the eastern gate of the city, and halted upon a hill overlooking a flowery plain bordering upon the Ilyssus. The sun had journeyed half his way toward the meridian, when amid the thundering shouts of applause of the populace, Zeuxis, with a proud and haughty step, left the pavilion of the judges, and with a tablet in his hand, on which was painted a cluster of grapes, proceeded to the plain. Upon a small column erected for the purpose, near a grove, the artist placed his painting, and, withdrawing the curtain that concealed it, returned to the pavilion. The multitude was astonished, for they expected to feast their eyes on the production of the great artist. Murmurs of dissatisfaction ran through the crowd, and a few loudly denounced the conduct of Zeuxis in placing the picture beyond their observation.
Suddenly a deafening shout, and a cry of "Zeuxis and Athens!" arose from the throng. A whole bevy of birds from the grove had alighted upon the column, and eagerly sought to devour the pictured fruit!
This decision of the birds of heaven was deemed sufficient evidence of the superiority of the Athenian painter, and the people clamored loudly for the crown of laurels and the branch of palm for Zeuxis. His competitor had not yet been seen, either in the crowd or with the judges; and Zeuxis gloried in the thought that his conscious inferiority had made him shrink from the trial. The branch of palm was placed in the Athenian's hand, and a virgin was about to place the crown of evergreen upon his head, when, from a small tent opposite the pavilion of the judges, stepped forth the "Ephesian boy," pale and trembling, and, with a tablet in his hand, approached the multitude. Not a single voice greeted him, for he was unknown to that vast concourse, and the silence weighed like lead upon his heart. There was, however, one heart there that beat in sympathy with his own. It was that of Cassandra. She, too, stood pale and trembling; and by her side was Thearchus, watching with intense anxiety for the result.
Parrhasius drew near to his rival. At first he would not deign to notice him; but a few faint voices crying out, "Victory for Parrhasius!" the judges demanded an exhibition of the picture of the Ephesian. Turning around, with ill-concealed rage, Zeuxis, with a bitter, scornful tone cried out, "Come, away with your curtain, that the assemblage may see what goodly affair you have beneath it!"
Parrhasius handed the tablet to his rival. Had a thunderbolt fallen at his feet, he could not have been more astounded. The curtain was painted upon the tablet, and so exquisitely was it wrought that even the practised eye of the great painter did not till then detect the deception!
"I yield! I yield!" cried the Athenian; "Zeuxis beguiled poor birds, but Parrhasius hath deceived Zeuxis! Bring hither the laurel and also the palm: my hand, and mine alone, shall crown the young victor!"
"And thy promise!" exclaimed Cassandra, bounding forward and grasping the hand of her father.
"I here fulfil it," said he. "Parrhasius is indeed worthy of my Cassandra. Embrace and be happy!"
The laurel and the palm were brought—and there, in the presence of assembled thousands, Zeuxis crowned the young Ephesian. Then, mounting a pedestal, he addressed the assembled multitude. He recounted the pure love and constancy of Parrhasius and Cassandra, and told of his promise; he also tenderly related his engagement with Thearchus.
He was proceeding to vindicate himself from the imputation of treachery to Thearchus, when another deafening shout arose from the assembly, as a noble youth came from the pavilion with a branch of palm and placed it in the hands of Cassandra. It was Thearchus. He had before heard and now witnessed the devotion of the lovers, and his generous heart melted at the spectacle. He had tenderly loved the maiden, but he magnanimously resigned all.
"Laurels for Thearchus!" shouted the vast multitude—and Thearchus, too, was crowned victor, for he had conquered love.
Matrons and virgins strewed the path of Parrhasius and Cassandra with flowers, as they returned to the city; and on the following day their nuptials were celebrated with a splendor fully adequate to the wishes of the ambitious Zeuxis, for the city made the marriage a high festival in honor of Genius and Constancy.
The games ended; the city became quiet. A few years of happiness cast their sunlight around the footsteps of the great painter, and he went down into the tomb honored and mourned by a nation—by the world, wherever his fame was known. His mantle fell upon Parrhasius, who is revered by Genius as the greatest painter of antiquity.
Ideals. Every man has at times in his mind, the ideal of what he should be, but is not. The ideal may be high and complete, or it may be quite low and insufficient; yet in all men that really seek to improve, it is better than the actual character. Man never falls so low that he can see nothing higher than himself.—Theodore Parker. (1810-1860.)
LITTLE GEMS FROM TENNYSON.
Willow whiten, aspen quiver,
Little breezes dusk and shiver
Through the wave that runs for ever
By the island in the river
Flowing down to Camelot.
Four gray walls, and four gray towers,
Overlook a space of flowers,
And the silent isle embowers
The Lady of Shalott.
From "The Lady of Shalott."
How sweet it were, hearing the downward stream,
With half-shut eyes ever to seem
Falling asleep in a half-dream!
To dream and dream, like yonder amber light,
Which will not leave the myrrh-bush on the height;
To hear each other's whispered speech;
Eating the Lotos day by day,
To watch the crisping ripples on the beach,
And tender curving lines of creamy spray;
To lend our hearts and spirits wholly
To the influence of mild-minded melancholy;
To muse and brood and live again in memory,
With those old faces of our infancy
Heaped over with a mound of grass—
Two handfuls of white dust, shut in an urn of brass!
From "The Lotos-Eaters."
How dull it is to pause, to make an end,
To rust unburnished, not to shine in use!
As though to breathe were life. Life piled on life
Were all too little.
From "Ulysses."
The splendor falls on castle walls
And snowy summits old in story:
The long light shakes across the lakes,
And the wild cataract leaps in glory.
Blow, bugle, blow! Set the wild echoes flying!
Blow, bugle; answer, echoes—dying, dying, dying.
Song from "The Princess."
Henceforth thou hast a helper, me, that know
The woman's cause is man's; they rise or sink
Together, dwarfed or godlike, bond or free:
For she that out of Lethe scales with man
The shining steps of Nature, shares with man
His nights, his days, moves with him to one goal,
Stays all the fair young planet in her hands—
If she be small, slight-natured, miserable,
How shall men grow?
From "The Princess."
Love took up the glass of Time, and turned it in his glowing hands:
Every moment, lightly shaken, ran itself in golden sands.
Love took up the harp of Life, and smote on all the chords with might;
Smote the chord of Self, that, trembling, passed in music out of sight.
From "Locksley Hall."
Men, my brothers, men the workers, ever reaping something new,
That which they have done but earnest of the things that they shall do.
From "Locksley Hall."
This is truth the poet sings,
That a sorrow's crown of sorrow is remembering happier things.
From "Locksley Hall."
Sunset and evening star,
And one clear call for me!
And may there be no moaning of the bar,
When I put out to sea.
Twilight and evening bell,
And after that the dark!
And may there be no sadness of farewell,
When I embark.
From "Crossing the Bar."
O love! O fire! once he drew
With one long kiss my whole soul through
My lips, as sunlight drinketh dew.
God gives us love. Something to love
He lends us; but when love is grown
To ripeness, that on which it throve
Falls off, and love is left alone.
Sleep sweetly, tender heart, in peace!
Sleep, holy spirit, blessed soul,
While the stars burn, the moons increase,
And the great ages onward roll.
From poem "To J.S."
That tower of strength
Which stood four-square to all the winds that blew.
From "Ode on the Death of the Duke of Wellington."
The old order changeth, yielding place to new;
And God fulfils himself in many ways,
Lest one good custom should corrupt the world.
From "The Passing of Arthur."
Howe'er it be, it seems to me
'T is only noble to be good;
Kind hearts are more than coronets,
And simple faith than Norman blood.
From "Lady Clara Vere de Vere."
A lie which is half a truth is ever the blackest of lies;
A lie which is all a lie may be met and fought with outright;
But a lie which is part a truth is a harder matter to fight.
From "The Grandmother."
And on her lover's arm she leant,
And round her waist she felt it fold,
And far across the hills they went
In that new world which is the old.
From "The Day-Dream."
There lives more faith in honest doubt,
Believe me, than in half the creeds.
From "In Memoriam."
HOW TO TELL A WOMAN'S AGE.
Two Ways of Securing Certain Valuable and Closely Guarded Information Which the
Fair Sex Defies Even the Courts to Extract.
Few mysteries are at once so impenetrable and so irritating as that which surrounds a truthful woman who declines to take you into her confidence when the subject of her age is mentioned. But even women who are truthful and secretive are curious, and when a friend tells them that he can solve the mystery in spite of them they may easily fall into a certain mathematical snare.
Tell the young woman to put down the number of the month in which she was born, then to multiply it by 2, then add 5, then to multiply it by 50, then to add her age, then to add 115, then to subtract 365, and finally to tell you the amount that she has left.
The two figures to the right will tell her age, and the remainder the month of her birth. For example, the amount is 822; she is twenty-two years old, and was born in the eighth month (August).
Then there is another method.
Just hand this table to a young lady, and request her to tell you in which column or columns her age is contained, and add together the figures at the top of the columns in which her age is found, and you have the great secret. Thus, suppose her age to be seventeen, you will find that number in the first and fifth columns. Here is the magic table:
| 1 | 2 | 4 | 8 | 16 | 32 |
| 3 | 3 | 5 | 9 | 17 | 33 |
| 5 | 6 | 6 | 10 | 18 | 34 |
| 7 | 7 | 7 | 11 | 19 | 35 |
| 9 | 10 | 12 | 12 | 20 | 36 |
| 11 | 11 | 13 | 13 | 21 | 37 |
| 13 | 14 | 14 | 14 | 22 | 38 |
| 15 | 15 | 15 | 15 | 23 | 39 |
| 17 | 18 | 20 | 24 | 24 | 40 |
| 19 | 19 | 21 | 25 | 25 | 41 |
| 21 | 22 | 22 | 26 | 26 | 42 |
| 23 | 23 | 23 | 27 | 27 | 43 |
| 25 | 26 | 28 | 28 | 28 | 44 |
| 27 | 27 | 29 | 29 | 29 | 45 |
| 29 | 30 | 30 | 30 | 30 | 46 |
| 31 | 31 | 31 | 31 | 31 | 47 |
| 33 | 34 | 36 | 40 | 48 | 48 |
| 35 | 35 | 37 | 41 | 49 | 49 |
| 37 | 38 | 38 | 42 | 50 | 50 |
| 39 | 39 | 39 | 43 | 51 | 51 |
| 41 | 42 | 44 | 44 | 52 | 52 |
| 43 | 43 | 45 | 45 | 53 | 53 |
| 45 | 46 | 46 | 46 | 54 | 54 |
| 47 | 47 | 47 | 47 | 55 | 55 |
| 49 | 50 | 52 | 56 | 56 | 56 |
| 51 | 51 | 53 | 57 | 57 | 57 |
| 53 | 54 | 54 | 58 | 58 | 58 |
| 55 | 55 | 55 | 59 | 59 | 59 |
| 57 | 58 | 60 | 60 | 60 | 60 |
| 59 | 59 | 61 | 61 | 61 | 61 |
| 61 | 62 | 62 | 62 | 62 | 62 |
| 63 | 63 | 63 | 63 | 63 | 63 |
ODDITIES OF BIBLICAL LITERATURE.
Despite the veneration in which it has been held by mankind for the last nineteen hundred years, the Bible has fared almost as badly at the hands of translators and printers as books of far less importance. Errors made in the course of translating and printing have caused various nicknames to be applied to the editions. Some of the more extraordinary of these editions were described in a recently published catalogue as follows:
The Gutenberg Bible (1450)—The earliest book known. Printed from movable metal types, is the Latin Bible issued by Gutenberg, at Mayence.
The Bug Bible (1551)—Was so called from its rendering of the Psalms xci:5: "Afraid of bugs by night." Our present version reads: "Terror by night."
The Breeches Bible—The Geneva version is that popularly known as the Breeches Bible, from its rendering of Genesis iii:7: "Making themselves breeches out of fig-leaves." This translation of the Scriptures—the result of the labors of the English exiles at Geneva—was the English family Bible during the reign of Queen Elizabeth and till supplanted by the present authorized version of King James I.
The Place-Makers' Bible (1562)—From a remarkable typographical error which occurs in Matthew v:9: "Blessed are the place-makers," instead of "peace-makers."
The Treacle Bible (1568)—From its rendering of Jeremiah viii:22: "Is there no treacle [instead of balm] in Gilead?"
The Rosin Bible (1609)—From the same text, but translated "rosin."
The Thumb Bible (1670)—Being one inch square and half an inch thick; was published at Aberdeen.
The Vinegar Bible (1717)—So named from the head-line of the twentieth chapter of Luke, which reads: "The Parable of the Vinegar," instead of the "vineyard."
The Printers' Bible—We are told by Cotton Mather that in a Bible printed prior to 1702 a blundering typographer made King David exclaim: "Printers [instead of princes] persecuted him without a cause." See Psalms cxix:161.
The Murderers' Bible (1801)—So called from an error in the sixteenth verse of the Epistle of Jude, the word "murderers" being used instead of "murmurers."
The Caxton Memorial Bible (1877)—Wholly printed and bound in twelve hours, but only one hundred copies struck off.
However much truth there may be in the stories of the dissolute conduct of Shakespeare, there is abundant proof of the fact that the Bible was one of his favorite books. Indeed, his admiration for the Scriptures carried him so far that he frequently incorporated Bible sentences in his plays. The following are examples:
Bible—"But though I be rude in speech."—2 Corinthians xi:6.
Othello—"Rude am I in speech."
Bible—"To consume thine eyes and to grieve thine heart."—1 Samuel ii:33.
Macbeth—"Shew his eyes and grieve his heart."
Bible—"Look not upon me because I am black; because the sun hath looked upon me."—Song of Solomon i:6.
Merchant of Venice—"Mislike me not for my complexion—the shadowed livery of the burnished sun."
Bible—"I caught him by his beard and smote him and slew him."—1 Samuel xvii:35.
Othello—"I took by the throat the circumcised dog, and smote him."
Bible—"Opened Job his mouth and cursed his day; let it not be joined unto the days of the year; let it not come into the number of months."—Job.
Macbeth—"May this accursed hour stand ay accursed in the calendar."
Bible—"What is man that Thou art mindful of him? Thou hast made him a little lower than the angels, and hast crowned him with glory and honor. Thou madest him to have dominion over the works of Thy hands."—Psalms viii:4; Hebrews ii:6.
Hamlet—"What a piece of work is a man! How noble in reason; how infinite in faculties; in form and moving how express and admirable; in action how like an angel; in apprehension how like a god! The beauty of the world—the paragon of animals."
Bible—"Nicanor lay dead in his harness."—Maccabees xvii:12.
Macbeth—"We'll die with harness on our backs."
The Prophecies of Bonaparte.
Remarkable Manuscript Found in the Exiled Emperor's Desk on the
Island of Elba before Waterloo.
That the first Napoleon was exceedingly superstitious is well known. He was a devout believer in dream warnings, and he was a patron of palmists, clairvoyants, and astrologers. Like many another great man, the famous emperor sometimes was prone to indulge in prophetic utterances himself.
One of the most interesting of the compositions of Napoleon is a remarkable prophecy which, in the emperor's own handwriting, was found in his desk on the island of Elba. The document was discovered by Captain Campbell, in 1815. It is as follows:
The foundation of our political society is so defective and tottering that it threatens ruin; the fall will be terrible, and all the nations on the continent will be involved in it; no human force can arrest the course of events.
All civilized Europe will find itself in the position in which a part of Italy once was under the Cæsars.
The storm of the Revolution, some clouds of which will extend over France, will soon cover all that portion of the globe which we inhabit with a frightful darkness.
The world can be saved only by shedding torrents of blood; a terrible and violent hurricane can alone purge the poisonous air which envelops Europe.
I only could have saved the world, and no other.
I would have given it the chalice of suffering to empty at a single draft; instead of which it must now drink it drop by drop.
That which is now fermenting in Spain and at Rome will soon cause a general commotion. Then the crisis will be terrible.
I know men and the age; I would have hastened the advent of happiness on earth, if those with whom I had to deal had not been villains. They accuse me of having despised and enslaved them; their own groveling spirit and thirst for gold and distinction brought them to my feet. Could I take one step without crushing them? I did not need to spread snares in their path; it sufficed to present to them the cup of worldly riches and honors. Then, like a swarm of hungry flies, they precipitated themselves on their prey. The slaves needed a master, but I had no need of slaves.
What shall we think of forty millions of people who complain bitterly of the oppression of a single individual!
Cupidity, envy, vanity, false glory, pursue them like furies through this stormy life; they talk incessantly of virtue, generosity, and love, while, like an incurable cancer, envy, interest, and ambition are gnawing the inner folds of their hearts. They carefully conceal their wickedness, and feign a virtue which they do not possess; they reciprocally lavish flatteries on one another. Though no one of them believes in the honor of the rest, nevertheless, through weakness, they play together the parts they have learned, for want of courage to show themselves such as they are.
The best among them are those who are most condemned, because they do not know how to feign, and the false virtue of the rest gives more éclat to their crimes.
Nothing is more revolting to me than this mania for falsehood, to which I have sometimes been myself obliged to make sacrifices, that I might not expose others.
Their private life is but a constant series of boasting, a disconnected conversation, the repetition of a part carefully studied.
As I saw everywhere that ambition and interest prevailed (taking from all and giving to none), that all wished to command and no one wished to obey, I resolved to terminate this insensate dispute, by taking from all what they desired so eagerly and could not possess; thus, the men who loudly demanded liberty were compelled to learn to know it, and appreciate it by a blind obedience.
It was in this manner that by a voluntary reciprocity each one recovered his due.
Renouncing all these frivolous manners, all these theatrical caricatures of our times, let us be more sincere; less of courtiers, more serious, more reflective, and less apish. This is a sure method, if there is one, of renewing the Golden Age.
For myself, I care very little what may be said, thought, or written of me. I have been accused of having done, and suffered to be done, much evil.
When the storm hovers over the surface of the earth, to purify the air and fertilize the mountains, ought we to complain if, in its course, it carries away roofs and loose tiles, or shakes off the fruits of trees? Even the sun, when he sheds his beneficent light upon the Arctic pole, kills and scorches all vital plants beneath his meridian.
With the amiable popularity of a Cæsar and of a Henry IV, I might not have found, it is true, a single Brutus, but a hundred Ravaillacs.
Although I care little for the people, because they are fickle, flattering, cruel, and capricious as children (for they are always such) and trample beneath their feet to-day those they idolized yesterday, nevertheless I would have promoted their welfare, more than those who have so basely betrayed them.
REJECTED BOOKS THAT WON FAME.
"Ben-Hur," "Vanity Fair," "Jane Eyre," and Scores of Other Masterpieces Were
"Declined With Thanks" by Several Publishers.
There used to be an old superstition that a flash of lightning would turn milk sour. This is the sort of effect produced upon a young author by the rejection of a manuscript by a publisher. As the author becomes older, more successful, and more experienced, such incidents do not discourage him, and if he sighs at all, the sigh is one of commiseration for the publisher who cannot appreciate a really good thing when he sees it.
The owner of a rejected manuscript is in good company, for many of the more celebrated works of literature have been summarily returned to their authors by unappreciative publishers.
Few books published in the United States have yielded to their publishers and authors larger returns than "Ben-Hur," by the late Lew Wallace, and yet the manuscript had been rejected by nearly every first-class publisher in this country before it finally was accepted by the Harpers, to whom it was submitted for the second time.
"Rejected Addresses," by Horace and James Smith, was offered to Mr. Murray for twenty pounds, but refused. A publisher, however, purchased it, and, after sixteen editions, Mr. Murray gave a hundred and thirty pounds for the right to issue a new edition. The total amount received by the authors was more than a thousand pounds.
"Jane Eyre," by Charlotte Brontë, was, it is said, rejected by several publishers. This, however, is rather doubtful. We believe the manuscript was sent to Messrs. Smith, Elder & Co., in Cornhill, and there it remained for a long time, till a daughter of one of the publishers read it and recommended her father to publish it. The result is well known. It brought the author fame and money.
"Eöthen," by Mr. Kinglake, was offered to twenty different houses. All refused it. He then, in a fit of desperation, gave the manuscript to an obscure bookseller and found the expenses of publication himself. This also proved a success.
"Vanity Fair," that most famous work of Thackeray's, was written for Colburn's Magazine, but it was refused by the publishers as having no interest.
"The History of Ferdinand and Isabella," by Mr. Prescott, was rejected by two of the first publishers in London, and it ultimately appeared under the auspices of Mr. Bentley, who stated that it had more success than any book he had ever published.
The author of "The Diary of a Late Physician" for a long time sought a publisher, and unsuccessfully. At last he gave the manuscript to Blackwood's Magazine, where it first appeared and was very successful.
The first volume of Hans Andersen's "Fairy Tales" was rejected by every publisher in Copenhagen. Andersen had then neither name nor popularity, and published this exquisite book at his own expense, a proceeding which soon brought him into notoriety.
Miss Jane Austen's novels, models of writing at this day, at first met with no success. One of them, "Northanger Abbey," was purchased by a publisher in Bath for ten pounds. After paying this sum, he was afraid to risk any further money in its publication, and it remained many years in his possession before he ventured upon the speculation, which, to his surprise, turned out very profitable.
The poet Shelley had always to pay for the publication of his poems.
The "Ode on the Death of Sir John Moore at Corunna" was written by Rev. Charles Wolfe. It was rejected so scornfully by a leading periodical that the author gave it to an obscure Irish paper.
Con Cregan's Legacy.
BY CHARLES LEVER.
Charles James Lever (1806—1872) remains the most popular novelist that Ireland has ever produced. He was born in Dublin and studied medicine both there and in Germany. After practising his profession for several years, he began to write his novels of Irish life, the first of which, "Harry Lorrequer," appeared serially in the Dublin University Magazine in 1837. This story caught the fancy of the public at once, by its unrestrained spirit of rollicking fun, verging often upon farce. The flow of animal spirits which Lever displayed was even more conspicuous in the most popular of all his books, "Charles O'Malley," and in the succeeding novels, "Jack Hinton," "Tom Burke of Ours," and "The Confessions of Con Cregan," from the last of which the accompanying selection is taken.
Wit and humor are blended in everything that Lever wrote, and he had a keen eye for the grotesque. His later years were largely spent upon the Continent, and he died at Trieste, where he had been British consul for many years. He and Samuel Lover afford the best examples of Celtic wit that are to be found in literature.
When, my worthy reader, we shall have become better acquainted, there will be little necessity for my insisting upon a fact which, at this early stage of our intimacy, I deem it requisite to mention; namely, that my native modesty and bashfulness are only second to my veracity, and that while the latter quality in a manner compels me to lay an occasional stress upon my own goodness of heart, generosity, candor, and so forth, I have, notwithstanding, never introduced the subject without a pang—such a pang as only a sensitive and diffident nature can suffer or comprehend; there now, not another word of preface or apology!
I was born in a little cabin on the borders of Meath and King's County; it stood on a small triangular bit of ground, beside a cross-road; and although the place was surveyed every ten years or so, they were never able to say to which county we belonged, there being just the same number of arguments for one side as for the other—a circumstance, many believed, that decided my father in his original choice of the residence; for while, under the "disputed boundary question," he paid no rates or county cess, he always made a point of voting at both county elections!
This may seem to indicate that my parent was of a naturally acute habit; and indeed the way he became possessed of the bit of ground will confirm that impression.
There was nobody of the rank of gentry in the parish, nor even "squireen"; the richest being a farmer, a snug old fellow, one Henry McCabe, that had two sons, who were always fighting between themselves which was to have the old man's money. Peter, the elder, doing everything to injure Mat, and Mat never backward in paying off the obligation. At last Mat, tired out in the struggle, resolved he would bear no more. He took leave of his father one night, and next day set off for Dublin, and 'listed in the "Buffs."
Three weeks after, he sailed for India; and the old man, overwhelmed by grief, took to his bed, and never arose from it.
Not that his death was anyway sudden, for he lingered on for months longer; Peter always teasing him to make his will, and be revenged on "the dirty spalpeen" that disgraced the family; but old Harry as stoutly resisting, and declaring that whatever he owned should be fairly divided between them.
These disputes between them were well known in the neighborhood. Few of the country people passing the house at night but had overheard the old man's weak, reedy voice and Peter's deep, hoarse one, in altercation. When at last—it was on a Sunday night—all was still and quiet in the house; not a word, not a footstep, could be heard, no more than if it were uninhabited, the neighbors looked knowingly at each other, and wondered if the old man were worse—if he were dead!
It was a little after midnight that a knock came to the door of our cabin. I heard it first, for I used to sleep in a little snug basket near the fire; but I didn't speak, for I was frightened.
It was repeated still louder, and then came a cry—"Con Cregan; Con, I say, open the door! I want you."
I knew the voice well; it was Peter McCabe's; but I pretended to be fast asleep, and snored loudly. At last my father unbolted the door, and I heard him say, "Oh, Mr. Peter, what's the matter? Is the ould man worse?"
"Faix that's what he is! for he's dead!"
"Glory be his bed! When did it happen?"
"About an hour ago," said Peter, in a voice that even I from my corner could perceive was greatly agitated. "He died like an ould haythen, Con, and never made a will!"
"That's bad," says my father, for he was always a polite man, and said whatever was pleasing to the company.
"It is bad," said Peter; "but it would be worse if we couldn't help it. Listen to me now, Corny, I want ye to help me in this business; and here's five guineas in goold, if ye do what I bid ye. You know that ye were always reckoned the image of my father, and before he took ill ye were mistaken for each other every day of the week."
"Anan!" said my father; for he was getting frightened at the notion, without well knowing why.
"Well, what I want is, for ye to come over to the house, and get into the bed."
"Not beside the corpse?" said my father, trembling.
"By no means, but by yourself; and you're to pretend to be my father, and that ye want to make yer will before ye die; and then I'll send for the neighbors, and Billy Scanlan, the schoolmaster, and ye'll tell him what to write, laving all the farm and everything to me—ye understand. And as the neighbors will see ye, and hear yer voice, it will never be believed but that it was himself that did it."
"The room must be very dark," said my father.
"To be sure it will, but have no fear! Nobody will dare to come nigh the bed; and ye'll only have to make a cross with yer pen under the name."
"And the priest?" said my father.
"My father quarreled with him last week about the Easter dues: and Father Tom said he'd not give him the 'rites': and that's lucky now! Come along now, quick, for we've no time to lose: it must be all finished before the day breaks."
My father did not lose much time at his toilet, for he just wrapped his big coat 'round him, and slipping on his brogues, left the house. I sat up in the basket and listened till they were gone some minutes; and then, in a costume as light as my parent's, set out after them, to watch the course of the adventure. I thought to take a short cut, and be before them; but by bad luck I fell into a bog-hole, and only escaped being drowned by a chance. As it was, when I reached the house the performance had already begun.
I think I see the whole scene this instant before my eyes, as I sat on a little window with one pane, and that a broken one, and surveyed the proceeding. It was a large room, at one end of which was a bed, and beside it a table, with physic bottles, and spoons, and teacups; a little farther off was another table, at which sat Billy Scanlan, with all manner of writing materials before him.
The country people sat two, sometimes three, deep round the walls, all intently eager and anxious for the coming event. Peter himself went from place to place, trying to smother his grief, and occasionally helping the company to whisky—which was supplied with more than accustomed liberality.
All my consciousness of the deceit and trickery could not deprive the scene of a certain solemnity. The misty distance of the half-lighted room; the highly wrought expression of the country people's faces, never more intensely excited than at some moment of this kind; the low, deep-drawn breathings, unbroken save by a sigh or a sob—the tribute of affectionate sorrow to some lost friend, whose memory was thus forcibly brought back: these, I repeat it, were all so real, that, as I looked, a thrilling sense of awe stole over me, and I actually shook with fear.
A low, faint cough, from the dark corner where the bed stood, seemed to cause even a deeper stillness; and then in a silence where the buzzing of a fly would have been heard, my father said, "Where's Billy Scanlan? I want to make my will!"
"He's here, father!" said Peter, taking Billy by the hand and leading him to the bedside.
"Write what I bid ye, Billy, and be quick; for I haven't a long time afore me here. I die a good Catholic, though Father O'Rafferty won't give me the 'rites'!"
A general chorus of muttered "Oh! musha, musha," was now heard through the room; but whether in grief over the sad fate of the dying man, or the unflinching severity of the priest, is hard to say.
"I die in peace with all my neighbors and all mankind!"
Another chorus of the company seemed to approve these charitable expressions.
"I bequeath unto my son, Peter—and never was there a better son, or a decenter boy!—have you that down? I bequeath unto my son, Peter, the whole of my two farms of Killimundoonery and Knocksheboora, with the fallow meadows, behind Lynch's house, the forge, and the right of turf on the Dooran bog. I give him, and much good may it do him, Lantry Cassarn's acre, and the Luary field, with the limekiln; and that reminds me that my mouth is just as dry; let me taste what ye have in the jug."
Here the dying man took a very hearty pull, and seemed considerably refreshed by it.
"Where was I, Billy Scanlan?" says he; "oh, I remember, at the limekiln; I leave him—that's Peter, I mean, the two potato gardens at Noonan's Well; and it is the elegant fine crops grows there."
"Ain't you gettin' wake, father darlin'?" says Peter, who began to be afraid of my father's loquaciousness; for, to say the truth, the punch got into his head, and he was greatly disposed to talk.
"I am, Peter, my son," says he; "I am getting wake; just touch my lips agin with the jug. Ah, Peter, Peter, you watered the drink!"
"No, indeed, father; but it's the taste is lavin' you," says Peter; and again a low chorus of compassionate pity murmured through the cabin.
"Well, I'm nearly done now," says my father: "there's only one little plot of ground remaining; and I put it on you, Peter—as ye wish to live a good man, and die with the same easy heart I do now—that ye mind my last words to ye here. Are ye listening? Are the neighbors listening? Is Billy Scanlan listening?"
"Yes, sir. Yes, father. We're all minding," chorused the audience.
"Well, then, it's my last will and testament, and may—give me over the jug"—here he took a long drink—"and may that blessed liquor be poison to me if I'm not as eager about this as every other part of my will; I say, then, I bequeath the little plot at the crossroads to poor Con Cregan; for he has a heavy charge, and is as honest and as hardworking a man as ever I knew. Be a friend to him, Peter dear; never let him want while ye have it yourself; think of me on my deathbed whenever he asks ye for any trifle. Is it down, Billy Scanlan? the two acres at the cross to Con Cregan, and his heirs in secla seclorum. Ah, blessed be the saints! but I feel my heart lighter after that," says he; "a good work makes an easy conscience; and now I'll drink the company's good health, and many happy returns——"
What he was going to add, there's no saying; but Peter, who was now terribly frightened at the lively tone the sick man was assuming, hurried all the people away into another room, to let his father die in peace.
When they were all gone, Peter slipped back to my father, who was putting on his brogues in a corner: "Con," says he, "ye did it all well; but sure that was a joke about the two acres at the cross."
"Of course it was, Peter," says he; "sure it was all a joke for the matter of that: won't I make the neighbors laugh to-morrow when I tell them all about it!"
"You wouldn't be mean enough to betray me?" says Peter, trembling with fright.
"Sure ye wouldn't be mean enough to go against yer father's dying words?" says my father; "the last sentence ever he spoke;" and here he gave a low, wicked laugh, that made myself shake with fear.
"Very well, Con!" says Peter, holding out his hand; "a bargain's a bargain; yer a deep fellow, that's all!" and so it ended; and my father slipped quietly home over the bog, mighty well satisfied with the legacy he left himself.
And thus we became the owners of the little spot known to this day as Con's Acre.
GEORGE III SOUGHT HEAVEN'S AID.
The British Sovereign Proclaimed a General Fast and Commanded His Subjects to Humble
Themselves to Win the Divine Favor in Their War with the American Colonies.
When the American colonies rebelled against King George, England was not so easy in her view of the situation as is often assumed. The reader who may stumble upon a copy of the London Gazette for October, 1776, will find therein this:
PROCLAMATION FOR A GENERAL FAST.
George R.
We, taking into our most serious Consideration the just and necessary Measures of Force which We are obliged to use against Our rebellious Subjects in Our Colonies and Provinces in North America and Putting Our Trust in Almighty God, that He will vouchsafe a special Blessing on Our Arms both by Sea and Land, have resolved, and do, by and with the Advice of Our Privy Council, hereby command, That a Publick Fast and Humiliation be observed throughout that Part of Our Kingdom of Great Britain called England, Our Dominion of Wales, and Town of Berwick upon Tweed, upon Friday the 13th Day of December next; and so both We and Our People may humble Ourselves before Almighty God, in order to obtain Pardon of Our Sins; and may, in the most devout and solemn Manner, send up our Prayers and Supplications to the Devine Majesty, for averting those heavy Judgments which Our manifold Sins and Provocations have most justly deserved, and for imploring his Intervention and Blessing speedily to deliver Our loyal Subjects within Our Colonies and Provinces in North America from the Violence, Injustice, and Tyranny, of those daring Rebels who have assumed to themselves the Exercise of Arbitrary Power; to open the Eyes of those who have been deluded by specious Falsehoods into Acts of Treason and Rebellion; to turn the Hearts of the Authors of these Calamities, and finally to restore Our People in those distracted Provinces and Colonies to the happy Condition of being free Subjects of a free State; under which heretofore they flourished so long and prospered so much.
And We do strictly charge and command, That the said Publick Fast be reverently and devoutly observed by all Our loving Subjects in England, Our Dominion of Wales, and Town of Berwick upon Tweed, as they tender the Favour of Almighty God, and would avoid His Wrath and Indignation; and upon Pain of such Punishment as We may justly inflict upon all such as contemn and neglect the Performance of so religious a Duty. And, for the better and more orderly solemnizing the same, We have given Directions to the Most Reverend the Archbishops, and the Right Reverend the Bishops of England, to compose a Form of Prayer, suitable to this Occasion, to be used in all Churches, Chapels, and Places of Publick Worship, and to take Care the same be timely dispersed throughout their respective Dioceses. Given at Our Court at St. James, the Thirtieth Day of October, One Thousand seven hundred and seventy-six, in the Seventeenth Year of Our Reign.