Indianapolis Journal, Indianapolis, Marion County, 18 April 1886 — Page 9

[Printed by Special Arrangement^Copyrighted.] ECLMMMI BY EDWARD EVERETT HALE. PART I. Mr. Clipsham led a carious life, but, for a man At his age. not an anpl-asant one. Hi? professional duties wre not oppressive, and he had entered into a career which made it almost sura that they would never bo oppressive. He had a very Comfortable suite of rooms in his sister's house, and he always breakfasted with her family. As will tNt seen, they did not often expect him at dinner, b it and nephews. Sister Prue and tor h’l-*bni Wiutergreen were all glad if ho did lok in at that meal For the rest, Clipsham was a general favorite at Tamworth, where be lived, and if there were not a german every even Ing. or a progressive euchre party on bis list, why there was the Thursday Club, and tbe Whist Club, and tbe Chess Club, and the Union, and the Association, and the pretty new rooms of the Harvard Club. “As to that,” said Clipsham, truly, if you asked him how he spent his evenh.g?, * 1 am nt?ve.r so happy as 1 am with a novel •rwvith the newspaper at home.” But it was to be observed that he seldom enjoyed the acme of hi happuiefs, at the top notch of his life's tide. The one thing of which Chpsham’s friend? were sure was thia, that he would never go into public life. True, be always voted, he even tot**d for the school committee, which most of the people in Tamwortn generally forgot to do. But it was also true that he did not attend primary meetings. And it was by a series of rather curious circumstances that the public was led to place that confidence in him which has now lifted him so far out of the line of machine-run. politics. It is the business of this story to tell fur the first time, as far as I know, the way those circumstance* followed on each other. Clipsham was a man of iron memory. And this iron was not all pig-iron. One might say steel memory, or a memory of watch spring*, if we understood better than we do the action of the mechanism of memory. By this I mean that he recollected what are called little things at the right moment, as well as he remembered the big things all along his life. He remembered that the national debt was $2,198,705,432.10 when it was at that precise amount, but he also remembered that he had told the washerwoman’s boy Cos come round at a quarter past 8 Friday evening, and he would give him a ticket to the circus. On such a combination of which I call the pig-iron memory, and what I call the watchspring memory, does much of the good cheer and success of a happy life depend. But on a fatal day—after Clipsham was thirtythree years old—he thought he forgot something. Ido not myself believe he did. If he did, it was before breakfast—when no one ought to be asked to remember anything—not whether Semiramis is the name of an empress or of a toadstool But he thought he forgot something. And so it was that he went down to Mr. Backup’s shop and bought this calendar of which I am to tell you the story. There it is. He gave it to me on the day of his inauguration. Yon see it has the days of the *eek on one scroll and the days of the month on another. Then you turn this eog at the beginning of the month and you are ready for thirtyone more days, if there be so many. The only select in the machine is that you might suppose that there were thirty-one days in February. But, as Judge Marshall said, '‘the court is expected to kuow something.” Now Clipsham is a charming public speaker. He tells a story well—in particular he tells with great good humor a story to his own disadvantage. He remembers well—-that has been said. He passes by a sudden change—what do singers eall it, modulation?—from grave to gay or from gay to grave. Best of all, he never says a word about himself. Then he never pretends that he does not like to speak. He does like to apeak. A man would be an ass who did not like to speak if he spoke as well as Clipsham does. He makes no introduction to hit speech. When he has done he makes no “conclusion.” Just when you are hoping he will say more, be sits down. And he never makes a long speech. These are all sterling qualities, and they are not often united in one handsome, graceful, intelligent young man of thirty-three years of age. So it is that Clipsham is much invited to public dinners. As for that, we all are. But generally the invitation is accompanied with a request that, in accepting, you will pay for your ticket —a dollar and a half, or three dollars, or five, or ten, according as the honored guest of the evening is a college professor—a doctor of divinity—an agent from Japan, or a traveling English lecturer. Now, as most of us can bay our modest dinner of mock turtle, fried oysters, charlotte russe and coffee at any eating-house, even the mfist .fussy, noisy and showy, for less than the lowest of these prices, our invitations are not so attractive. To Clipsham the invitation always eame with a ticket That ie quite a different thing, and Clipsham, Who was in a good many college societies, was the great-grandson of a Cinclnnatus, and grandson of a hero of Lundy’s Lane, son of the man who stormed Cbapultepec, and belt* the block-house at Gannon’s Three Corners. Clipsham, I say, who was a member of the United Guild of Men of Letters, and of the Consoci&ted Sodality of Lovers of Art—Clipsham, whose good humor and good-fellowship had related him to pretty much all the associations in Tamworth, and, indeed, in that whole State, found that he was bidden to a public dinner almost every day. Indeed, sometimes, the “bids,” as his childish nephews called them, overlapped each other. Tbit was the reason why he dined so seldom With his sister. On the other hand it was the reason why you met him so seldom at a restaurant or public table. You would generally find him, if you went np stairs to the great dining-room of whichever Delmonico, or Wormley, or Parker, or Young of Tamworth happened on that day to •atertam “The Soul of tbe Soldiery,” or the ‘‘Brothers in Adversity,” or the “Nu Kappa Omega,” or whatever sodality happened to be holding its annual dinner. And if you looked lit at the right moment, Clipsham would be making a speech, and a very good speech, top. Clipsbam’s little uieee, Gertrude, is the Ant heroine of this story. And it is on her that the plot turns more than on Elinor May, who is the other heroine. Gertrude has the run of the house, but never ought to go into her uncle’' room unless he asks her. And this Gertrude knows perfectly well. But on this day of which I speak, soma impulse of Satan, as the old indictments would you, and Dr. Watta would confirm them, lad Gertruda into the “atudy, :, a* the room was

called. The same Mamchean divinity, whose name begins with S, but shall not be mentioned again, led her to take down the calendar mentioned beforehand, and to try the screwa She twirled them this way. She twirled them that. Os a sudden she heard Kate Connor, the girl who made the beds. * Gertrude feared detection; the hung up the calendar hastily, and fled. But alas, she left M., which stands for Monday, and 10, which stands for the tenth day of the month, both one notch too high. TANARUS., W., Th., F. and the rest all followed M., and the engagements for the month w*re ail set one day wrong. Kate Connor did not, in fact, enter tbe room. But guilty Gertrude thought she would, and the result was the same. Gertrude was called by her mother, before she had any chance to go back acain, and was mad*- ready tor a tennis party at Mrs. Fisher’s. And now it is that, strictly speaking, this storv begins. George Clipsham came home to dress for dinner. He stopped a moment, and took down the Cyclopedia to look at the account of the battle of Bennington: for he had been turning over a speech lie was to make at the Grand Array gathering. and he remembered that Plunkett's mother was a Stark. lf<> wanted to make a good allusion to Molly Stark and h*r widowhood. But a.-, he parsed his desk, he took this fatal calendar, winch guilty Gertrude bad not had time to hang on its peg. Clipsham hung it up without thought, hut did look, to see to his amazement that the Gramt Army dinner was done and gone yesterday. Tne calendar said he was to dine, with the graduates of the Western Reserve College to-day. “Lu<-ky I did not fire the Battle of Bennington on them." said Clipsham to himself. “But what will Blanket sav?” Tiie truth was that Clipsham had this dreadful cold which you all had. And just as you and I declared that we would go to Florida another winter if our lives were spared. Clipsham had determined. Handcrchiefs? He was bankrupt in buying them. Hearing? He had been stone deaf ail the weak. He did not cough very badly, hut the “cold” was just on that jun-iutv of the pharynx with the iarvnx. where it is So uncomfortable to hare it. lie had staid at h<rnc the day brfote and nursed it—give* line and whisky, taken with a very sm-ill sp >or, ws hi* remedy—and he had persuaded himself that he could go out to-day. To tell the whole truth, his sister Prue had bad pea soup and salt codfish for dinner yesterday. and the children had been very noisy. Clipsham had determined to change the ?cpn°. So he had determined to dine with the Grand Army to dfty, and now the calendar said ih*Grand Army dinner was “done and gone." “Well,” said Oiipsham to himself, “f c nil i not have spoke aloud any w.-iv. And 1 should not have heard a word they e nd. Western R* serve, it is to day. Lucky I looked!" An Ihe went on with his dressing, and thought over some old Harvard stories which would do to tell the Western Reserve graduates. As he went out furred and even veiled, and with those horrid aretics ou, which made him limp with pain, Prue met him at the door. “Doar George, you are not going out with that dreadful cough? Why, I was sure of you. I have asked Mrs. Oliphant and the Bryces to meet you, and I have such a lovely pair of can-vas-backs.” George intimated that he did not hear her. Prue shouted her bill of fare, physical and metaphysical, into his ear. George was sorry. But he was all ready. And to the hotel dinner he went, and lqft those canvas-backs behind Prue's would be warm, alas! And at the Hotel Jefferson —that was more doubtful The waiters all knew George to a man, and he was shown to the reception parlor instantly. The reader 'understands what George did not —why a third of the guests were in uniform. Os course they were. For it was the Grand Army of the Republic But George, who thought it was the Western Reserve dinner, wa3 surprised that the college men wanted to bring out their old blue frocks and bright buttons. “But that was all right," he said, “if they chose to.” Oddly enough his friend Colonel Plunkett was receiving the guests, and Clipsham slipped into his.hand tbe note of apology he had written. Plunkett slipped it into the little pocket of bis uniform coat, and found it there two years afterwards when he dressed for the same anniversary again. Clipsham mumbled an apology to Piunkett, to which, almost of course, Plunkett, in shaking hands with half the soldiers of the Stat*, sid not hear. Clipsham is a bright man, and one would have said that he would have caught the thread of the occasion earlfcr than he did. But be did not hear one word in five that any one said. As for tbe uniforms, all the world knows that fivesixths of the college men of the West served in the war. Besides, they had introduced Clipsham to Professor Smidgruber, who had jußt arrived, as the agent from the government of HesseCassel to study Western education. Clipsham was interested in the savant, and they talked very earnestly, the savant speaking directly into Clipsham’s ear. So it was, that when Clipsham got a card at the dinner table from Plunkett, who was presiding, which said “You next,” he knew that now was his time to speak, without having known much of what had been said before him.

And a very good speech it was. Not one word about the war. or the bird of freedom, or tne American soldier, or Molly Stark, as there would have been had Clipsham understood the truth, that he was speaking to a Grand Army post. Instead of this he spoke, with serious feeling, on the work which educated men can render in any community. What he had been saying to the German, he now seid aloud. There is the secret of a good speech. He spoke to the men before nim as if they were all scholars, all men of conscience, and all leaders in the villages or towns where they lived. He told some good stories, he made some good jokes, but his speech was not in the least commonplace, and it ended with a very serious pledge as to the duty they would all do for the country. It was received rapturously—yes, wildly. Indeed, as the reader will under*,land, it was better received than it would have been by the graduates, whom Clipsham thought he was addressing. Every one of these good fellows was pleased, that one of the most accomplished men of letters in Tamworth spoke to him as an equal with equals. They had only too much of sol-dier-talk, and were glad to hear something sung or said to another tune. Clipsham had gone deeper down than tiie average and commonplace as he was apt to do. Now ybu will say that before he left the hotel he would have found his mistake, or that, at all events, he would have understood it from the newspapers the next morning. But there you are quite wrong. In the first place he only stared “to list*-u to two more speeches,” as he said. For it lid not seem courteous to go aw.iv the moment he had himself spoken. In fact, he did not hear one word of either of them. A* for the newspapers. Clipsham generally looked at them, though not always. He never looked, however, at what the reporters called their “sketches’’ of his speeches “Why should 1 make myself miserable?" said Clipsham. “Nobody else reads the things and why should 1?” If he had stayed long at his office the next morning, or had looked in at the club, he might have foued that his calendar was all wrong, but instead of this, he took Dr. Smidgruber to examine the high-school, so he remained quite sure that he had spoken to tbe college men the night before, and that to night he was to speak to the carriage builders. In fact, as the reader knows, he would meet the college men, and the carriage builders' night would not come till to morrow. And all happened just as before, as it says in the Arabian Nights aod in Grimm’s fairy tales. Only this time Ciipshatn sat at the evoss table, because he was to respond for Harvard, and was among the more distiegaished guests. But little did the poor fellow know what he was to respond for He did know that the Carriage Builders’ Association of the country brings together a remarkable body of men. He had dined with them a year or two before. Their business requires an interest in design, a knowledge of the physical structure of the world, no acquaintance with ali sorts and conditions of men, ali combined with great tact and promptness. Observe that carriage builders, like railroad meu, are always trying to annihilate time, or to give us more of it, which is the same thing, “Ye shall become like gods, transcendent fate.’’ bo Clipsham knew be was to speak to a bright set In point of fact, he did speak to tbe triennial gathering of the graduates of the Western Reserve College, one of the oldest and largest of the Western universities. And he told them things which it was very good for them to hear, but which people did not often tell them at these meetings. He told them that man is man, because he can control matter by spirit—that thU shows that he is a child of God. He told them that the child of

THE INDIANAPOLIS JOURNAL, SUNDAY, APRIL 18, 1886.

God works with God, and that here Is the difference between work and labor, that work elevates man, while labor fatigues man. He charged them to see that tbe men whom they employed should not be mere laborers, but should become fellow-workmen with God. He said they might cease from their labors, but that their work would always follow them. And he said very seriously that this was no matter of book-learn-ing, that they would not find it in Seneca or Aristotlb, but that they would find it in proportion as they were men of honor and of truth, as they forgot themselves and consecrated their worktops into temples. Then he sat down, and just as it was the night before, the speech was received with cheers. The truth is, that at any such college gathering in America, the men are only playing at being men of letters. Every man of us is a workman, or ought to be ashamed if he is not. As for poor Clipsham, the uervous excitement of his speak ing brought on a fit of coughing, and he ha 1 to excuse himself and go home. He soaked bis feet in hot water with mustard, put a porous plaster on his chest and went to bed with n lump of sugar by*his ride on which he had drooped Ayer’s Cherry Pectoral But he slept all night arid did not need the sugar. Pour davs went on in this way wijh tour dis fereut dinners. Nobody told Ciim-hom he was ail wrong, because nobody knew. On tbe other hand, everybody thought :t was all light, and said he had uever made such go >d soeerhee in nis life The next night h** really went to the carriage builders’ dinner. But he thought he was at the annual m.***ting of the Cnautauquan Literary Circle That is to say. he thought he wa speaking to a larg-j company of people, who, in the midst of every sort of daily occupation, read regularly in a systematic course. So, in fact, he wa And the carriagebuilders liked Ins speech ail the better, that ho mao* no pretense, us they said, any other lawyer would have done, to a knowledge of their h i-i ness. He aid nothing about varish. or the strength of ash. of which lie knew nofhir.e, and he did not once allude to the huh of the universe, the wheel of tim-. ihe ch&ri >t of the sun. or Dr Holme-.'* “One-norse Shay.’’ which had beer, worked to death at their celebration* [TO CIS CONTINUED NEXT SUNDAY.] The Insect World. Tn the dappled shade and the aoldan 1' -It What crook kneed things hop into sigat! A thousand facets in the eye. That gleam* on nrne—and wings that flyj A hundred t’eat to run along. A sting behind the hum and And a* 1 gaze what toilers spin. And Jig ana delve the eaVth within. Trit urine from an inner nvue, Tne wriggline earth-worm upward climbs, And le.ve the round lon/gallery dim. No statue lift*r nor portrait grim, And here and there a hoarded pile. Mound-builders of an ancient style—(A red ant tribe.) I search, and still No weapon rude nor pipe-bowl fill* Tbe antique ruin; nor can I find The hieroglyphics of the mind. But further on a body round, In black-striped vest and long leg’s^ound— An ogre to the cast le sped. To watch his silver wheel of thread, For straggling burgher of a fly, To stab and feast on by and by. A league away, where rose leaves spread, A tinted parachute o'er head, She stood, upon a lilied rug, A modest, black-eyed lady-bug; And eyed afar the palace hivo. Where queen bee reigns, and courtiers thrive; Nor lace-cocked hat, nor rapiers long, Bedeck the worshipers that throng In yellow corsage, as I gaze. Vermillion wings, a spotted blaze Os sun and shade beneath the skies, The wheel and whirr of butterflies; In elm lodged the gossips hid, A knot of spinster katy-didsi And Nubian-winged, an old blind bat, At evening listens to their chat. And In the dark, through seas of air, Tbe pirates buzz arouud my chair; And drain the treasure from my veins, And drunk with blook reel out again, And Jack-o'-lantern is, I guess, A fiery brush against my dress; And circling round the shaded lamp, The fluttering moth's white wings dew damp. When days grow short and nights grow long, And winds shout loud a battle song Upon the hills—a clarion peal, I hearken long, and gazing kneel Where logs ablaze, red caverns dim Upon my hearth the violin Os weary minstrel overbold, Like wandering troubadours of old; An old love ballad, sweet and low— A tender croon of long ago— And rippling sweet the cricket's song Is nested in my heart for long; No cake I bring, nor spiced wine, To feast that merry guest of mine, But ere the logs, red blaze grows dim, I greet and glady welcome him! Margaret White.

The Grateful Duck. Tavares Herald. While at work in the carden I hoard quite a “quacking" of ducks and splashing of water, ao much so that I concluded to investigate. I found a mother duck with n brood of four or five young on the water, while above were two large hawks endeavoring to make their dinner off the brood. The mother duck would gather the lit tie ones under the thickest underbrush nd make fight as best she could, Happing her wings aud quacking, or rather squealing, while the hawks above seemed wholly intent bn their prev You should have seen the apparent gratitude shown by the mother when I shot and killed one of the persistent hawks, scarine the other sway. The firing of my gun did not alarm her at ali, for she swain off quacking lowly, as though commending me for my tinxelv aid. A Southern Cure for Spring Fever. Georgia Farmer. In Atlanta I‘ountitiition. Jest go an’ git you a han’ful of dogwood, a hau’ful of cherry and a han'ful of poplar bark. Then eit you n little grau’sir graybeani root, ami burn nine red corncobs —be shore and get red ones—an' save the eshes, an' beat all them barks an' roots an’ ashes up fine. Then go to the blacksmith shoo and eit a han’fnl of clean cinders, an’ git a little piece o' brimstone an' a little (uece of sulphur an’ a little piece o’ saltpeter, an’ >eot them all up fine. Titeu mix them two powders together and take a teaspoonful three times a day for niue days, an* then rest nine days, sn’ then begin again an’ take it nine days: an’ do this three time*. By that time you'll have it all tuck up, au’you’ll be as fat as a hog. A New York Opinion. New York Tribune. The alleged “revivalist," Jones, who has been holding forth at a round salary in Chicago, distinguished himself during the latter part of his session there by much sheer blackguardism. One evening, in his “sermon," he pointed to the Rev. Dr. Burrows, who sat near him, aud said: “One of bis sermons would not have drawn five hundred persons here. But you pay your preachers well in Chicago; mighty well for the kind of preaching you get." People are wondering whether it was Christian forebearance or cowardice that saved the fellow from being kicked out of town. The Symptoms Always the Same. Whenover you see a heavy gloom O'ernpretd the merchant's face. And deep, dark silence of the tomb Reizy all about his place, You’ll ever find in such a caae That he ia far from wise, And has no chance to win tbe race— He does not advertise. —New Haven Newt. Buskin Loose Again. Raskin’s Autobiography. I know of nothing that has been taught the youth of our time except that their fathers were apes and their mothors winkles; that the world began in accident and will end in darkness; that honor is folly, ambition a virtue, charity a vice, poverty a crime, and rascality the means of all wealth and the sum of all wisdom.

PORTRAITS OF MR, LINCOLN. llow Volk, tlio Sculptor, Made the Mask of the Great Martyred President. Pictures of Lincoln at Washington and His Statues—Relics of the Dead President —A Messenger’s Recollections. Carp’s Letter in Cleveland Leader. I saw yesterday a bronze cast from the Lincoln life mask which the sculptor Volk took during the April in 1860 before Lincoln was nominated. The cast 9 have ju3t been made, and one will probably be given to the government. Only a limited numberof these casts have been made, and the one I saw was in the hands of one of Mr Lincoln’s intimate and dearest friends. It represents, with a powerful reality, tbe features and spirit of the great President. The face, front cf the head, the ears, and sinewy neck are there just as they were when Lincoln was alive. Jn 1800 the President wore no beard, and the face is represented a9 smoothly shaven. There- are are two little moles on each side of the nose, and it seems to me that the lines of thought and worry are not so deeply cut as in his later portraits. The sculptor, Volk, got this cast in a measure by accident. He was in Illinois with Stephen A. Douglas, making a statne oi bun, when he first met Abraham Lincoln. At thia tioiH the senatorial contest between Lincoln and Douglas was going on, and Douglas, in the popular mind, stood far above Lincoln. Lincoln did not become much of a presidential possibility until 1860, and at this time it would have been hard to have got bets upon his nomination. It was in April, 1860, when Lincoln was trying a case in Chicago that Volk got him to sit for him. and at thia time, two months before he was nominated, he took this life mask. A mask of this kind, you know, is taken by putting a lot of plaster of paris on the face so that it covers it entirely. It is then allowed to harden, and when taken off it gives an exact model of the face. Volk was very careful, In putting the plaster on Lincoln, to leave his eyes and nostrils free. He left it on about an hour, and then pulled it off slowly and easily, tearing at the same time some of the fine hair 9 of the temple, which made Lin coin’s eyes water. He then got Lincoln to sit for him and took a sketch of him in clay. What a sculptor calls sketching is modelingastatuein the first place in clay or somo material just for the time. Lincoln came and sat for Mr. Volk to sketch him, and this cast, which is the result, is undoubtedly the best ever made. One of the casts will, I understand, be given to the government and be put in the National Museum. I saw also the bronze cast of Lincoln’s right hand, whichaYolk made at the same time. It is an immense bony fist, tightly clasped around a brazen stick, and cut off about the middle of the wrist. Volk took the model of this hand on Sunday, and he had trouble in getting some kind of a stick or piece of pasteboard for Lincoln to hold while he took it. Lincoln went out to the woodshed and sawed off a piece of a broomstick, and it is this piece of broomstick which is now modeled in brass. President Lincoln told Volk that he had never sat to a sculptor before, and the only things that had been taken of him were daguerreotypes and photographs. Judge Kelley, of Pennsylvania, who is one of Lincoln’s greatest admirers, has a photograph of him taken in 1857, I think. It was originally a deguerreotype, but Kelley has had this daguerreotype photographed, aud it is certainly a very tine likeness. Judge Kelley thinks there have been only two greatest men in the world. One of these was Lincoln and the other Sbakepeare, and he thinks that they were much alike in genius. In his pleasant room at the Riggs House he has upon tne wall large photographs of four or five great statesmen, and he is now having a large photograph of one of the celebrated pictures of Lincoln made to complete his collection. One of these pictures is of Edwin M. Stanton, another of Carey, the great protectionist, and a third of Mr. Kelley himself. In an old antiquarian shop at Georgetown, the other day, I found a graywhiskered, white haired, red-faced jeweler, who showed me a cameo of President Lincoln, which represents him very well, indeed, it was a white shell cameo, and the man told me that he had got it through Mrs. Lincoln, and tnat Charles Sumner had offered him SIOO for it, but that he had refused it. It is not set, and it reprepresents Lincoln without a beard.

Here at Washington there are a number of representations of Abraham Lincoln. In the National Gallery of Statues there is a bust of Lincoln in marble, made in 1858 by Mrs. Sarah Fisher Ames, which represents the great President looking as though he had a sheet wrapped around his neck. It cost the government about $2,000, and would have been dear, it seems to me. at that many cents. Vinnie Ream’s statue of Lincoln stands in front of the City Hall on a pedcstql which is far too high for the statue. For it, the government paid $15,000. A little to the right of the bust of Lincoln, in Statuary Hall, aud immediately above it, there is a mosaic portrait of the martyred President. It is made of thousands of little bits of stones, and is, I should say, two or three feet square. It represents the President as fullbearded, and it looks very much as though it were made by some of the newspaper artists of the day. Frank B. Carpenter’s picture of the Proclamation of tbe Emancipation contains a very fair portrait of tbe President It h'*ngs on the walls of the Capitol stair-case, loading to the House callery. and looks down at Powers's statue of Jefferson which stands in a niche be low. A mite ca*t of the Capitol, in the center of Lincoln Square, which is a beautiful park, the bronze group, entitled “Emancipation,” ia to be seen. It represents Abraham Lincoln holding in his riirht hand the proclamation of freedom. A slave kneels at his feet with manacles broken, and about to rise. On his left is the brazen trunk of a tree with lash and chains about it, and the expressioueon the face of the freed man and that of the great Lincoln are very good, indeed. This monument was paid for by the sub scriptions of tbe colored people of the Cmu-d States. It weighs 3.000 pounds, is twelve Let high, and cost $17,000. There are a number of relies of the President scattered her and there about Washington. In the National Museum there is a pair of dovecolored chamois skin gloves, which were made for the President Just before he was non*inni-d. hut which he never wore. Here, too, is a model of his patent for lifting vessels over shoals, and in a case near by you may see a lock of his brown hair, laid awar with that of other Presi dents. A man named Peterson, who wa* h son of the roan who owned the house An which Lincoln died, has the pillow-case and quilt upon which he breathed his last breath. They are clotted and stained with blood, but Peterson considers them worth a great deal, aud he would hardly sell thorn for there weight in silver. There is a tall, thin messenger at the White House named Pendle. who has been there for nearly thirty years, and who was on duty on the night that the President was shot. He wiil tell you how he was affected by little Tad Lincoln sobbing and crying, “Oh! they have killed my ?apa! My poor papa! Let me go to my papa!" ’endle worships the memory of little Tad and his father. In a tiny gold locket he has a little band of the President’s hair, and in a camphorscented box he keeps a fine black broadcloth coat, one sleeve of which is badly cut. It was in this coat that the President died, and Pendle treasures it as though it were a veritable cloth of eold. A man named Forbes, who lives in Washington, has the shawl and black silk stock worn by Lincoln when he was shot, and he is also tbe owner of a beautifully carved cane given to the President by a Pennsylvania regiment, as well as the pocket-knife of the President. Forbes is said to have been in the box the night Lincoln was shot as one of his attendants. The arms of John Wilkes Booth and some relics connected with his death are still kept here at Wasbingtou. A piece of Booth’s vertebrae is shown in the exhibition cases of the Medical Museum, which is now kept in Ford’s Theater, where the assassination occurred. This theater has never been used as a place of amusement since the night of the great crime. A short time after it, Ford, tbeowner, who was something of a Southern sympathizer, attempted to open it, But Secretary Stauton forbade it, aud the government bought it, paying, if my remembrance is correct, SIOO,OOO for it As to the Medical Museum, it is filled with all sorts of horrible things. Hundreds of cases with glass fronts are shown full of all the horribledis*

eases that flesh is beir to. All sorts of haman deformities look oat of big bottles of alcobo), and a visit to the scene of Lincoln’s assassination is disgusting beyond description. There are a great number of skeletons polished until they shine like ivory, and fastened together with wires. In the top of the skull of each of these there is a brass ring, and bv this the skeletor hangs behind glasses clear as crystal and grins at you most horribly as you pass by. lam told that anew building is being erected for this medical musenra. It is certainly not fitting that it should reman wnere it is. All the semblance of the scene of the assassination has been taken from the interior of the theater. It has been cut up into different floors, and the only thing which they can show you to remind you of tho assassination is a window looking out on the alley where Booth got his horse and galloped away down towards the Maryland shores. Just across the street from this theater is the house where Lincoln died. It is a three story brick in a block, with a pair of stone steps and an iron railing reaching to the front door over the basement. In its wail has been ftunkcu a marble slab on which is printed the word* j A. LINCOLN. j I Died in This House ! f April 15, 1865. 1 The house is now owned by a German e iitor named Louis Schade, who has his printing office, I think, in the basement. Lie is a strong Democrat, and it was a notable fact that at thr last inauguration this house where the martyred President breathed his last was more extravagantly and gaudily decorated than any oth-r on the street. At the time of the assassuvmmi this house was known as the Peterson h'u*e. It was occupied by a very respectable fara.lv of that name. They were good. seuMbie people, not overly well-to-do, who owned a 1 rge houe and made something by renting rooms t. strangers. John Matthews, a comedian, who was a great friend of John Wilkes Booth had rooms in this house, and his room was uie one in which President Lincoln died A f*-w nights to*fore the assassination John Wilkes Booth nmuiiwl Matthews’s room, and it is a curious fact that he slept upon the same bed upon which the man whom he afterward murdered breathed hit* last breath. It was said by some that Andy Johnson was sworn in here at this house This may I e so, but it is generally believed that he was sworn in at the Kirkwood House. The room in which the President died was a long, narrow one, in th* venter of the building, with few windows, if any. and with paper made of great stripes. Mrs. Lincoln w*u not at his bedside when he passed away, and the pictures general!}' given do not represent the true sceme of the deathbed.

SEEING THE POPE. How Leo Appeared at the Anniversary of Ilia Elevation to the Papacy. Bishop Foss. In the Chicago Advocate. With the natural curiosity of a foreigner of Yankee extraction to see so distinguished a “prisoner,’’ but not knowing bow to bring it about without running the risk of being expected to kiss his hand (as is the custom at his formal receptions), I heard the tantalizing question from day to day, and waited. Since Sept. 20. 1870, when the troops of Victor Emanuel marched into Rome, “his Holiness” has been pleased to assume the role of a “prisoner.” After that date Pius IX never passed the limits of the Vatican palace and grounds, and Leo XIII has maintained a similar seclusion. He does not even allow tourists to ascend the dome of St. Peter's at the hour of his noon-day walk in his garden, and on the single day in the week when the ascent is free to the publio he omit 6 his walk. Formerly, the Pope used frequently to ride about the streets in superb state, with couriers in advance, and the awe-struck multitudes kneeling as be passed. In consequence of the change brought about on that memorable September day, few of the young men in Rome have ever seen the Pope, and the euriosity of strangers to see him is greater than ever. So I listened with keen attention when the porter of ray hotel said to me one morning: “Would you like to see the Pope!" and brought to me a man who had for sale a “permesso” for the grand spectacle of the day, the procession to the Sistine chapel on the occcasion of the eighth anniversary of the Pope’s coronation. I paid him five lire for it, and made my way to the Vatican. Thrones of people were crowding its magnificent marble staircases with the 3uick step of eager expectation. The air was lied with the chatter of many voices. Ladies ■and gentlemen in full dress, soldiers with brilliant uniforms, priests, monks, and ecclesiastics of every grade jostled each other in the large vestibule of the Sistine chapel and the corridor adjacent. The Swiss guard, with their lofty plumes and halberds, an hour before the Pope’s Appearance, cleared passaggs through the dense, good-natured throng from the private apartments of the Pope, and from the head of the great staircase to the door-way of the chapel, and files of soldiers were stationed on both sides to keep back the crowd. Through these passages came the embassadors from several nations with their suites, some of them most gorgeously appareled, and all honored with a military salute as they passed. Germany, Spain and Brazil were thus represented, as I learned from the conversation of the bystanders, and there wero several other embassies whose nationality I could not ascertain. After a very long and wearisome waiting the great procession moved The military escort was followed by numerous ecclesiastics—-priests, bishops, archbLhops, and then the cardinals with their brilliant scarlet vestments. Each cardinal was followed by two “cardinal priests” and an attendant who carrried the long train ■ C his robe. As they slowly passed all eves were fastened on them, a buzz of whispers announced thir names, and there wero numerous* feminine explanations of “Oh!” “Ah!” and “Eh!” in several languages, A moment later came a sudden and most impressive change. The two hours’ murmur was instantly hushed; a suppressed, half-articulate, solemn, general “Ah! " indicative of the very climax of admiring satisfaction and abject reverence, swept through the throng. The crowd was so dense that kneeling was out of the question, but multitudes gank as low as possible. Not a lip moved, and scarce a breath wa3 drawn, as the self-styled vicegerent of the Almighty passed. The Pope, arrayed in magnificent robes paog)ed with gold, and wearing a lofty tiara sparkling with jewels, was seated on a high throne borne on a platform above the heads of a dozen men. He is seventy-six years of age, and looks mu h older. His face is thin and wrinkled, mild and oenignant. A* he thus passed by, in more than regal state. h* turned his face from side to side, and waved his hand in benediction over the people, many of whom, I have no doubt, felt that to be the, supreme me mint of their lives. When the procession ha i en.ered the Sistine Chapel the most delicate sir tins of sacred music broke forth, and the religious ceremonies celebrating the anniversary of the accession of Leo XIII began. A Government Ratcatcher. Washington better. A colored laborer in the Treasury has the record of having killed 600 rodents with his bare hands. He has the knack of grasping the animal by the skin between the ear and the jaw, and, by a sudden twist, ending bis existence. There are a number of rat-traps in the building, and the ratcatcher make* a daily round to see what the supply is, killing the captives as he proceeds. He is not entirely dependent upon traps, however, but ofteu catches the rats as they scamper about the waste-paper rooms. The Treasury employes say that he never has yet been bitten by a rat daring his career. Borne of his victims are great, big raoesbacks that have defied capture for years. The ratcatcher feels secure in his government position. The Duke of Beaufort as an Angler. From Personal Letter to Fishing Ossetta. I have been at all sports all my life. Salmon and trout I have killed in England; in the Christchurch Avon salmon, in the Test trout only. I have fished in the Wye, the Usk for salmon, the Mennow for trout, and many other nvers the names of which I forget for the moment. In Scotland I have fished the Spey, the Loch}’, the Spean, the Roy. etc. In Ireland the Black water, the Bride, the Lee and other rivers. In Canada, on the edge of Labrador, the Natasquhan. In Lower Canada and New Brunswick, the Restigouehe. the Metapedute and the Apeulijaitch. The best twenty-one consecutive

days’ salmon-fishing I ever had was in September (I forget if it was in 1882 or 188.1, but I can ascertain.) I killed 158 fish, averaging about eleven pounds, in tho twenty-one days, art average of seven and fish per diem. The largest number in any one day was twelve, and on another day eleven fish, and they wers very pleasantly distributed over the time. I was alone; the friends who were coming for half the time unfortunately could not come. The largest fish I killed was twenty-six pounds. Have killed a eood many between that wnight and twenty pounds. In Great Br tain and Ireland! think a fifteen-pound fish gives more sport tha-: tlie larger ones. In Canada a twenty-three-pound or twenty-five-ponnd fish will run about and jmnp clean out of water, like a sea trout or grilse, perhaps sovea or eight times while you have him on. SPIUMJ FASHIONS. What Widows Sh'iuld Wear— Costumes To Be Worn After Easter—Odds ami Ends. Usrrer* Ofttir. Tlie Henrietta cloth dress worn by widows in then- fir>t mourning -hoOn! have a basque coverM plainly with Eugtirh crape, and narrow may be laid on a, a veM and border on the e Set-: ftisu on tne col ar* and cuffs. The skirt miy be laid in three large pleats for the front and si ies, while the back is gathered to the b*dt with pointed wing* of th-* crane drooping down on each side. Anew design has a fold of erare three fingers deep around the Henrietta Sower s-kirt, and above this is a drapery of erapa ai ranged an deep over-skirt, very long all around, and caught up alike on both sides by a cluster of pleats high on the hips, while the lui’.ness f '.he back drors down from the belt in three or four loops, or Arab told*, like tho*e worn*on the Arab burnous. The fan-pleated nnroti front Is of crane on other gowns for widows, while the full straight back is of the Henrietta doth very deeply bordered with crane A kin iof princense dress of crapo over dull lining st'K is made for a lighter drees for summer This has the full skirt attached to the pointed back of the corsage, while the front is ail to <n from ne<-k to foot, lapped diagonally. and trimmed with rich passementerie of dui! jet lead*. A small visite mantle, a jacket, or for elderly women a long clonk, either dosefitted. nr with square sleeves, is made of the Henrietta cloth, and trimmed heavily with English crape. A V of the crape reaching to the waist in hack and front trims the mantle. Tne other wraps hare the vest of crape and a very wide baud covering them be] >w the waist line. For summer a nun's veiling dress with crape folds is suitable for a widow. Tailors now use English crape on th serge dresses they make for widow's mourning. The bonnet for a widow is a email shape with crane doubled and drawn plainly over it without trimming, as it is covered by the veil; the widow’s cap inside the bonnet is two small puffs of whit* crimped organdy muslin, and the strings are black eros grain ribbon tied in a small bow. The veil of English crape fulls to the foot in front and to the waist behind: the hem in front is half a yard dep. and in the back it is three-eighths of a yard. A veil made of very fine nun’s veiling, shorter than the crape veil, is worn for traveling and the damn weather that takes the crinkle out of crape. Some Handsome Dresses. New York Evening Post. Among some uncommonly elegant gowns designed for festivals following Easter are thre* French dresses, made in princesse style, one of which is of pale mauve satin broebe, the petti : coat of cream satin laid in box pleats, with superb ornaments of pearl, amber, and heliotrope beads set down the center of each panel. The opening on the pointed Josephine corsare is bordered with the same costly embroidery, and the short cap-sleeve is wholly covered with the glittering beads The second gown is made of amber satin, the court train opening over a ekirt of pansy-colored velvet, silk wrought with palest lilac flowers, with, vest and elbow sleeves to correspond. Whit* China crape over a princesse slip of cream-whit* American surah composes the third dress for a debutante. The crape drapery parts iu front, revealing a tablier of cream satin embroidered with lilies of the valley, tea-rose buds, and for-get-me-nots. The crape drapery forms an immense sash with ends in the back, and is aimply hemmed. The bodice portion of surab is low in the neck under a second one of crape, cut out in a slight square at the throat-. At the foot of the demi-train is a six-inch pleating of cream satin, and above this a second one of the crape, th* pleats arranged to give a very Huffy and airy look, these well supported by the satin balayeuse.

MiMcellAneous Suggestions. The Austrian colors, black and yellow, predominate in'millinery and parasols. The new parasols are odd, elegant, simple, fantastic, large and small, to suit individual taste. Beads are used in greater profusion than ever, and rival in their tints the gems of “Ormuz and the Ind.” Black velvet shoulder-capes are pointed at the back and front, and are edged with bauds of cut jet beads. Flower bonnets are again in high fashion, they are made of tiny spring blossoms devoid of foliaee, arid a brim of velvbt with very narrow string to match. Black moire sash ribbons will bo much worn the coming season, over dresses of poppy-red surah, beige, pongee, and fancy India silk and foulards, in gay colorings. Shoulder capes of netted silk and beads corre sponding in color to the silk, have high collars and are edged with deep points bordered with rosary beads of the same tint Rough-and-ready straw bonnets, in golden brown, dark blue and black, are set forth so Easter wear, to accompany the stylish tailormade suits of cloth etamiue. or fancy suiting. A favorite method of trimming, and a very pretty one it is, is a ruche of petals or flowers bordering the rim of the bonnet. This is supplemented by sprays of the same blossoms with their own foliage, or with grasses or ferns. The skirts of some of the handsome spring walking dresses of homespun, canvas goods or cheviot are trimmed solely with several rows of wide braid, plain or fancy, placed one above another over about half the length of the skirt. Surahs, radzimers, foulards, louisines, and all softly-draping unstiffened silks are to be in uncommon favor this summer. A silk that will “stand alone,” that boast and glory of our grandmothers. is not at the present moment a fashionable ambition. Buttons are a prominent feature in dress just now, their size in many instances being almost grotesque. Many of the newer styles are handsome and very expensive, reaching in price to sls and S2O the dozen, with smaller ones to match for the bodice and sleeves. White crape or lisse folds are now worn by most women in mourning, as black is uncomfortable. and not wholesome when placed next the iiesh. Young widows wear whit© caps, in fanchon-pointed shape, with black bows; those who are older wear the large mob crown, with pleats or folds in front, and strings of the same fastened below the back hair. American as well as European women are scintillating in a perfect armor of jets, sequins, pendants and beads. Whole cuirass bodices, tablier skirt fronts, panels, street wraps, house jackets, bonnets, hats, gloves, slippers, fichus, collars, and even stockings, are trimmed with bead embroidery. Elegant costumes of blacfc sparkle like c?ats of mail, and delicate toilets of white surah, satin and tulle are embellished with marvellous designs worked in beads of ruby, opal, silver bronze, amber, crystal, sapphire, carnet, pearl and in ehasbmere colorings, showing artistic and unique Oriental effects in scarlet, green and gold. Bow Llsxt Was Converted. Letter from Berlin. “Will you play for us while in Paris?’’ “I play no more lr public; the piano has made my fame, but I am converted. Would yon like the story? Once 1 was to give a concert in a city where there were many dogs. I waa preoccupied, misunderstood the date, and went to the hall one evening in advance. Nobody waa there and l played for myself, and as I am a little selfish, I play a tittle better for myself thaa for the world. Every dog in the pls>ce joined in the mnsic. I said to myself, ‘The dog is man's friend, and if his instinct tells him to hate the piano, it is because the piano is man’s enemy. Miiborn'e Prayer, Philadelphia Press. _ _ Chaplain Milbnm’s prayer to Congress Saturday waa a solemn warning to the Almighty against the sin of iutemperance

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