Classics From Carlyle.

Fashion—a word which knaves and fools may use,Their knavery and folly to excuse.

Churchill—Rosciad.

As good be out of the world as out of the fashion.

Colley Cibber—Love's Last Shift.

Who seems most hideous when adorned the most.

Ariosto—Orlando Furioso. XX. 116.

I see that the fashion wears out more apparel than the man.

Much Ado About Nothing. Act III. Sc. 3. L. 148.

Be plain in dress, and sober in your diet;In short, my deary, kiss me! and be quiet.

Lady M.W. Montagu—Summary of Lord Littelton's Advice.

Two of the Most Celebrated Passages in "Sartor Resartus," Penned Bythe Great Scottish Philosopher in What He Called "TheLoneliest Nook in Britain."

"The selections printed here are taken from what is regarded by nearly every one as the masterpiece of Thomas Carlyle (1795-1881). "Sartor Resartus" (The Tailor Retailored) is the title of a book which exhibits the very soul of Carlyle himself, with all its mingled scorn, lawlessness, humor, and pathos. He wrote in what he called "the loneliest nook in Britain"—a little Scottish farm at Craigenputtoch.To this place Carlyle had taken his bride, Jane Welsh, a very brilliant woman, and there the two lived for years amid the most desolate surroundings and after the rudest fashion. They were a strange and ill-assorted couple—he in manner and appearance a gaunt and uncouth peasant; she a delicate and nervous woman of the world. Carlyle suffered tortures from dyspepsia, which often made him as savage as a wolf. His wife, who had married him less from love than because she thought he had a great career before him, suffered from his heedlessness and roughness, yet took her revenge upon him by the sharpness of her tongue, and by the burning record which she left of their mutual bitterness and spite.It was in this lonely place that Carlyle wrote "Sartor Resartus," which first appeared inFraser's Magazine(1833-1834). It is one of the strangest and most eccentric of literary productions. It has no form. Its language is often exclamatory, vociferous, and wild—interlarded also with foreign words, and words that Carlyle himself invented. It really sets forth the personal opinions, the fanciful speculations, and the mental writhings of its author; and it foreshadows the almost demoniac power wherewith Carlyle afterward wrote the story of the French Revolution, which he himself called "truth clad in hell-fire."Carlyle, as a man, was so erratic as to be almost impossible. His opinions were extreme, and he was fond of bellowing them forth in the fiercest and most furious words, insulting those who differed with him, eaten up by a colossal vanity, and yet unquestionably a genius of the first order.

To this place Carlyle had taken his bride, Jane Welsh, a very brilliant woman, and there the two lived for years amid the most desolate surroundings and after the rudest fashion. They were a strange and ill-assorted couple—he in manner and appearance a gaunt and uncouth peasant; she a delicate and nervous woman of the world. Carlyle suffered tortures from dyspepsia, which often made him as savage as a wolf. His wife, who had married him less from love than because she thought he had a great career before him, suffered from his heedlessness and roughness, yet took her revenge upon him by the sharpness of her tongue, and by the burning record which she left of their mutual bitterness and spite.

It was in this lonely place that Carlyle wrote "Sartor Resartus," which first appeared inFraser's Magazine(1833-1834). It is one of the strangest and most eccentric of literary productions. It has no form. Its language is often exclamatory, vociferous, and wild—interlarded also with foreign words, and words that Carlyle himself invented. It really sets forth the personal opinions, the fanciful speculations, and the mental writhings of its author; and it foreshadows the almost demoniac power wherewith Carlyle afterward wrote the story of the French Revolution, which he himself called "truth clad in hell-fire."

Carlyle, as a man, was so erratic as to be almost impossible. His opinions were extreme, and he was fond of bellowing them forth in the fiercest and most furious words, insulting those who differed with him, eaten up by a colossal vanity, and yet unquestionably a genius of the first order.

"Ah, my dear friend," said he once, at midnight, when we had returned from the coffee-house in rather earnest talk, "it is a true sublimity to dwell here. These fringes of lamplight, struggling up through smoke and thousandfold exhalation, some fathoms into the ancient reign of Night, what thinks Boötes of them, as he leads his Hunting-Dogs over the zenith in their leash of sidereal fire?

"That stifled hum of Midnight, when Traffic has lain down to rest; and the chariot-wheels of Vanity, still rolling here and there through distant streets, are bearing her to Halls roofed-in, and lighted to the due pitch for her; and only Vice and Misery, to prowl or to moan like night-birds, are abroad; that hum, I say, like the stertorous, unquiet slumber of sick Life, is heard in Heaven! Oh, under that hideous coverlet of vapors, and putrefactions, and unimaginable gases, what a Fermenting-vat lies simmering and hid!

"The joyful and the sorrowful are there; men are dying there, men are being born; men are praying—on the other side of a brick partition, men are cursing; and around them all is the vast, void Night.

"The proud Grandee still lingers inhis perfumed saloons, or reposes within damask curtains; Wretchedness cowers into truckle-beds, or shivers hunger-stricken into its lair of straw; in obscure cellars,Rouge-et-Noirlanguidly emits its voice-of-destiny to haggard, hungry Villains; while Councillors of State sit plotting and playing their high chess game, the pawns being Men.

"The Lover whispers his mistress that the coach is ready, and she, full of hope and fear, glides down, to fly with him over the borders; the Thief, still more silently, sets-to his pick-locks and crowbars, or lurks in wait till the watchmen first snore in their boxes.

"Gay mansions, with supper-rooms and dancing-rooms, are full of light and music and high-swelling hearts; but in the Condemned Cells the pulse of life beats tremulous and faint, and bloodshot eyes look out through the darkness, which is around and within, for the light of a stern last morning. Six men are to be hanged on the morrow; comes no hammering from the Raven's Rock?—their gallows must even now be a-building.

"Upward of five hundred thousand two-legged animals without feathers lie around us, in horizontal positions; their heads all in nightcaps, and full of the foolishest dreams. Riot cries aloud, and staggers and swaggers in his rank dens of shame; and the Mother, with streaming hair, kneels over her pallid dying infant, whose cracked lips only her tears now moisten—all these heaped and huddled together, with nothing but carpentry and masonry between them—crammed in, like salted fish in their barrel—or weltering, shall I say, like an Egyptian pitcher of tamed vipers, each struggling to get itshead abovethe others;suchwork goes on under that smoke-counterpane! But I sit above it all; I am alone with the Stars."

"Mountains were not new to him; but rarely are Mountains seen in such combined majesty and grace as here. The rocks of that sort called Primitive by the mineralogists, which always arrange themselves in masses of a rugged, gigantic character; which ruggedness, however, is here tempered by a singular airiness of form and softness of environment; in a climate favorable to vegetation, the gray cliff, itself covered with lichens, shoots-up through a garment of foliage or verdure; and white, bright cottages, tree-shaded, cluster around the everlasting granite. In fine vicissitude, Beauty alternates with Grandeur; you ride through stony hollows, along strait passes, traversed by torrents, overhung by high walls of rock; now winding amid broken, shaggy chasms, and huge fragments; now suddenly emerging into some emerald valley, where the streamlet collects itself into a Lake, and man has again found a fair dwelling, and it seems as if Peace had established herself in the bosom of Strength.

"To Peace, however, in this vortex of existence can the Son of Time not pretend; still less if some Specter haunt him from the Past; and the Future is wholly a Stygian Darkness, specter-bearing. Reasonably might the Wanderer exclaim to himself: Are not the gates of this world's Happiness inexorably shut against thee; hast thou a hope that is not mad? Nevertheless, one may still murmur audibly, or in the original Greek if that suit thee better: 'Whoso can look on death will start no shadows.'

"From such meditations is the Wanderer's attention called outward; for now the valley closes in abruptly, intersected by a huge mountain mass, the stony, water-worn ascent of which is not to be accomplished on horseback. Arrived aloft, he finds himself again lifted into the evening sunset light; and cannot but pause, and gaze round him, some moments there.

"An upland, irregular expanse of wold, where valleys in complex branchings are suddenly or slowly arranging their descent toward every quarter of the sky. The mountain-ranges are beneath your feet, and folded together; only the loftier summits look down here and there as on a second plain; lakes also lie clear and earnest in their solitude.

"No trace of man now visible; unless indeed it were he who fashioned that little visible link of Highway, here,as would seem, scaling the inaccessible, to unite Province with Province.

"But sunward, lo you! how it towers sheer up, a world of Mountains, the diadem and center of the mountain region! A hundred and a hundred savage peaks, in the last light of Day; all glowing, of gold and amethyst, like giant spirits of the wilderness; there in their silence, in their solitude, even as on the night when Noah's Deluge first dried!

"Beautiful, nay solemn, was the sudden aspect to our Wanderer. He gazed over those stupendous masses with wonder, almost with longing desire; never till this hour had he known Nature, that she was One, that she was his Mother and divine.

"And as the ruddy glow was fading into clearness in the sky, and the Sun had now departed, a murmur of Eternity and Immensity, of Death and of Life, stole through his soul; and he felt as if Death and Life were one, as if the Earth were not dead, as if the Spirit of the Earth had its throne in that splendor, and his own spirit were therewith holding communion.

"The spell was broken by a sound of carriage-wheels. Emerging from the hidden Northward, to sink soon into the hidden Southward, came a gay Barouche-and-four; it was open; servants and postilions wore wedding-favors; that happy pair, then, had found each other, it was their marriage evening! Few moments brought them near;Du Himmel!It was Herr Towgood and—Blumine!

"With slight unrecognizing salutation they passed me; plunged down amid the neighboring thickets, onward, to Heaven, and to England; and I, in my friend Richter's words,I remained alone, behind them, with the Night!"

Average in Different Oceans—Fifty-Two Feet the Height of the Tallest Billow YetMeasured—Not More Than Thirty Feet in North Atlantic.

Waves are the agents of tremendous force, as the batterings received by the big ocean liners in the winter storms tend to prove. But in spite of the stories told by timid or imaginative passengers on the Europe-America ferry, the surges of the North Atlantic are not the highest waves nor the most forcible. The most tremendous of seas are those that form south of the Cape of Good Hope and Cape Horn, where the oceanic belt is unbroken by land.

How high those southern waves rise has not been accurately measured, so far as can be discovered; but probably they are not very much higher than the waves farther north. Says the New YorkSun:

Sailors in modern times have never seen such waves as those which the early navigators declared attained heights of one hundred to one hundred and thirty feet. La Perouse asserted that he saw waves towering in the Pacific to a height of nearly two hundred feet. In these more scientific days we may say that the highest wave yet measured had an altitude of about fifty-two feet.This was in the southern ocean, a little north of the Antarctic regions; and it is quite certain that the highest waves ever seen in that region did not surpass fifty-eight feet in altitude. A wave of that height would certainly be a formidable looking object, and its crest would wash the windows of the fifth story of many New York buildings.The average height of the waves in different oceans has been ascertained with some approach to accuracy as the result of a great many measurements. The highest waves observed in the Indian Ocean, for example, are about forty feet. The highest waves in the North Atlantic are from twenty-five to twenty-nine feet, and in the Mediterranean from sixteen to nineteen feet.Even the smallest of these great waves has considerable destructive power. Some of them travel along at a speed of twenty-five miles an hour. A wave about thirty feet high contains thousands of tons of water, and when this immense force is dashed against any structure the ruin wrought is likely to be impressive.

This was in the southern ocean, a little north of the Antarctic regions; and it is quite certain that the highest waves ever seen in that region did not surpass fifty-eight feet in altitude. A wave of that height would certainly be a formidable looking object, and its crest would wash the windows of the fifth story of many New York buildings.

The average height of the waves in different oceans has been ascertained with some approach to accuracy as the result of a great many measurements. The highest waves observed in the Indian Ocean, for example, are about forty feet. The highest waves in the North Atlantic are from twenty-five to twenty-nine feet, and in the Mediterranean from sixteen to nineteen feet.

Even the smallest of these great waves has considerable destructive power. Some of them travel along at a speed of twenty-five miles an hour. A wave about thirty feet high contains thousands of tons of water, and when this immense force is dashed against any structure the ruin wrought is likely to be impressive.

A Garland of Truly American Verse—Poems, New and Old, That Sing the Gloriesof the Great National Game.

By S.E. Kiser.

There's a glad old-fashioned feeling stealing over me once more;I forget that I'm gray-headed and am verging on threescore;There are many weighty matters that my earnest care should claim—But come, old man, let's knock off and go out and see the game.Let's get a bag of peanuts, and be boys again and shoutFor the men who lam the leather and who line three-baggers out;Let's go out and root and holler, and forget that we have cares,And that still the world has markets which are worked by bulls and bears.Every year or two they tell us that baseball is out of date;But each spring it's back in fashion when they line up at the plate,When the good old, glad old feeling comes again to file its claim—When a man can turn from trouble and go out and see the game.I can feel the warm blood rushing through my veins again—hooray!See those slender pennants waving? Hear the umpire calling "Play!"Yah, you bluffer—no, you didn't—aw, say, umpire, that's a shame!What? Two strikes? Come off, you robber! Well, you're rotten all the same!Oh, if we'd a man like Anson or Dan Brouthers used to be,To hold down that first bag—say, what a corker that was! Gee!Go it! Slide, you chump—you've got to—never touched him! Yip! Hurrah!Say, that boy's a wonder—hold it! Ah, the dub, they've caught him—pshaw!Ever see John Ward as short-stop? There's the boy that had the head!Why, if we had him out yonder he would scare those fellows dead!And Mike Kelly—Whee-e-e! A beauty! Home run, sure as Brown's my name!Downed 'em nine to eight, by golly! Wasn't it a corkin' game?Chicago Record-Herald.

Let's get a bag of peanuts, and be boys again and shoutFor the men who lam the leather and who line three-baggers out;Let's go out and root and holler, and forget that we have cares,And that still the world has markets which are worked by bulls and bears.

Every year or two they tell us that baseball is out of date;But each spring it's back in fashion when they line up at the plate,When the good old, glad old feeling comes again to file its claim—When a man can turn from trouble and go out and see the game.

I can feel the warm blood rushing through my veins again—hooray!See those slender pennants waving? Hear the umpire calling "Play!"Yah, you bluffer—no, you didn't—aw, say, umpire, that's a shame!What? Two strikes? Come off, you robber! Well, you're rotten all the same!

Oh, if we'd a man like Anson or Dan Brouthers used to be,To hold down that first bag—say, what a corker that was! Gee!Go it! Slide, you chump—you've got to—never touched him! Yip! Hurrah!Say, that boy's a wonder—hold it! Ah, the dub, they've caught him—pshaw!

Ever see John Ward as short-stop? There's the boy that had the head!Why, if we had him out yonder he would scare those fellows dead!And Mike Kelly—Whee-e-e! A beauty! Home run, sure as Brown's my name!Downed 'em nine to eight, by golly! Wasn't it a corkin' game?

Chicago Record-Herald.

By Bide Dudley.

Just see him stride from bench to plate—The boy who keeps the bats;With truly a majestic gait—The boy who keeps the bats.His clothes are old, his feet are bare,His face unwashed, unkempt his hair,He's still in pride a millionaire—The boy who keeps the bats.A most important man is he—The boy who keeps the bats;Possessed of great activity—The boy who keeps the bats.He knows each player by his name,His age, his weight, from whence he came,And just how long he's played the game—The boy who keeps the bats.He'll lug ten sticks and laugh with glee—The boy who keeps the bats."De gang" regards with jealousyThe boy who keeps the bats.Although he's not employed for pay,He "gets inside to see 'em play,"Which beats his former knot-hole way—The boy who keeps the bats.He knows each player's stick, you bet—The boy who keeps the bats.'Twould break his heart should he forget—The boy who keeps the bats.Whene'er a ball is knocked away,He throws them one with which to play,He's there for business ev'ry day—The boy who keeps the bats.He yells when worthy work is done—The boy who keeps the bats.He "hollers" after ev'ry run—The boy who keeps the bats.He's overjoyed at victory,And tells the other kids how "we"Won out as easily as could be—The boy who keeps the bats!St. Joseph News.

A most important man is he—The boy who keeps the bats;Possessed of great activity—The boy who keeps the bats.He knows each player by his name,His age, his weight, from whence he came,And just how long he's played the game—The boy who keeps the bats.

He'll lug ten sticks and laugh with glee—The boy who keeps the bats."De gang" regards with jealousyThe boy who keeps the bats.Although he's not employed for pay,He "gets inside to see 'em play,"Which beats his former knot-hole way—The boy who keeps the bats.

He knows each player's stick, you bet—The boy who keeps the bats.'Twould break his heart should he forget—The boy who keeps the bats.Whene'er a ball is knocked away,He throws them one with which to play,He's there for business ev'ry day—The boy who keeps the bats.

He yells when worthy work is done—The boy who keeps the bats.He "hollers" after ev'ry run—The boy who keeps the bats.He's overjoyed at victory,And tells the other kids how "we"Won out as easily as could be—The boy who keeps the bats!

St. Joseph News.

BY PHINEAS THAYER.

It looked extremely rocky for the Mudville nine that day;The score stood two to four, with but an inning left to play.So, when Cooney died at second, and Burrows did the same,A pallor wreathed the features of the patrons of the game.A straggling few got up to go, leaving there the rest,With that hope which springs eternal within the human breast,For they thought: "If only Casey could get a whack at that,"They'd put up even money now, with Casey at the bat.But Flynn preceded Casey, and likewise so did Blake,And the former was a puddin', and the latter was a fake,So on that stricken multitude a deathlike silence sat,For there seemed but little chance of Casey's getting to the bat.But Flynn let drive a "single," to the wonderment of all,And the much-despised Blakey "tore the cover off the ball."And when the dust had lifted, and they saw what had occurred,There was Blakey safe at second, and Flynn a-huggin' third.Then, from the gladdened multitude went up a joyous yell,It rumbled in the mountain-tops, it rattled in the dell;It struck upon the hillside and rebounded on the flat;For Casey, mighty Casey, was advancing to the bat.There was ease in Casey's manner as he stepped into his place;There was pride in Casey's bearing, and a smile on Casey's face.And when, responding to the cheers, he lightly doffed his hat,No stranger in the crowd could doubt 'twas Casey at the bat.Ten thousand eyes were on him as he rubbed his hands with dirt,Five thousand tongues applauded when he wiped them on his shirt;Then while the New York pitcher ground the ball into his hip,Defiance gleamed in Casey's eye, a sneer curled Casey's lip.And now the leather-covered sphere came hurling through the air,And Casey stood a-watching it in haughty grandeur there.Close by the sturdy batsman the ball unheeded sped—"That ain't my style," said Casey. "Strike one," the umpire said.From the benches, black with people, there went up a muffled roar,Like the beating of storm waves on a stern and distant shore."Kill him! Kill the umpire!" shouted some one on the stand.And it's likely they'd have killed him had not Casey raised a hand.With a smile of Christian charity great Casey's visage shone;He stilled the rising tumult; he bade the game go on:He signaled to Sir Timothy, once more the spheroid flew;But Casey still ignored it, and the umpire said, "Strike two.""Fraud!" cried the maddened thousands, and echo answered "Fraud!"But one scornful look from Casey and the audience was awed.They saw his face grow stern and cold, they saw his muscles strain,And they knew that Casey wouldn't let that ball go by again.The sneer is gone from Casey's lip, his teeth are clenched in hate;He pounds with cruel violence his bat upon the plate.And now the pitcher holds the ball, and now he lets it go,And now the air is shattered by the force of Casey's blow.Oh, somewhere in this favored land the sun is shining bright;The band is playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light.And somewhere men are laughing, and somewhere children shout:But there is no joy in Mudville—mighty Casey has struck out.

A straggling few got up to go, leaving there the rest,With that hope which springs eternal within the human breast,For they thought: "If only Casey could get a whack at that,"They'd put up even money now, with Casey at the bat.

But Flynn preceded Casey, and likewise so did Blake,And the former was a puddin', and the latter was a fake,So on that stricken multitude a deathlike silence sat,For there seemed but little chance of Casey's getting to the bat.

But Flynn let drive a "single," to the wonderment of all,And the much-despised Blakey "tore the cover off the ball."And when the dust had lifted, and they saw what had occurred,There was Blakey safe at second, and Flynn a-huggin' third.

Then, from the gladdened multitude went up a joyous yell,It rumbled in the mountain-tops, it rattled in the dell;It struck upon the hillside and rebounded on the flat;For Casey, mighty Casey, was advancing to the bat.

There was ease in Casey's manner as he stepped into his place;There was pride in Casey's bearing, and a smile on Casey's face.And when, responding to the cheers, he lightly doffed his hat,No stranger in the crowd could doubt 'twas Casey at the bat.

Ten thousand eyes were on him as he rubbed his hands with dirt,Five thousand tongues applauded when he wiped them on his shirt;Then while the New York pitcher ground the ball into his hip,Defiance gleamed in Casey's eye, a sneer curled Casey's lip.

And now the leather-covered sphere came hurling through the air,And Casey stood a-watching it in haughty grandeur there.Close by the sturdy batsman the ball unheeded sped—"That ain't my style," said Casey. "Strike one," the umpire said.

From the benches, black with people, there went up a muffled roar,Like the beating of storm waves on a stern and distant shore."Kill him! Kill the umpire!" shouted some one on the stand.And it's likely they'd have killed him had not Casey raised a hand.

With a smile of Christian charity great Casey's visage shone;He stilled the rising tumult; he bade the game go on:He signaled to Sir Timothy, once more the spheroid flew;But Casey still ignored it, and the umpire said, "Strike two."

"Fraud!" cried the maddened thousands, and echo answered "Fraud!"But one scornful look from Casey and the audience was awed.They saw his face grow stern and cold, they saw his muscles strain,And they knew that Casey wouldn't let that ball go by again.

The sneer is gone from Casey's lip, his teeth are clenched in hate;He pounds with cruel violence his bat upon the plate.And now the pitcher holds the ball, and now he lets it go,And now the air is shattered by the force of Casey's blow.

Oh, somewhere in this favored land the sun is shining bright;The band is playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light.And somewhere men are laughing, and somewhere children shout:But there is no joy in Mudville—mighty Casey has struck out.

Many qualities which would be regarded as censurable if possessed by ordinary men and women are often regarded with a respect that is tinctured with admiration when they are possessed by persons of genius.

There is scarcely an author or musician of note who has not been distinguished by some foible that has excited the amusement of his friends. In many instances these foibles afford an index to the character of their victim. Some are natural, while others would seem to be the result of some inexplicable affectation. Viewed in any light, however, all are interesting.

Keatsliked red pepper on his toast.Sardouimagines he has a perpetual cold.Dickenswas fond of wearing flashy jewelry.Ernest Renanwore his finger-nails abnormally long.Walter Savage Landorthrew the dishes around to relieve his mind.Edgar Allan Poeslept with his cat. He was inordinately proud of his feet.Alphonse Daudetwore his eye-glasses when asleep. He did his best work when hungry.Thackerayused to lift his hat whenever he passed the house in which he wrote "Vanity Fair."Thomas Wentworth Higginsonpossesses a singular power over wild birds, and can easily tame them.Alexandre Dumas, the younger, bought a new painting every time he had a new book published.Robert Louis Stevenson'sfavorite recreation was playing the flute, in order, as he said, to tune up his ideas.Robert Browningcould not sit still. With the constant shuffling of his feet holes were worn in the carpet.Longfellowenjoyed walking only at sunrise or sunset, and he said his sublimest moods came upon him at these times.Washington Irvingnever mentioned the name of his fiancée after her death, and if anybody else did so, he immediately left the room.Nathaniel Hawthornealways washed his hands before reading a letter from his wife. He delighted in poring over old advertisements in the newspaper files.Macaulaykept his closets crammed with elaborately embroidered waistcoats, and the more gaudy they were the better he liked them.Disraeliwore corsets. The older he grew, the greater became his desire to dress like a young man. He had a pen stuck behind each ear when writing.F. Marion Crawfordcarries his own stationery, pen, and ink, and never writes with any other. He has written every word of every novel with the same penholder.Bjornsonkept his pockets full of the seeds of trees, scattering handfuls broadcast in his daily walks. He even tried to persuade his associates to do the same.Darwinhad no respect for books as books, and would cut a big volume in two, for convenience in handling, or he would tear out the leaves he required for reference.Zolawould pass whole weeks in the belief that he was an idiot. While in this state he wrote more than at any other time. He would never accept an invitation to dinner.Oliver Wendell Holmesused to carry a horse-chestnut in one pocket and a potato in another to ward off rheumatism. He had a great fondness for trees, and always sat under one when he could.Voltaire, as a preliminary to his day's work, would sharpen an even dozen lead pencils. He would untie and retie his stock whenever an idea concerning his work particularly pleased him.Count Tolstoyused to go barefoot and hatless the year round. He is fond of French perfumes, and keeps his linens scented with sachet powder. There is always a flower on his desk as he writes. Although rich, he wears the cheapest clothes he can buy.Sir A. Conan Doyle, even in the coldest weather, never wears an overcoat. When he gives an afternoon lecture he removes his vest and buttons his Prince Albert coat close to his body. He is a golf enthusiast, and spends all the time possible on the links.Bret Harte, when the inspiration was on him, would hire a cab for the night, and drive, without stopping, through the darkness until the struggle for ideas was over, and he grew calm enough to write. Nothing pleased him more than to be taken for an Englishman.

Keatsliked red pepper on his toast.

Sardouimagines he has a perpetual cold.

Dickenswas fond of wearing flashy jewelry.

Ernest Renanwore his finger-nails abnormally long.

Walter Savage Landorthrew the dishes around to relieve his mind.

Edgar Allan Poeslept with his cat. He was inordinately proud of his feet.

Alphonse Daudetwore his eye-glasses when asleep. He did his best work when hungry.

Thackerayused to lift his hat whenever he passed the house in which he wrote "Vanity Fair."

Thomas Wentworth Higginsonpossesses a singular power over wild birds, and can easily tame them.

Alexandre Dumas, the younger, bought a new painting every time he had a new book published.

Robert Louis Stevenson'sfavorite recreation was playing the flute, in order, as he said, to tune up his ideas.

Robert Browningcould not sit still. With the constant shuffling of his feet holes were worn in the carpet.

Longfellowenjoyed walking only at sunrise or sunset, and he said his sublimest moods came upon him at these times.

Washington Irvingnever mentioned the name of his fiancée after her death, and if anybody else did so, he immediately left the room.

Nathaniel Hawthornealways washed his hands before reading a letter from his wife. He delighted in poring over old advertisements in the newspaper files.

Macaulaykept his closets crammed with elaborately embroidered waistcoats, and the more gaudy they were the better he liked them.

Disraeliwore corsets. The older he grew, the greater became his desire to dress like a young man. He had a pen stuck behind each ear when writing.

F. Marion Crawfordcarries his own stationery, pen, and ink, and never writes with any other. He has written every word of every novel with the same penholder.

Bjornsonkept his pockets full of the seeds of trees, scattering handfuls broadcast in his daily walks. He even tried to persuade his associates to do the same.

Darwinhad no respect for books as books, and would cut a big volume in two, for convenience in handling, or he would tear out the leaves he required for reference.

Zolawould pass whole weeks in the belief that he was an idiot. While in this state he wrote more than at any other time. He would never accept an invitation to dinner.

Oliver Wendell Holmesused to carry a horse-chestnut in one pocket and a potato in another to ward off rheumatism. He had a great fondness for trees, and always sat under one when he could.

Voltaire, as a preliminary to his day's work, would sharpen an even dozen lead pencils. He would untie and retie his stock whenever an idea concerning his work particularly pleased him.

Count Tolstoyused to go barefoot and hatless the year round. He is fond of French perfumes, and keeps his linens scented with sachet powder. There is always a flower on his desk as he writes. Although rich, he wears the cheapest clothes he can buy.

Sir A. Conan Doyle, even in the coldest weather, never wears an overcoat. When he gives an afternoon lecture he removes his vest and buttons his Prince Albert coat close to his body. He is a golf enthusiast, and spends all the time possible on the links.

Bret Harte, when the inspiration was on him, would hire a cab for the night, and drive, without stopping, through the darkness until the struggle for ideas was over, and he grew calm enough to write. Nothing pleased him more than to be taken for an Englishman.

Great Britain Leads in Speed, with France a Good Second, and the UnitedStates Only a Slow Third.—Some Passenger Statistics.

Speed is the magician that makes the world smaller. Compare the hourly runs of the old stage-coaches with the hourly runs of the modern railroad train, and we can figure without difficulty just how much the world has shrunk in seventy-five years—though, as always happens in magic, the shrinkage is apparent, not real. Motor cars now are made so powerful that the fastest can go more than two miles in a minute—a speed which is not yet considered practicable for ordinary travel. Railroad trains have made phenomenal time over short distances, and there is one train which regularly travels one hundred and eighteen and one-half miles at about sixty miles an hour.

It is something of a surprise to learn that American trains are not the fastest. England is first, with France second. The following article from the New YorkSungives the speed figures of the fastest trains of all countries where good speed is made:

The fastest regular long-distance run without stop in the world is on the Great Western, from London to Bristol, 118½ miles in 120 minutes, or practically sixty miles an hour. In order to leave passengers at Bath a car is dropped from the train without stop, a time-saving device in operation on a number of European roads, though still unknown here.The longest run without stop made in any country is from London to Liverpool on the London and Northwestern, 201 miles, made at the rate of fifty-four miles an hour. The next longest is on the Midland, from London to Leeds, 196 miles, at the rate of fifty-two miles an hour.The Empire State Express.The train in this country coming nearest to these long runs without stop is the Empire State Express on the New York Central, from New York to Albany, 143 miles, at the rate of 53 64-100 miles an hour; and the time of the same train to Buffalo, 440 miles in 500 minutes, is just a trifle faster than that of the Midland express from London to Glasgow, 447 miles in 510 minutes. Each makes four regular stops. The Northwestern runs a train from London to Glasgow, 401½ miles, in eight hours, making two stops.The Great Northern runs a train from London to Doncaster, 156 miles, without stop, in 169 minutes, at the rate of 55½ miles an hour, and the Great Central train runs over England's new road, from London to Sheffield, 165 miles, in 170 minutes, better than 58 miles an hour, slipping a car at Leicester without stop.Such runs as that between London and Birmingham on the Great Western, a distance of 129¼ miles, made without stop in 140 minutes, or at the rate of more than 55 miles an hour, are less remarkable; for this seems to be about the regular gait of many trains in England.These fast and long runs are common to all the trunk lines in England, while in the United States the fast runs are all confined to two roads, the New York Central and the Pennsylvania. Compared with many English fast runs, the time between New York and Washington and Boston is slow. The distance to the two cities from New York is about the same, and in both cases the fastest trains make it in five hours (or a little over, now, to Boston), or at 46 miles an hour.For runs of nearly 1,000 miles no country can show trains to compare with the New York and Chicago trains on the New York Central, the best trains making the 980 miles in 1,080 minutes, or at 54 miles an hour. While this is not quite so fast as the time made by the fast trains from Paris to Lyons and Marseilles, the distance is twice as great as across France.Fast Time to Atlantic City.Coming to short runs and special summer trains, undoubtedly the fastest are from Camden to Atlantic City. Here some very fast time has been made over an ideal country for fast time by both the Reading and the Pennsylvania. The best Reading time is 56½ miles in 50 minutes, or 66 miles an hour, while the best Pennsylvania time is 59 miles at the rate of 64 miles an hour.These constitute all the very fast regulartrains in the United States. The fastest run in New England outside the Boston-New York run is from Boston to Portland at the rate of 44 miles an hour, and the showing is still poorer in the West and South. Chicago, in many respects the greatest railroad center in the world, has no fast trains outside the New York Central and Pennsylvania trains referred to.Throughout the West, though the best trains are very luxurious, the runs are all short, averaging about 30 miles between stations and the speed nowhere averages 40 miles an hour.Next to speed may be considered the frequency of trains, their appointments, etc. In this respect a still more pronounced difference appears in different countries with almost equal population.More trains leave the great South Terminal in Boston in one day than are moved in one direction on all the roads of Spain and Portugal in two weeks. From one terminal in London more trains leave daily than move in ten days to supply the whole population of Russia.The World's Largest Station.The South Terminal in Boston not only is the largest station in the world, but sends out daily more than 400 trains, nearly twice the number despatched from the Grand Central Station by the three roads starting from there. The next largest number sent from any station in this country is about 350 from the Boston and Maine terminal in Boston, and the next about 325 from the Broad Street Station, Philadelphia. Then come the Grand Central Station, New York, and the Reading Terminal, Philadelphia.But these figures do not equal those of the great London terminals. There one station sends out 700 trains daily, the greatest number from any one station in the world, and all of the twelve great terminals send out large numbers of trains.Including all suburban trains, and figuring on a mean average of winter and summer, the regular scheduled trains leave the four great centers in the following numbers daily, the figures being for all roads and approximately correct: New York city, 1,400; Boston, 1,000; Philadelphia, 850; Chicago, 850. No other American city has 400.Good Road-Beds Abroad.The road-bed and the operating equipment are better in England and some parts of France and Germany than in America, and, owing to the ever-prevailing precautions, accidents are only about one-fifth as frequent as in America. All the principal roads in England have two tracks and many main lines have four.In this respect Americans are making great improvements now, as the Pennsylvania is four-tracked from New York to Pittsburgh, and the New Haven from New York to New Haven, while the New York Central is three-tracked part of the way to Albany, and four-tracked from there to Buffalo.Turning to continental Europe it is found that France alone indulges in really fast trains, and possibly she is ahead even of England in the number of trains running regularly above fifty miles an hour. The greatest travel route on the Continent is from Paris south to Lyons, Marseilles, and the Mediterranean, and here are found fine and fast trains.The run from Paris to Marseilles, 585 miles, is made in 750 minutes, with only six stops. Many of the shorter runs, such as from Paris to Calais, to the Belgian frontier, etc., are at the rate of from fifty-eight to sixty-two miles an hour for the regular schedule.Europe's Fast Averages.According to a German authority, the average speed of the fastest trains in Europe is as follows: French, fifty-eight miles an hour; English, fifty-five miles an hour, and German, fifty-one. As a matter of experience, fast trains are hard to find in Germany, and the service in this respect does not compare with France.It takes the fastest train 227 minutes to go from Berlin to Hamburg, 178 miles, which is 47½ miles an hour, and the "luxe" train, the one fast goer between Münich and Vienna, runs at only 45.60 miles an hour; but there are as a rule frequent trains throughout Germany and the service is good.For all the rest of Europe the speed drops to about 30 miles an hour for express trains. Italy is surprisingly slow. It takes the express 965 minutes to go from Turin to Rome, 413 miles, or only 26 miles an hour, though the Milan-Rome express makes nearly 40 miles an hour.Between Rome and Naples, 155 miles, there are only four or five trains daily, the fastest at 34 miles an hour, while it takes 920 minutes to go 439 miles on the best train from Rome to Brindisi, a rate of less than 30 miles an hour.The express between Stockholm and Gothenburg, the two large cities of Sweden, barely makes 30 miles an hour. In the remaining continental countries the trains are even slower.

The longest run without stop made in any country is from London to Liverpool on the London and Northwestern, 201 miles, made at the rate of fifty-four miles an hour. The next longest is on the Midland, from London to Leeds, 196 miles, at the rate of fifty-two miles an hour.

The train in this country coming nearest to these long runs without stop is the Empire State Express on the New York Central, from New York to Albany, 143 miles, at the rate of 53 64-100 miles an hour; and the time of the same train to Buffalo, 440 miles in 500 minutes, is just a trifle faster than that of the Midland express from London to Glasgow, 447 miles in 510 minutes. Each makes four regular stops. The Northwestern runs a train from London to Glasgow, 401½ miles, in eight hours, making two stops.

The Great Northern runs a train from London to Doncaster, 156 miles, without stop, in 169 minutes, at the rate of 55½ miles an hour, and the Great Central train runs over England's new road, from London to Sheffield, 165 miles, in 170 minutes, better than 58 miles an hour, slipping a car at Leicester without stop.

Such runs as that between London and Birmingham on the Great Western, a distance of 129¼ miles, made without stop in 140 minutes, or at the rate of more than 55 miles an hour, are less remarkable; for this seems to be about the regular gait of many trains in England.

These fast and long runs are common to all the trunk lines in England, while in the United States the fast runs are all confined to two roads, the New York Central and the Pennsylvania. Compared with many English fast runs, the time between New York and Washington and Boston is slow. The distance to the two cities from New York is about the same, and in both cases the fastest trains make it in five hours (or a little over, now, to Boston), or at 46 miles an hour.

For runs of nearly 1,000 miles no country can show trains to compare with the New York and Chicago trains on the New York Central, the best trains making the 980 miles in 1,080 minutes, or at 54 miles an hour. While this is not quite so fast as the time made by the fast trains from Paris to Lyons and Marseilles, the distance is twice as great as across France.

Coming to short runs and special summer trains, undoubtedly the fastest are from Camden to Atlantic City. Here some very fast time has been made over an ideal country for fast time by both the Reading and the Pennsylvania. The best Reading time is 56½ miles in 50 minutes, or 66 miles an hour, while the best Pennsylvania time is 59 miles at the rate of 64 miles an hour.

These constitute all the very fast regulartrains in the United States. The fastest run in New England outside the Boston-New York run is from Boston to Portland at the rate of 44 miles an hour, and the showing is still poorer in the West and South. Chicago, in many respects the greatest railroad center in the world, has no fast trains outside the New York Central and Pennsylvania trains referred to.

Throughout the West, though the best trains are very luxurious, the runs are all short, averaging about 30 miles between stations and the speed nowhere averages 40 miles an hour.

Next to speed may be considered the frequency of trains, their appointments, etc. In this respect a still more pronounced difference appears in different countries with almost equal population.

More trains leave the great South Terminal in Boston in one day than are moved in one direction on all the roads of Spain and Portugal in two weeks. From one terminal in London more trains leave daily than move in ten days to supply the whole population of Russia.

The South Terminal in Boston not only is the largest station in the world, but sends out daily more than 400 trains, nearly twice the number despatched from the Grand Central Station by the three roads starting from there. The next largest number sent from any station in this country is about 350 from the Boston and Maine terminal in Boston, and the next about 325 from the Broad Street Station, Philadelphia. Then come the Grand Central Station, New York, and the Reading Terminal, Philadelphia.

But these figures do not equal those of the great London terminals. There one station sends out 700 trains daily, the greatest number from any one station in the world, and all of the twelve great terminals send out large numbers of trains.

Including all suburban trains, and figuring on a mean average of winter and summer, the regular scheduled trains leave the four great centers in the following numbers daily, the figures being for all roads and approximately correct: New York city, 1,400; Boston, 1,000; Philadelphia, 850; Chicago, 850. No other American city has 400.

The road-bed and the operating equipment are better in England and some parts of France and Germany than in America, and, owing to the ever-prevailing precautions, accidents are only about one-fifth as frequent as in America. All the principal roads in England have two tracks and many main lines have four.

In this respect Americans are making great improvements now, as the Pennsylvania is four-tracked from New York to Pittsburgh, and the New Haven from New York to New Haven, while the New York Central is three-tracked part of the way to Albany, and four-tracked from there to Buffalo.

Turning to continental Europe it is found that France alone indulges in really fast trains, and possibly she is ahead even of England in the number of trains running regularly above fifty miles an hour. The greatest travel route on the Continent is from Paris south to Lyons, Marseilles, and the Mediterranean, and here are found fine and fast trains.

The run from Paris to Marseilles, 585 miles, is made in 750 minutes, with only six stops. Many of the shorter runs, such as from Paris to Calais, to the Belgian frontier, etc., are at the rate of from fifty-eight to sixty-two miles an hour for the regular schedule.

According to a German authority, the average speed of the fastest trains in Europe is as follows: French, fifty-eight miles an hour; English, fifty-five miles an hour, and German, fifty-one. As a matter of experience, fast trains are hard to find in Germany, and the service in this respect does not compare with France.

It takes the fastest train 227 minutes to go from Berlin to Hamburg, 178 miles, which is 47½ miles an hour, and the "luxe" train, the one fast goer between Münich and Vienna, runs at only 45.60 miles an hour; but there are as a rule frequent trains throughout Germany and the service is good.

For all the rest of Europe the speed drops to about 30 miles an hour for express trains. Italy is surprisingly slow. It takes the express 965 minutes to go from Turin to Rome, 413 miles, or only 26 miles an hour, though the Milan-Rome express makes nearly 40 miles an hour.

Between Rome and Naples, 155 miles, there are only four or five trains daily, the fastest at 34 miles an hour, while it takes 920 minutes to go 439 miles on the best train from Rome to Brindisi, a rate of less than 30 miles an hour.

The express between Stockholm and Gothenburg, the two large cities of Sweden, barely makes 30 miles an hour. In the remaining continental countries the trains are even slower.

Sealing-wax in the present form was first noted in London in the middle of the sixteenth century. A sort of earth was used by the ancient Egyptians in sealing papers and documents. The Egyptians placed such earth on the horns of cattle, and upon it was stamped the seal of the priest. Thus were identified the cattle to be used in the sacrifices.

The diving-bell was not mentioned before the sixteenth century. Two Greeks in that century (1538) gave an exhibition before Charles V, descending into water of considerable depth in a large inverted kettle. They took down with them burning lights. The men returned to the surface without being wet. The light was still burning.

The Lombardians were the first to use effectual quarantine methods against the plague and infectious diseases, and mention of a quarantine is made in Lombardy and Milan in 1374, 1383, and 1399. Prior to that time Christian communities resigned themselves to the visitation of the plague, regarding it as a divine punishment.

J.H. Schultze, a German, obtained the first actual photographic copies (of writing) in 1727; and to Thomas Wedgwood is due the honor of first producing pictures on sensitized surfaces in 1802. Between 1826 and 1833 Louis Jacques Daguerre and Nicéphore Nièpce perfected the daguerreotype process, the first practical photography. Their discovery was communicated to the French Academy of Sciences in 1839.

The turkey is an American bird. Lucullus and the Epicureans did not know about him. He was found in his wild state after Columbus's time. About a hundred years after the discovery of America broiled young turkeys became great delicacies on the Frenchman's table.

A telegraphic line, consisting of twenty-four wires, each representing a letter, was established by Lesage, at Geneva, in 1774; and in the same year Bishop Watson made experiments over a two-mile wire near London. In Germany the invention is credited to Sommering—1809.

Cork was known to the Greeks and Romans, and was put to almost as many uses as at present, although there is no mention in Rome of linoleum, notwithstanding its Roman sound. Glass bottles, with cork stoppers, for wine and beer did not come into use until the middle of the fourteenth century.

Water-mills were used in the time of Julius Cæsar. In Roman times slaves were condemned to the corn-mills, which were propelled by treads. Afterward cattle were used. In the third and fourth centuries there were as many as three hundred cattle-mills in Rome.

Corn-mills are often mentioned in the Bible. The original corn-mill much resembled the modern druggist's pestle. Moses forbade corn-mills to be taken in pawn, for that, he thought, was like taking a man's life in pledge.

Joseph Henry was the first to construct electro-magnets in a useful form. In 1832, at the Albany Academy, he succeeded in ringing a bell over a mile of wire.

Wire was first beaten out by a hammer, but the artisans of Nuremberg, in 1350, began to draw it, which was the great step forward in that art.

The first camera-obscura was invented by Giambattista della Porta, an Italian philosopher, during the latter half of the sixteenth century.

The first cologne was called Hungary water, from the country of its invention. It was made from spirits of wine distilled upon rosemary.

Colored glass came from Egypt. The Egyptians carried the art to great perfection apparently before history begins to tell of it.

Buckwheat began to be cultivated in England in 1597. It had been brought into Europe from Asia one hundred years before.

Wall paper, with fancy colored figures, began to be used in 1620. The art was developed thereafter largely by the French.

The Scrap Book Resurrects from Distressing Obscurity a GemThat Might Otherwise Have Been Lost to Posterity.

History records that in 1895 Langdon Smith, at that time connected with the Sunday edition of the New YorkHerald, wrote the first few stanzas of the following poem. They were printed in theHerald. Four years later, having joined the staff of the New YorkJournalin the interim, Mr. Smith came across the verses among his papers, and, reading them over, was struck with a sense of their incompleteness. He added a stanza or two, and laid the poem aside. Later he wrote more stanzas, and finally completed it and sent it in to Arthur Brisbane, editor of theEvening Journal. Mr. Brisbane, being unable to use it, turned it over to Charles E. Russell, of theMorning Journal. It appeared in theMorning Journal—in the middle of a page of want "ads"! How it came to be buried thus some compositor may know. Perhaps a "make-up" man was inspired with a glimmer of editorial intelligence to "lighten up" the page.

But even a deep border of "ads" could not smother the poem. Mr. Smith received letters of congratulation from all parts of the world, along with requests for copies. The poem has been in constant demand; and it has been almost unobtainable. Here for the first time it is given to the public in a suitable position, with proper recognition—proof once more that the true spark cannot long remain hid under a bushel.

Mr. Smith has caught a note of deep interest. He has linked evolution to the theory of soul-transmigration—has translated Wordsworth's ode on immortality into the terms of science. "The glory and the dream" come, not from another world, but from the Paleozoic period, in which existed the most ancient forms of life of which traces still remain. And the author gives us glimpses of man in several geological periods, showing him, finally, as the cave man of the Stone Age; whence it is comparatively a short jump to the twentieth century—and Delmonico's.

BY LANGDON SMITH.

When you were a tadpole and I was a fish,In the Paleozoic time,And side by side on the ebbing tideWe sprawled through the ooze and slime,Or skittered with many a caudal flipThrough the depths of the Cambrian fen,My heart was rife with the joy of life,For I loved you even then.Mindless we lived and mindless we loved,And mindless at last we died;And deep in a rift of the Caradoc driftWe slumbered side by side.The world turned on in the lathe of time,The hot lands heaved amain,Till we caught our breath from the womb of death,And crept into light again.We were Amphibians, scaled and tailed,And drab as a dead man's hand;We coiled at ease 'neath the dripping trees,Or trailed through the mud and sand,Croaking and blind, with our three-clawed feetWriting a language dumb,With never a spark in the empty darkTo hint at a life to come.Yet happy we lived, and happy we loved,And happy we died once more;Our forms were rolled in the clinging moldOf a Neocomian shore.The eons came, and the eons fled,And the sleep that wrapped us fastWas riven away in a newer day,And the night of death was past.Then light and swift through the jungle treesWe swung in our airy flights,Or breathed in the balms of the fronded palms,In the hush of the moonless nights.And oh! what beautiful years were these,When our hearts clung each to each;When life was filled, and our senses thrilledIn the first faint dawn of speech.Thus life by life, and love by love,We passed through the cycles strange,And breath by breath, and death by death,We followed the chain of change.Till there came a time in the law of lifeWhen over the nursing sodThe shadows broke, and the soul awokeIn a strange, dim dream of God.I was thewed like an Auroch bull,And tusked like the great Cave Bear;And you, my sweet, from head to feet,Were gowned in your glorious hair.Deep in the gloom of a fireless cave,When the night fell o'er the plain,And the moon hung red o'er the river bed,We mumbled the bones of the slain.I flaked a flint to a cutting edge,And shaped it with brutish craft;I broke a shank from the woodland dank,And fitted it, head and haft.Then I hid me close to the reedy tarn,Where the Mammoth came to drink;—Through brawn and bone I drave the stone,And slew him upon the brink.Loud I howled through the moonlit wastes,Loud answered our kith and kin;From west and east to the crimson feastThe clan came trooping in.O'er joint and gristle and padded hoof,We fought, and clawed and tore,And cheek by jowl, with many a growl,We talked the marvel o'er.I carved that fight on a reindeer bone,With rude and hairy hand,I pictured his fall on the cavern wallThat men might understand.For we lived by blood, and the right of might,Ere human laws were drawn.And the Age of Sin did not beginTill our brutal tusks were gone.And that was a million years ago,In a time that no man knows;Yet here to-night in the mellow light,We sit at Delmonico's;Your eyes are deep as the Devon springs,Your hair is as dark as jet.Your years are few, your life is new,Your soul untried, and yet——Our trail is on the Kimmeridge clay,And the scarp of the Purbeck flags,We have left our bones in the Bagshot stones,And deep in the Coraline crags;Our love is old, our lives are old,And death shall come amain;Should it come to-day, what man may sayWe shall not live again?Then as we linger at luncheon here,O'er many a dainty dish,Let us drink anew to the time when youWere a Tadpole and I was a Fish.

Mindless we lived and mindless we loved,And mindless at last we died;And deep in a rift of the Caradoc driftWe slumbered side by side.The world turned on in the lathe of time,The hot lands heaved amain,Till we caught our breath from the womb of death,And crept into light again.

We were Amphibians, scaled and tailed,And drab as a dead man's hand;We coiled at ease 'neath the dripping trees,Or trailed through the mud and sand,Croaking and blind, with our three-clawed feetWriting a language dumb,With never a spark in the empty darkTo hint at a life to come.

Yet happy we lived, and happy we loved,And happy we died once more;Our forms were rolled in the clinging moldOf a Neocomian shore.The eons came, and the eons fled,And the sleep that wrapped us fastWas riven away in a newer day,And the night of death was past.

Then light and swift through the jungle treesWe swung in our airy flights,Or breathed in the balms of the fronded palms,In the hush of the moonless nights.And oh! what beautiful years were these,When our hearts clung each to each;When life was filled, and our senses thrilledIn the first faint dawn of speech.

Thus life by life, and love by love,We passed through the cycles strange,And breath by breath, and death by death,We followed the chain of change.Till there came a time in the law of lifeWhen over the nursing sodThe shadows broke, and the soul awokeIn a strange, dim dream of God.

I was thewed like an Auroch bull,And tusked like the great Cave Bear;And you, my sweet, from head to feet,Were gowned in your glorious hair.Deep in the gloom of a fireless cave,When the night fell o'er the plain,And the moon hung red o'er the river bed,We mumbled the bones of the slain.

I flaked a flint to a cutting edge,And shaped it with brutish craft;I broke a shank from the woodland dank,And fitted it, head and haft.Then I hid me close to the reedy tarn,Where the Mammoth came to drink;—Through brawn and bone I drave the stone,And slew him upon the brink.

Loud I howled through the moonlit wastes,Loud answered our kith and kin;From west and east to the crimson feastThe clan came trooping in.O'er joint and gristle and padded hoof,We fought, and clawed and tore,And cheek by jowl, with many a growl,We talked the marvel o'er.

I carved that fight on a reindeer bone,With rude and hairy hand,I pictured his fall on the cavern wallThat men might understand.For we lived by blood, and the right of might,Ere human laws were drawn.And the Age of Sin did not beginTill our brutal tusks were gone.

And that was a million years ago,In a time that no man knows;Yet here to-night in the mellow light,We sit at Delmonico's;Your eyes are deep as the Devon springs,Your hair is as dark as jet.Your years are few, your life is new,Your soul untried, and yet——

Our trail is on the Kimmeridge clay,And the scarp of the Purbeck flags,We have left our bones in the Bagshot stones,And deep in the Coraline crags;Our love is old, our lives are old,And death shall come amain;Should it come to-day, what man may sayWe shall not live again?

Then as we linger at luncheon here,O'er many a dainty dish,Let us drink anew to the time when youWere a Tadpole and I was a Fish.

BY MARION Y. BUNNER.

SECOND INSTALMENT.

What the Old Astrological Traditions Say of the Characteristics and the Destiny ofThose Born Under the Sign "Aries," Representing the Period BetweenMarch 21 and April 19.

Compiled and edited forThe Scrap Book.

ARIES: THE RAM.MARCH 21 to APRIL 19.CUSP: MARCH 21 to MARCH 27.

The constellation "Aries"—the first sign of the zodiac, and the head sign of the Fire Triplicity—exerts its influence from March 21 to April 19, the period coinciding with the first month of the Roman year. It is a cardinal, equinoctial, movable, masculine sign, the positive pole of the Fire Triplicity, governing the face and head. The most typical attributes of its subjects are unfailing courage, intuition, and reason.

A person born during the period of the cusp, when the sun is on the edge of the sign, does not receive the full benefits of the individuality of either sign, but partakes of the characteristics of both.

Persons born under this sign are positive, obedient, yet with a faculty for commanding, paradoxical as this may appear. They are also inventive, original, determined, and executive. Once the mind of an Aries subject is made up, nothing can swerve him from the course he has determined to pursue. Before undertaking any new enterprise, his habit is to study the entire situation carefully, thereby discovering and profiting by many seemingly minor, yet in the end important, points which would probably have escaped the ordinary individual.

Aries people are good conversationalists, having keen intellects. Many fine writers, poets, lecturers, and teachers come out of this sign.

They are aggressive and excitable, oftentimes going to extremes in their excitement, and they are apt to show too much antagonism. They enter a fight to win, and nothing can induce them to back out of it. The Aries woman has the same fighting spirit, and stands by her friends to the end, no matter what the circumstances may be.

The subjects of Aries are easily angered, but the fire is quickly quenched, leaving behind no sting or grudge. They are generous, sympathetic, and kindly, and so much do they think of their friends that they will never acknowledge a comrade's faults. On the other hand, they never fail to see the failings of their enemies and to speak of them in no uncertain terms.

The traits of Aries people are perhaps more varied and peculiar than those of any other of the twelve signs. They are not naturally patient, yet they are extremely so with those they love.

The Aries man is usually well-built, strong, and tall.

According to some authorities, the short, broad-shouldered subjects are much more fortunate in making money than are the tall ones. They have intellectual eyes, a ruddy complexion. Their foreheads are broad at the eyebrows. The eyes are generally deep set. They are more than willing to work for what they want to secure.

The success of an Aries subject depends upon the way in which he uses his splendid energy, action, systematicendeavor, and finally upon his determination to stick at the work in hand and push it to completion.

The chief faults of the Aries people are impatience, anger, selfishness, and fickleness, together with a tendency to extreme aggressiveness. The physical temperament of the subject will be nervous-sanguine if born in a southern climate, and bilious-sanguine if born in a northern latitude.

When Aries and Sagittarius people are united, astrologists declare that a happy domestic life is certain. The children will be physically fine, their nature still finer, and their intellect of the highest order.

Aries children should be very carefully and tenderly brought up. They can be readily managed only through kindness and love. In fact, Aries children seem to demand a constant expression of love. They crave a just appreciation of any little task they may perform.

It is most important that an Aries child be not overpraised, for in so doing his higher development is certain to be arrested.

The ruling planets of the month are Mars and Neptune, and the gems are sapphire, turquoise, and diamond. The astral colors are blue, white, and pink. An old rhyme says:

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