A CHRYSTMESSE WYSHE.

"Ladies," said Mrs. Rutherford, after informing them of the whereabouts of their spouses, "you are all at liberty to invite your husbands back here to dinner; whether you do so or not is for eachof you to decide for herself. As for me, Mr. Rutherford said he would never return, and I am not going to ask him to."

"We all, in the heat of passion, say things," replied Mrs. Honey, "which at the time we think we mean, but for which we are afterwards sorry. Did not William say he left me forever?"

"No," answered Mrs. Wildfen, "he said 'wunst an' hallways.'"

"That's unkind of you, Lydia," remarked the gentle Gertrude. "What does it matter whether a man spells his heart with an 'h' or an 'a,' so long as it is in the right place?—as I am sure Mr. Honey's is."

"Thank you, my dear," responded Mrs. Honey, with moistening eyes. "Your good husband can never have committed the crime imputed to him."

"Nor mine either, I suppose you think?" queried Mrs. Rutherford; to which the schoolmistress replied that that certainly was what she did think.

"Oh, yes," sneered Miss Fithian; "you're all in the melting mood. You'll get down on your knees and beg 'em to come back and trample on you."

Mrs. Honey smiled as she remarked: "They must, by this time, be too famished to trample much. I know that must be my husband's condition. With his enormous appetite I think he must be now about starved into submission, if not penitence."

"Remember, it is Christmas, and we should forgive and forget," said Mrs. Plowden. "Suppose we unite in an invitation to them to come to dinner to-day."

"Good!" eagerly responded Mrs. Honey, "and send it by Sam, with a flag of truce."

"Yes, and put in that we will undertake to keep the peace during dinner," added Mrs. Plowden.

"Say rather," suggested Mrs. Rutherford, "that we will preserve an armed neutrality."

"No, no, that's too warlike," protested Mrs. Honey; "I will draw up a pacific invitation, and we will all sign it."

"I won't," promptly objected Mrs. Wildfen. "At least, I won't put my name first. That would look as if I had flung down my arms and surrendered unconditionally."

"What thenshallwe do to preserve our dignity and get them back?" piteously asked Mrs. Plowden. "Rob and I had no quarrel, and I want him—bigamist or no bigamist."

"Mrs. Plowden! I am shocked! and will no longer remainunder the same roof with you!" exclaimed Miss Fithian. "Edna, I am going to order Jim to hitch up the sleigh and drive me to the depot. I shall go to cousin Melinda's."

Mrs. Rutherford made a feeble show of urging her to remain until after dinner, but she replied: "No, no; I will not sit at table with your hypocrite and that woman's bigamist."

Said Mrs. Rutherford coldly, "Then I fear that we will have to be deprived of the pleasure of your society."

As soon as order was again restored, after Miss Fithian's unregretted departure, Mrs. Honey took up the interrupted theme. "Suppose, then," she said, thoughtfully, "as no one seems willing to sign first, that we draw up a 'round-robin' which we can all sign, without either seeming to lead."

"I won't," again objected Mrs. Wildfen—"not until I know what a 'round-robin' is."

"It is a paper to which signatures are affixed in a surrounding circle, so that the precedence of all is equal."

"Oh, I'll sign that!" "So will I!" "And I!" responded the other wives.

This then was the form in which Mrs. Honey drew up the invitation, and the signatures were affixed.

When completed, and addressed "To the gentlemen in the pavilion," it was handed to Sam for delivery, and he went off chuckling over the success of his ruse in attracting attention to his foray uponthe luncheon-table. In a short time he brought back a verbal acceptance of the invitation.

Mrs. Honey had constituted herself leader of the feminine discontents. When they were marshalled in the dining-room, awaiting their guests, she thus addressed them:

"Ladies, now let us preserve a calm, cold, and dignified demeanor, so as to let them understand that we have simply taken compassion upon them, not as husbands, but as men, and in the name of a common humanity."

"Exactly," assented Mrs. Rutherford. "No beggar, especially at this season, should be turned away either cold or hungry from my door."

The speech addressed by Mr. Rutherford to his friends and partners in adversity was quite in consonance with that uttered by Mrs. Honey.

"Gentlemen," said he, "do not let us show elation or be too eager to forgive our wives, but bear ourselves as just men who, having received overtures for peace, are willing to grant proper consideration to proffered terms of capitulation."

Following their host, Wildfen and Honey supported between them Mr. Plowden, who when he entered the dining-room seemed much cheered by the absence of Miss Fithian. No word was spoken as the husbands entered, and in stern silence each retook the seat he had occupied on Christmas Eve. The turkey—a grand bird, yellow-meated and tender from fattening on English walnuts—had been served and eaten in silence.

Suddenly Sam ushered in a shivering telegraph-boy, with a message for Mr. Rutherford. When the diners were left alone again, the host arose and said:

"Friends, last evening you heard made against me a charge which I was, at the time, bound in honor not to refute. It fortunately happens that you are all present to hear my exculpation. First let me read this telegram: 'Your message received by fortunate accident. Tell everything. No further need for secrecy. Mother dead two months. Daughter with me.—Charles Wilbour.' Now for the solution of it. I inherited my father's practice, and some odd clients he had. Among them was a gentleman who had made a secret marriage, for which his wealthy mother, if she had known of it, would have disinherited him. It was effectually concealed, and he had a daughter pretty well grown when I had anything to do with the case. His wife had died but a little whilebefore. He was recalled home to his mother, whose health was believed to be failing, and knowing that he would have to remain there some time, he wished his child put in a boarding-school, as a place of safe care for her, and under a false name, to still conceal her identity while his mother lived. He came to me, as his lawyer, to so dispose of her, under a solemn pledge of my word of honor that I would keep his secret. That was the girl I confided to Mrs. Honey, and her father was Mr. Wilbour, the signer of the telegram I have just read. Further documentary evidence, if needed, is in my office."

"Oh, Malcolm! forgive me!" cried his wife, throwing herself into his arms.

Sam entered in time to be both amazed and delighted by this tableau. When he could claim his master's attention, he drew him aside and told him in an undertone:

"Dat strange ole woman what come hyer las' night done come agin, sah. She outside 'n' say she jes want to see you a minnit, but she mus' see you. She say she got lettahs fo' you, sah, 'n' wun't gib 'em to nubbudy else."

"Show her in here, Sam."

"Yes, sah."

Rutherford had raised his voice in giving the order, and Plowden looked up at him inquiringly as Sam left the room. The lawyer bent down to him and whispered: "Mrs. Plowden, Number One."

The unhappy old man half arose, pallid with a sudden scare, and looked as if he meditated going through the window again; but before he could do so, Sam returned, ushering in a stout elderly woman. At sight of her, Plowden sank back in his seat, and his face gave evidence of lively emotion, but the feeling it expressed was astonishment rather than consternation.

"Are you Mrs. Robert Plowden?" demanded Mr. Rutherford.

"Yes, sir; that's my name," the new-comer replied.

Young Honey, who had been sitting with his back to her, and indeed had not even noticed her coming in, jumped up at sound of her voice, turned and confronted her, with a cry of—

"Mother!"

The woman seemed to shrink and cower, as if overcome, not by fear, but by shame at sight of him, and whined: "Oh, Billy! Hi didn't know you was 'ere hagain."

"Why areyou'ere, mother?"

She hesitated, stammered, seemed as if she would have turnedand fled, had not the stern demand in his glance detained her.

"I didn't think it was hany 'arm," she whimpered; "I 'ated so to be dependent hon you an' 'Arriet—an' 'e's so rich."

The honest fellow's face flushed crimson, tears dimmed his eyes, and his voice trembled, as he said, in tones not of anger, but of deep sorrow: "Oh, mother! 'ow could you? Poor an' hignorant we hallways was—which hit was hower condition—'ard, but not dishonest—and nothink hever for to be hashamed of huntil now. Oh, mother, you've broke my 'art!"

"No, no, my boy," impulsively exclaimed the good-hearted Plowden, hurriedly rising, coming to him and laying a hand on his shoulder, "don't feel so. I can understand better than you how desperately one may feel who is poor as well as old. Sister-in-law Sally, I forgive you; for if you have raised a ghost—that has put some gray hairs in my head in the last twenty-four hours, I think—you have also laid it, and forever. Yes, Sally, I forgive you with all my heart; and if you want to be independent and go back to England, I'll give you enough to enable you to do so."

She was sobbing, too much overcome to reply in words, and could only bow over and kiss the kind hand that he extended to her. Then she turned toward the door, and her son led her out. Rutherford called to him as he went, "You must return, Honey," and he nodded assent. Mrs. Honey, pale and silent, followed them to the vestibule. After a short absence she returned with her husband. Tinkling sharp and clear in the crisp wintry air, they heard the bells on the horses that carried the old woman away. Fainter and fainter became the sound until it died away in the distance, and then the cloud lifted, as if by magic, from over the house-party, and at last "Merry Christmas" came for them.

Celia Logan.

There beA wyshe I have for TheeThys Chrystmesse-tyde:Maye Joye, and alle Gladde thyngesThe seasonne brynges,Gette to TheeAnd Abyde.Wm. Hallister Wall.

"Come, Dan, old man, it's your turn now."

This remark was made by one of a group of miners seated in front of a camp-fire in San Mateo canyon on the Colorado.

The person addressed as Dan was a splendid specimen of a "frontiersman," having all the characteristics of a frank, free American, with the physical advantages of a stalwart "Englisher." Among the miners he was variously known as "English Dan" and "Dead-Shot Dan." How he got the latter nickname always seemed a puzzle to his comrades, for he was one of the best, gentlest, and kindest fellows on "the lode." His manners and appearance indicated anything but a wicked nature, and he was always ready to do a comrade a good turn, or act as peacemaker in the ever-recurring rows of the miners.

It was Christmas Eve, and the boys were gathered around the fire, smoking their pipes, and telling stories of their past lives. Some told of homes and loved ones in the far-distant States; some of the late Civil War and its scenes of strife and sorrow; and some of escapades with the Mexican "greasers" and cattle-thieves of the Rio Grande.

Now the crowd turned to Dan, whom they regarded as a sort of superior creature. He was a general favorite. He knew something of medicine, and had nursed and cured many a comrade of camp-fever. He had, on more than one occasion, even set a limb and extracted a bullet from a wound—attentions which undoubtedly had the effect of increasing the freedom of the miners in the use of the "seven-shooter."

"Come, Dan, it's your turn now."

"Yes, yes," shouted a dozen voices. "Give us a story, English."

"I'm not much of a story-teller, boys," said Dan; "can anybody suggest a subject?"

"Yes," exclaimed old Peleg Carter, the Nestor of the crowd, "I can suggest a subject."

Peleg was a Missouri man. He was over six feet high, and had gray hair, while his large and flabby ears stood out from his headlike the side lamps of a hansom cab. He had only one eye, and he boasted that he had lost the other in driving Joe Smith and the Mormons from "Nauvoo." His word was law in the economy of the camp, so that when he said he could suggest a subject to Dan, all the lads waited with awe and attention to hear what the subject would be.

"Well, old man," observed Dan, "start the subject, and I'll do my best."

"Tell us, then," said Peleg, "how you got the name of 'Dead-Shot Dan.' You never wear a weaping, unless you keep one underneath your jumper."

"No," replied Dan, "I don't carry a weapon. I carried a pistol once, but swore I'd never 'bear arms,' again. Well, lads," he continued, as he filled his pipe, "you want to know how I got the name of 'Dead-Shot Dan'?"

"Yes, yes," was the unanimous response.

"I must tell you, then, that I came to Colorado, not exactly a fugitive from justice, but the victim of what is called in civilized countries the 'code of honor.' I was an assistant-surgeon on board one of the 'Quintard Line' of steamers, sailing from Liverpool to the Mediterranean. On my first voyage we put in for passengers and coal at Marseilles. We had forty-eight hours to remain in port, and as I was anxious to see all I could of foreign parts, I went ashore early in the morning. My companion was the senior surgeon of the ship, a strange, hot-headed old fellow. He had formerly been a surgeon in the Royal Navy, but had been cashiered while on the West Indian station for challenging the admiral on account of some supposed affront. His name was Dr. Caldwell, and he was sometimes known as the 'Fire-eating Surgeon.' Both of us, being very hungry when we got on shore, thought we would have a jolly good breakfast before visiting the objects of interest in the place.

"'Come with me, Dan,' said the Doctor, 'and I will take you to a famous restaurant frequented by all the savants of the city. Astronomers and political economists go there, and Italian refugees and communists too. Frenchmen rarely have more than a crust of bread and a cup of coffee before noon; but if the frog-eaters have such a thing in their larder, we'll have a beefsteak or a brace of chops.'

"With that he led me into a quiet side street, and we soonreached the restaurant. Early as it was, the principal dining-room was filled with customers sipping their coffee, and I could see at a glance that they were of no common order. They appeared to form a kind of literary class.

"We took our seats at a table which was already occupied by an old French gentleman, with a mustache and beard of a decidedly military cut.

"'Two large beefsteaks!' shouted the Doctor, in a voice which attracted the attention of everyone in the room.

"The waiter looked at us as if we were lunatics escaped from an asylum, and said, in broken English, 'Messieurs, this is not the time for beefsteaks. Beefsteaks are at twelve o'clock. 'Tis now only half-past eight.'

"'Two beefsteaks, d'ye hear!' again roared the Doctor.

"'Certainlee, ifmessieurswill have it so,' replied the waiter, somewhat staggered.

"'Beefsteak! Beefsteak!! Beefsteak!!!' was the exclamation which went from one person to another around the room, and all eyes were turned towards us.

"'Look,' said the Doctor, 'how these French fools stare. Confound them! What do they mean?'

"'Pardon me, sare,' remarked the old gentleman at our table, addressing himself to me, 'ess zis your breakfast or your dinnaire?'

"'Don't answer him,' said the Doctor; 'we'll have some sport with these fellows.'

"The beefsteaks were brought, and we attacked them with great effect.

"'It must be ze dinnaire,' muttered our military friend to himself, just loud enough for us to hear.

"'Pardon me, gentlemen,' he again said, addressing himself to me in a louder tone, 'ess zis your breakfast or your dinnaire?'

"'Bring some fried eggs,' called out the Doctor, before I could answer.

"'Oui, messieurs,' replied the waiter, quickly darting into the kitchen.

"'Oh, it must be ze dinnaire,' again muttered our old friend opposite; 'certainlee, it must be ze dinnaire.'

"The eggs were brought and soon despatched. The old Frenchman looked aghast.

"'Pardon me once more, my dear young friend,' he said, 'ess zis your breakfast or your dinnaire?'

"The Doctor winked at me not to answer, and called out, 'Waiter! two more cups of tea!'

"The old Frenchman looked at his watch and said despairingly, 'Oh, it must be ze dinnaire. Dinnaire at half-past eight!Mon Dieu!Howevaire, I will ask once more. My dear sare, ess zis your breakfast or your dinnaire?'

"'Sir,' I replied, somewhat petulantly, 'we came here to eat, not to answer questions!'

"'Yes, sare, but I am a journalist, and am anxious to study ze characteristics of ze Engleesh; zerefore, I ask, ess zis your breakfast or your dinnaire?'

"'Bring more toast, waiter,' said the Doctor.

"'More tost! Ah, it ess ze dinnaire—must be ze dinnaire,' mumbled the old Frenchman.

"The toast and tea disposed of, we rose and paid our bill. We were about to leave the restaurant, when the old Frenchman quitted the table, as if for the purpose of having a parting shot at us. Just as we were stepping into the street, he tapped me on the shoulder, and making a polite bow, said, 'Sare, if you please, was zat your breakfast or your dinnaire?'

"This seemed too much for human nature to bear, and without thinking exactly what I was about, I threw my glove into his face.

"'Sare, what you mean? An insult?'

"'Yes,' said the Doctor, 'and another, if you like. We have stood your impertinence for the last half-hour. You are no gentleman.'

"'Sare? No gentleman? Zare is my card!'

"'And there is mine,' said the Doctor.

"'One at a time, my friends,' coolly replied the old man. 'My business is wiz zis young gentleman first. He has struck me wiz his glove! He must fight.'

"'Agreed,' said the Doctor. 'Send your friend to me. I shall be happy to assist this young gentleman, and to fight you myself afterwards.'

"'One moment, gentlemen. My friend, Colonel Monier, now at yonder table, will confer wiz you;' and the old fellow called to his friend.

"In a few moments arrangements were perfected for a meeting between the Frenchman and myself the next morning at daylight, at a small clump of trees a few miles from town. Weapons, pistols; distance, fifteen paces.

"'Don't be alarmed, Dan,' said the Doctor, as we were going on board our ship; 'I'll teach you how to wing the frog-eater. Wing him, my boy! Wing him! I've done the trick a dozen times!'

"Next morning the Doctor, Tom Wallace, our purser, and myself drove to the place appointed for the meeting, and found the French party already on the ground.

"'Cheer up, Dan,' said my second, 'and remember, aim for his left shoulder. You'll wing him like a pigeon. Those Frenchmen know nothing of fire-arms.'

"The preliminaries over, we took our positions. I must confess I was terribly nervous; but while I intended to merely wound my adversary, I determined to follow the advice of the Doctor, and 'aim for the left shoulder.'

"'Are you ready?'

"'Ready.'

"'Fire.'

"'One.'

"'Two.'

"'Three.'

"It had been arranged that we should fire between the words 'One' and 'Three;' and as the word 'Two' was on the lips of the second, I fired.

"'Oh,mon Dieu!' cried my opponent, falling bleeding into the arms of his second, as the bullet from his pistol almost grazed my cheek.

"'Parbleu!He is dying—shot through the heart. You are a surgeon; can you do anything for him?' said I, appealing to my friend, the Doctor.

"'No, my lad,' said he; 'you aimed too low.'

"'This is terrible,' I cried, now for the first time realizing the awful position in which I was placed. 'What can we do?'

"'Get across the frontier as soon as possible,' was the advice of the old Frenchman's second.

"'Our ship sails at noon,' said the Doctor.

"I advanced to the dying man, whose life-blood was pouring from his side, and with tears streaming down my face, begged his forgiveness. He opened his poor, sad eyes, now almost glazed in death.

"'Oh, speak to me!' cried I, 'if only one word. I would give the world to recall this wicked duel. Is there anything on earththat I can do for you or yours? Tell me, and on the honor of an English gentleman, I will do as you command.'

"'Ah, my young friend,' said the dying man, 'I feel that I have but a few minutes to live. I am dying even while I speak; but I shall die perfectly happy if you will tell me whetherzat was your breakfast or your dinnaire?'"

William J. Florence.

[A]From "Florence Fables," by William J. Florence (Comedian), just published by Belford, Clarke & Co. Copyrighted, 1888.

"Forget—forget me not!"Vain, piteous human prayer!We all are doomed to be forgot;It is, alas! the common lotOf mortals everywhere.'Tis everywhere the same;Over the olden stoneThat bears the once dear dead one's name,Whom love and tears could not reclaim,The willow weeps alone!There is no sadder thoughtOf death and its sweet restThan that we are so soon forgot—E'en in those hearts remembered not,That we have loved the best.It hath been so, and mustSo be for aye and aye:And though it seemeth hardly just,Affection will not cling to dust,Nor linger with decay.Where'er above the deadThe gentle willow waves,The warmest tears are ever shed,The freshest flowers ever spread,Over the freshest graves!Thomas Hubbard.

President Cleveland's Great-Great-Grandfather in Halifax—"Mather's Church," the First Dissenting Meeting-house—Some Rare Antique Books—St. Matthew's Church—The Poet Cleveland and Others—A Poem—A Repartee.

On Pleasant Street facing Spring Garden Road—two aristocratic avenues of residence in the city of Halifax, Nova Scotia—is St. Matthew's Congregational Church. To sight-seekers from "the States" who during the last three years have visited Halifax this ecclesiastical building has become a place of especial interest. An ancestor of President Cleveland was the first pastor of the society; and through the influence of Rev. Aaron Cleveland, the first non-conforming church in British North America was built. It stood at the corner of the present Hollis and Prince streets, upon what now is the site of the Halifax Club, a portion of the building being occupied by Doull & Miller's dry-goods store.

There the little structure remained for more than a century, although Mr. Cleveland's ministry extended over but five years, when, in 1755, the pioneer pastor removed to England, leaving behind him no church records. Hence the history of Congregationalism in Nova Scotia, during that period, is traditional. A few volumes, unique in style and huge in size, the nucleus of what to-day is the Church and Sunday-school library of St. Matthew's society, survived the pastor's departure. Many of the books were the gift of Mr. Cleveland. In some of them is preserved his autograph presentation. A large proportion of the other volumes were donated by friends of Mr. Cleveland, mostly residents of Great Britain. Of these the notable ones are:

A Large and Complete Concordance to the Bible, by Samuel Newman, now teacher of the church at Rehoboth in New England. London, 1650.

The presentation reads as follows:

"This book is the Gift to the present Minister of the Gospel at Halifax in Nova Scotia, and to his successors,By their well wisher and Humble ServantNov. 6, 1750.John Staniford.

"This book is the Gift to the present Minister of the Gospel at Halifax in Nova Scotia, and to his successors,

By their well wisher and Humble Servant

Nov. 6, 1750.

John Staniford.

The same date and wording of presentation accompanies

The History of Britain, 1655.

Bearing the imprint, London, 1684, are the

Works of the Rev. and Learned John Lightfoot; Late Master of Katerine Hall, in Cambridge. With Author's Life and Maps.

Also, illustrated with many fine engravings, are

The Worksof theLearnedandPious Author ofThe WholeDUTYof Man.London, 1704.

The Works of the Most Reverend Dr. John Tillotson, Lord Archbishop of Canterbury. London, 1752.The Works of the Rev. & Learned Lord Mr. Joseph Boyse of Dublin, Never before Published. 2 vols., London, 1728.

The Works of the Most Reverend Dr. John Tillotson, Lord Archbishop of Canterbury. London, 1752.

The Works of the Rev. & Learned Lord Mr. Joseph Boyse of Dublin, Never before Published. 2 vols., London, 1728.

This last book was

"The Gift of the Rev. Mr. John Walker of London, to the Rev. Aaron Cleveland and his Successors in the Ministry at Halifax, in Nova Scotia, 1753."

St. Matthew's Church, called in early days "Mather's Church," was constructed after the same plan as Maryborn Chapel, England. This "Meeting-house for Dissenters" was put up in 1750, at a cost to the colony of £1000. In a letter dated July 10, 1750, to The Lords Commissioners for Trade and Plantations, written by Hon. Edward Cornwallace, Governor of Nova Scotia, the "Meeting-house" was grouped as one of the "necessary works," with "a Court House and Prison, and a powder Magazine."

At the time of Mr. Cleveland's ministry in Halifax, "The Dissenting Congregational Meeting-house" was known as "Mather's Church." It derived its name from the then famous New England Congregational divine, Cotton Mather. The frame of the building was brought from Boston. Tradition erroneously says that the edifice was removed bodily to Halifax, and that it was the identical church in which Cotton Mather preached.

After the fire, January 1, 1857, that destroyed the original structure, the present St. Matthew's church edifice was erected. The building, which is of brick, is the best of its kind in the Dominion. Its cost of construction was $75,000. The manse was built at an additional expense of $12,000. The congregation is fashionable and influential. The Word is preached from an old-fashioned box-like pulpit, perched, like a bird's nest, near the ceiling. The minister reaches this enclosure by means of twowinding stairways, curtained with red drapery along their sides. The pews are, as in ancient times, padded throughout with scarlet. British "red-coats" constitute a portion of the congregation. They occupy the high gallery that reaches around three sides of the auditorium. The Sunday-school is one of the largest and the best conducted in the city. The original silver-plate communion-set and the baptismal fount have been preserved and are used as occasion allows. These pieces are engraved with the follow inscription:

"The Gift of Francis White, Esq., to the first Protestant Dissenting Church in Halifax, Oct. 25, 1769."

A prominent officer of the St. Matthew's Society stated in the presence of the writer, "We have many proofs that the Lord has abundantly blessed the labors of the first minister, the Rev. Aaron Cleveland, ... and we rejoice in the manifestation of His goodness in having raised his descendant to the highest honor in the gift of a free and sovereign people."

To the town of Cleveland,—"a corruption of Cliffe land,"—Durham County, England, the family of Cleveland or Cleaveland owes its name. "The principal branch was seated in the county of York. Early in the fourteenth century, Sir Guy de Cleveland was present at the siege of Boulogne, in France, and afterwards at the battle of Poietiers, where he commanded the spearmen. A branch of the family went into Devonshire, and continued until the male line of the family was extinct."

The Rev. Aaron Cleveland, great-great-grandfather to the President of the United States, was the son of Captain Aaron, a grandchild of Moses Cleveland who came to this country from Ipswich, county of Suffolk, England, about 1635, and who died at Woburn, Mass., January, 1701-2. Seven sons and five daughters composed the family of Moses. From the eldest son, "it is confidently believed, are derived all the Clevelands or Cleavelands in this country, of New England origin." The other of the two brothers who came to this country settled in Ohio. One of them, General Moses Cleveland, was born 1754, in Canterbury, Connecticut. He graduated from Yale College, and subsequently held a position as general in the regular army. Afterwards he practised law. As chief of the staff of surveyors commissioned by the Connecticut Land Company, he was sent to the Western Reserve, where he secured the confidence and friendship of the Indians by his tact and repeated evidences of friendliness. He established a surveying camp, laid out a city, and gave to it his name. It was to his memorythat the Early Settlers Association of Cleveland, Ohio, celebrated the ninety-second anniversary of this event by unveiling, in the public square, the 22d of last July, a bronze statue of the city's founder.

"The brother who settled in New England had two sons, one of whom removed to Michigan, the other to New York. From the family of the latter sprung the President."

The following epitaph immortalizes the memory of Colonel Aaron Cleveland, who is buried in the Congregational graveyard at Canterbury, Conn.:

"In memory of Col. Aaron Cleveland, who died in a fit of apoplexy, 14th April,A.D., 1785. Born 7th of Decr. 1727; on the 17th of June,A.D.1782, when in the bloom of health and prime of life, was struck with a numb palsy; from that time to his death, had upward of sixty fits of the palsy and apoplexy. He was employed in sundry honorable offices both civil and military.

"Calm and composed my soul her journey takes,No guilt that troubles, and no heart that aches.Adieu! thou Sun, all bright like her arise,Adieu! dear friends, and all that's good and wise."

Rev. Aaron Cleveland, the Halifax minister, was the fifth son and the seventh child of Captain Aaron Cleveland. He was born in Cambridge, Mass., 1715. He studied and graduated at Harvard College, and was married to Susanna Porter, a daughter of Rev. Aaron Porter, of Medford, Mass., the same year, when but twenty years of age. Four years later, 1739, he was called to the pastorate of a congregation at Haddam, Connecticut, where he continued until dismissed for alleged heterodoxy.

A year later Mr. Cleveland was installed over a congregation at Malden. His views being there deemed too liberal, he was obliged to resign that charge also. This circumstance occurred in 1750, the same year in which he went to Halifax. Falling into disrepute once more, because of his too rapid advance in theological tenets, he was forced to give up the Nova Scotia pastorate. The same year, 1755, he removed to England. He subsequently disconnected himself from the denomination of his early choice, and took holy orders in the Church of England from Bishop Sherlock, of London, from which denomination he received the following commission:

"Charter House, July 1, 1767—Good Gentlemen: The society for the propagation of the gospel in foreign parts have granted your request and appointed Mr. Cleveland their missionary in your church; but it is on the express condition, which is now a standing rule in their missions, that youprovide him with a good house and glebe, and not less than twenty pounds sterling per annum, towards his more comfortable support. Heartily recommending you and Mr. Cleveland to God's blessing, I am, sirs, your very faithful, humble servant,Philip Bearcroft.To the church wardens and vestry of the episcopal church of New Castle, in Pennsylvania."

Philip Bearcroft.

To the church wardens and vestry of the episcopal church of New Castle, in Pennsylvania."

Returning to America, he officiated at Lewes, Delaware, and at New Castle, Pennsylvania, until his death, which occurred suddenly at Philadelphia, August 11, 1757, while he was visiting his friend Benjamin Franklin, but two years after his removal from Halifax.The Pennsylvania Gazette, at that time owned and edited by Franklin, contained the following obituary—a sober paragraph amidst the bountiful supply of wit and ridicule with which that journal abounded.

"On Thursday last, the 11th, died here the Rev. Mr. Cleveland, lately appointed to the mission of New Castle, by the society for the propagation of the gospel. As he was a gentleman of humane and pious disposition, indefatigable in his ministry, easy and affable in his conversation, open and sincere to his friends, and above every specie of meanness and dissimulation, his death is greatly lamented by all who knew him, as a loss to the public, a loss to the church of Christ in general, and in particular to that congregation who had proposed to themselves so much satisfaction from his late appointment among them, agreeable to their own request."

During Mr. Cleveland's residence in Nova Scotia three children were born to him, they being the last of a family of ten. All these survived the father's death. The widow removed to Salem, Massachusetts, and there made a future home for her children and herself. Aided by a relative, Judge Stephen Sewell, Mrs. Cleveland supported her family in comfort and respectability until the time of her death, in 1788. Aaron (5th), who was also the fifth of the children, was born in Haddam, Conn., February 3, 1744. He lived in Halifax with his parents from his sixth to his eleventh year. He became a member of the legislature of Connecticut in 1799. Subsequently he followed the early calling of his father and became a Congregational minister, and was known throughout New England as a statesman, an orator, and a wit. Twice married, this Aaron (5th) was the father of William, one of fifteen children. Said William was grandfather to President Cleveland.

Aaron was a poet. He never claimed to be such, and the few verses that he allowed to find their way into print were published anonymously. Many of them have been lost. The authorship ofothers was never given to the public. A few, however, of his poetic word-creations passed into the possession of his grandson, the Rev. Arthur Cleveland Coxe, of Hartford. Illustrating Mr. Cleveland's appreciation of personal merit and personal exertion over that of ancestry, we insert the following satirical composition from his pen:

"Genus et proavos et quod non fecimus ipsiVix ea nostra voco."Four kinds of blood flow in my veins,And govern, each in turn, my brains.FromCleveland,Porter,Sewell,Waters,I had my parentage in quarters;My fathers' fathers' names I know,And further back no doubt might go.Compound on compound from the flood,Makes up my old ancestral blood;But what my sires of old time were,I neither wish to know, nor care.Some might be wise—and others fools;Some might be tyrants—others tools;Some might have wealth, and others lack;Some fair perchance—some almost black;No matter what in days of yore,Since now they're known and seen no more.The name ofClevelandI must wear,Which any fondling too might bear:Porter, they say, from Scotland came,A bonny Laird of ancient fame:Sewell—of English derivation,Perhaps was outlaw from the nation;AndWaters—Irish as I ween,Straight—round-aboutfrom—Aberdeen!Such is my heterogeneous blood,A motley mixture, bad and good:Each blood aspires to rule alone,And each in turn ascends the throne,Of its poor realm to wear the crown,And reign till next one tears him down.Each change must twist about my brains,And move my tongue in different strains;My mental powers are captive led,As whim or wisdom rules the head;My character no one can know,For none I have while things are so;I'm something—nothing, wise, or fool,As suits the blood that haps to rule.WhenClevelandreigns I'm thought a witIn giving words the funny hit;And social glee and humorous songDelight the fools that round me throng;TillPorterputs on the crown,And hauls theClevelandbanner down.Now all is calm, discreet, and wise,Whate'er I do, whate'er devise;What common sence and wisdom teach,Directs my actions, forms my speech;The wise and good around me stay,And laughing dunces hie away.But soon, alas, this happy veinMay for some other change again!Sewellperchance shall next bear rule:I'm now a philosophic fool!WithJeffersonI correspond,And sail with him, the stars beyond:Each nerve and fibre of my brain,To sense profound I nicely strain,And thus uprise beyond the kenOf common sence and common men.Thus great am I, tillSewell'scrownAbout my ears comes tumbling down.Wise fools may soar themselves above,And dream in rapturous spheres they move;But airy castles must recoil,And such wild imagery spoil.But who comes now? Alas! 'tisWaters,Rushing and blustering to headquarters:He knows nor manners nor decorum,But elbows headlong to the forum;Uncouth and odd, abrupt and bold,Unteachable and uncontrolled,Devoid of wisdom, sence, or wit,Not one thing right he ever hit,Unless, by accident, not skill,He blundered right against his will.And such am I! no transmigrationCan sink me to a lower station:Come,Porter, come depose the clown,And, once for all, possess the crown.If aught, inSewell'sblood, you findWill make your own still more refined;If found inCleveland'sblood, a traitTo aid you in affairs of state;Select such parts—and spurn the rest,No more to rule in brain or breast.OfWaters'blood expel the whole,Let not one drop pollute my soul:Then rule my head—and keep my heartFrom folly, weakness, wit apart:With all such gifts I glad dispense,But only leave me—Common Sense.

As a wit, Mr. Cleveland's reputation has been immortalized by a few sentences that are frequently quoted, and which the writer furnished to the Editor's Drawer,Harper's Monthly Magazine, August, 1885. Mr. Cleveland was a Federalist of the school of Jay and Hamilton, whom he supported with more than ordinary zeal, and perhaps not without something of the prejudice which ranked all Jeffersonians with French fatalists and infidels. On horseback one day Mr. Cleveland was riding from Middletown to Durham; a little stream bounded the limits of the townships. He halted to water his horse; meanwhile a young man, having come from the opposite direction, drew rein so suddenly in the midst of the brook as to render the water unfit to drink.

"Good-morning, Mr. Minister," said the youth.

"Good-morning, Mr. Democrat," replied the reverend gentleman.

"And pray why do you take me for a Democrat?" queried the young man.

"Pray why did you take me for a minister?" rejoined Mr. Cleveland.

"Oh," said the fellow, "that is plain enough—by yourdress."

"And that you are a Democrat is plain enough by youraddress," was the retort of the preacher.

Mr. Cleveland was buried in New Haven, Conn., where he died suddenly, while paying a visit to friends in that city. He lies in the "New Haven City Burial Ground," the first cemetery in this country that was divided into family lots. The plot in which Mr. Cleveland was interred was at that time owned by Edmund French. Recently it was resold to William Franklin, a proviso of the transfer being that all previous interments should forever remain undisturbed. Two massive stones, of veinless white marble, mark the head and the foot of the scarcely perceptible mound. They are low and unpretentious. The larger is about two feet in height; the smaller is proportionally less tall. Erected but a short time ago, it is said that President Cleveland ordered them that he mightmark the last earthly resting-place of his great-grandfather. The inscription reads:

Rev. Aaron Clevelandson ofRev. Aaron ClevelandBorn in Haddam Feb'y 3. 1744Died in New Haven Sept. 21. 1815

A much loved, and respected, and stainless name is the inheritance that this man has left to his descendants.

The wives and little ones at home who knelt one Sabbath morn,And prayed for God to save our land, with battles rent and torn,How little knew the quick reply, while yet they bent the knee,In Shiloh's fierce and stubborn strife beside the Tennessee!Oh, may they never cease to pray for our dear nation's good.Till wrong no more shall lift a hand to claim the price of blood!For heavy was the debt we paid in noble blood and true,When Slavery cast the gage of war between the gray and blue.Bright burst the dawn o'er Shiloh's field, as o'er the northland homes;As o'er the worshippers that rose to seek their shining domes;And gentle morn, that whispered low and woke the sleepers there,Had almost led the soldier back the Sabbath joys to share,When, lo! a murmur through the trees above the breezes came,And shook the forest in our front with thunder-sound and flame!Now all the dreams of peace and home in quick surprise dispelled;Adown the line and far away the clamor rose and swelled!Defenceless on a field of war—'tis terrible in thought!Then how the holy morn was changed for those who blindly fought!At breakfast fire and forming line, their life-blood stained the green;Before them flashed a fiery storm; behind, the river's sheen!The army smitten in its camps, though flinching, rallied soon,And steady rose the battle's roar on that red field ere noon,While, mindful of their sad neglect, up came our generals then—Alas! they could not form in rank the dead and dying men!Against a crushing battle-tide right well we fought our ground;Full oft the foe that smote our ranks the soldiers' welcome found.That day the swaying underbrush a reaper, all unseen,Smote with the battle's deadly breath as with a sickle keen;The scorner of the widow's wail, the orphans' sore lament,There gathered treasure in his grasp, from hut and mansion sent.With deadly volleys crashing near, the cannons roll afar,That Sabbath closed on Shiloh's field, a bloody scene of war.Ere long the thrilling scenes will fade, the veterans will depart;But ere we leave the land; my child, write this upon thy heart:No soaring genius labored there to guide the stubborn fight—That was the common soldier's day from morning dawn till night;His stinging volleys checked the foe and laid their leader cold,As ever near with gleaming front the wave of battle rolled.Until the western sun was low and succor reached the field,Madly they pressed the volunteers, Columbia's pride and shield.The trump of fame has sounded long for those who led us then,And echoes still where poets sing the praise of mighty men.But where the commoner is found beneath his household tree,The soldier's heavy tramp is heard, the bayonet's gleam we see!Ah! never more in knightly ranks will nations put their trust,And soon the fabled hero's sword will gather mould and rust:As war disclosed the true defence in man's unarmored breast,So has it shown a nation's strength above the dazzling crest.The stars of union raise aloft that once on Shiloh led;Give justice to that rank and file, the living and the dead!And when ye see that flag on high, remember how they faredWho sprang to meet a cruel strife, surprised and unprepared:O children, often when I see our standard quick unfurled,Unconsciously my steps are braced to meet those volleys hurled!Still burdened with the memories of sad and glorious fight,The morning breaks among the tents, by the river falls the night.Remember, 'twas the Sabbath day—the holy, blessed timeWhen neighbors crowd the roadside walks, and bells do sweetly chime—Your fathers thronged the gates of death in Shiloh's bloody fray,Beside the rolling Tennessee:—call that the soldier's day!And oh, for our dear country pray, that all her laws be good,That wrong no more shall lift a hand to claim the price of blood!For heavy was the debt we paid, in noble blood and true,When Slavery cast the gage of war between the gray and blue.Joel Smith.

"Christmas comes but once a year,And when it comes it brings good cheer."

Or it ought to. But when a Christian finds himself, on that most sacred of all the Christian holidays, in a Moslem country, say in Egypt, the procuring of the wherewithal to make the prescribed good cheer becomes a matter of no small difficulty.

If the Christian be an English one, the difficulties are apt to be increased by the fact that an Englishman is nothing if not conservative.

To the average Englishman the correct celebration of Christmas means attendance at divine service,perhaps!—the regulation Christmas dinner, certainly.

Christmas means a crisp, cold day, the home bright with glowing fires—a yule-log, maybe—and flashing with the brilliant green of ivy and the crimson of holly-berries; a dinner of roast-beef and plum-pudding; and, to wind up with, a bowl of steaming wassail and a kiss under the mistletoe.

When an Englishman finds himself in a country where he can sit in the open air, under a blazing sun, on Christmas Day, and where neither roast-beef nor plum-pudding has any place in the domestic economy, and where the "wassail" is always drunk iced, and called by another name, and where mistletoe does not grow, the possibility presents itself that he would be obliged to accommodate himself to the situation and do without these particular features.

Not at all!

He immediately sets to work to obtain them, crying aloud, meantime, against the barbarity of a land that does not offer, at this particular season, the things that are peculiar to his own tight little island.

To the casual observer this may seem a light task that he has set himself. But it is by no means so. On every hand he is met by an almost impenetrable wall of difficulties.

The fire he cannot have, for the very simple reason that there is no chimney in the house.

The beef he can get by sending for it to England, where it has been purchased from either Northern Europe or America. But where is the great fire before which it ought to be roasted, by the aid of a "jack," and with frequent bastings at the hands of a comfortable, rosy-cheeked, red-armed woman cook, in "Merry England"?

Here, in Egypt, the only fire to be procured will be a tiny one of charcoal, one of a dozen, but each separate, like the squares on a chess-board, and not much larger. And the cook will, in all likelihood, be a wizened, yellow little man, smelling of "arrack," and much given to peculation.

He may succeed in procuring his Christmas pudding, if he, early in November, orders the ingredients for it from England, through his English grocer, and if the ladies of his household agree to compound it.

Then the dreadful question presents itself, how is it to be cooked? A Christmas pudding of fair proportions needs to be boiled from four to six hours, and during those hours it wants to be kept steadily and continuously boiling, or it becomes what the English cook calls "sad." And so do its consumers.

Now a charcoal fire is a good deal like Miss Juliet's description of lightning, "it doth cease to be, ere one can say it lightens." And no power on earth less than a file of the Khedive's soldiers would keep an Egyptian cook in his kitchen, feeding a fire, four or five hours.

Aside from the fact that he hates and despises, as a good Mussulman should, his Christian employer, and regards with horror and disgust the pudding around which cluster the hopes of this Christian family, he has a great number of little habits and customs that demand his frequent absence from the scene of his distinguished labors.

He has a "call" to the little shed at the corner of the street where "arrack" is illicitly sold by a cyclopean Arab. No sooner is this accomplished, and he slinks back to his kitchen, furtively watching the windows and wiping his treacherous mouth with the back of his dirty yellow hand, than he feels himself obliged to again rush out and indulge in a war of words with the old man who has brought the daily supply of water to the household.

This is a very dirty old man, bare as to his legs and feet, and without any toes to speak of. He is clothed in a goat-skin, as is also the water, for he carries that blessed commodity on his back, in a goat-skin that is distended like an over-fed beast, with its legs "foreshortened" and all in the air, like a "shipwrecked tea-table."

The greatly overtasked cook has scarcely had time to recover from this sally, when he feels himself called upon to again issue forth and attack the donkey-boy, a small and inoffensive child who brings him vegetables, which the patient little donkey carries in two panniers slung over his back.

After invoking upon the head of this child a string of polyglot curses, one of which is that his progeny, to the sixth generation, maybe born with their faces upside-down, he again retreats to his kitchen, gives the pudding a vicious punch and the fire a morsel of charcoal.

Soon he must go and squat in the sand at the back of the house, safe from all fear of observation, and play a game of dominoes with "Nicolo," the cook of the neighboring house.

Then he must smoke two or three cigarettes, which he deftly rolls with his dirty yellow fingers.

Is it surprising that after these manifold exertions his exhausted nature demands repose? He stretches himself in the warm white sand, and, indifferent to the sun and oblivious of the fleas, he falls into a sweet sleep.

For the pudding? Let us draw the mantle of silence over that heavy, stately ruin. When he wakes to find the ruin he has wrought, he will weep and wail and beat his breast, and call uponAllahto witness that never—not for an instant—has he left the kitchen.

And in his heart he will secretly rejoice.

The Moslem servant always secretly rejoices in the annoyances and discomfitures of his Christian employer. If that Christian employer is met by annoyance and discomfiture while attempting to keep up any custom associated with his religion, or to celebrate any Christian holiday, the Moslem servant is especially and particularly pleased.

And in this he obeys one of the laws of Mohammed, which forbids friendship or good-feeling between Moslems and either Christians or Jews.

The Moslems have a great number of holidays in their calendar, but these are nearly all fast-days.

The Arabs are a temperate, abstemious race, a race of light feeders; naturally, they have a contempt for gluttony. In the matter of food, an Egyptian would feast luxuriously for a week on the amount that an American or Englishman would consume at a single meal.

Thus the very abundance of the preparations which the Englishman makes for his Christmas dinner repels good Mussulmen.

Then, they do not celebrate the birthday of their own prophet; and the celebration, in their own country, of the day which to us is invested with so much love and reverence they consider an insult to them and to their faith, and they submit to it with an ill grace and in sullen silence.

All these things make a combination of opposing forces against which the Englishman, endeavoring to enjoy his Christmas in Egypt, struggles in vain.

So he eats his roast-beef, which is braized, and his boiled plum-pudding, which is fried; takes his kiss—if he has any sense—without mistletoe; winds up an unsatisfactory day by drinking, instead of the time-honored "wassail," a jorum of champagne punch, cooled with artificial ice; and goes grumbling to bed, with the conviction that a Christmas in Egypt is a very "brummagem" sort of Christmas.

Rose Eytinge.

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