Daily Wabash Express, Terre Haute, Vigo County, 17 February 1884 — Page 3

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\iV VI

1®' M.V-'

t.K

THE POESY OF A KING.

The summer came with roses red, The summer shone with sultry morn, 1 he summer shed Its roses dead-

One of the coral stones was gone!

whtn birds did sine, 'alth had dreamt they

Once in the And Love and met, I gave my love a golden ring,

In which four coral atones were set.

The autumn came with fading leaf, The autumn came with golden corn, The autumn glean'd Its garnered sheaf-

Two of the coral stones were gone!

The winter came with wailing sound, The winter blew with branches shorn. The winter paled with whitening ground—

Three of the coral stones were gune!

The spring return'd with buds or May, The spring shone bright with blushing

The spring gave forth its glorious dayButaU the coral stones were gone!

THE WAY OF THE WORLD.

There sate a crow on a lofty tree, Watching the world go by He saw a throng that swept along

With laughter loud and high. "In and out through the motley rout" Pale ghoBts stole on unseen,

Their hearts were longing for one sweet word Of the love that once had been. But never a lip there spoke their names,

Never a tear was shed The crow looked down from his lofty tree,

Tis tiie way of the world," he said.

A singer stood in the market place, Singing a tender lay, But no one heeded his sorrowful face,

No one had time to stay. He turned away he sang no more How could he sing in vain?

And then the world came to his door Bidding him sing again. But he recked not whether they came or went,

He In his garret dead The crow looked down from his lofty tree, 'Tis the way of the world," he said.

There sate a queon by a cottage bed, Spoke to the widow there Did she not know the same nard blow

The peasant had to bear? And she kissed that humble peasant's brow,

And then she bent her knee "God of the widow, help her now, As thou hast helped me." '•Now God be thanked," said the old, old crow,

As he sped from his lofty bough "The times are 111, but there's much good, •un,

In the way of the world, I trow."

HILDA.

BY BERTHA M. CLAY, AUTHOR OP "DORA THORNE."

«HAPTBB XXXIV.

FaBt as it was possible to go, Lord Bayneham hastened to the dyingman. He heard from the butler, when he Btood in the hall, every particular of the accident—he saw real, unfeigned tears shining in the man's eyes.

Mr. Fulton was loved by his inferiors for his invariable kindness and good humor. Then he entered the luxurious chamber, where the master of the house lay, doomed and dying. "Let him came near me," said Paul Fulton to Dr. Arne. "I have much to say to him."

The doctor rose from his seat, and made way for Lord Bayneham. Claude was inexpressibly shocked. So lately he had seen Paul Fulton in the flush and pride of his manhood, his handsome face smiling ajd careless—could that pale, haggard man, with crimson-stained bandages upon his head, be the same who had saluted him so gaily a few hours ago The wild eyes, full of horror, glared upon him. "I am dying, they say," gasped the hoarse, low voice. "I never feared man, but I am afraid to die."

Lord Bayneham did not know what to say—a woman in his place would have uttered the exact words the dying man wanted to hear—something of mercy and pardon and hope. Lord Bayneham looked awkwardly around the room, and then murmured something about recovery. "No," said Paul Fulton, scornfully: "Dr. Arne tells me I shall not see this sun set. Lord Bayneham, I went to Bpeak to you about your wife."

The young earl started. In the shock of seeing that ghastly figure, he had forgotten for a moment that he expected to hear of his lost love. "What of my wife?" be said, gently for, even supposing that Paul Fulton had caused all the sorrow and suspense, it was not possible to maintain the faintest gleam of anger against the shattered, dying wreck before him. "What of my wife?" he asked again. "I should like to see her," whisper ed Paul Fulton. "I am dying, they Bay, and this is my last prayer. Let me Bee your wife once let my last look be upon her face." "Do you know where she is asked Lord Bayneham. "No," was the calm reply "at Bayneham I suppose. It is not too far, my lord. There will be time if you send at once."

Ah, then he knew nothing of her flight—their half-suspicions had been wrong. "Why do you wish to see'my wife?" he asked "trust me—tell me." "I will," said Paul Fulton. "I do not know whether you have been told anything of your wife's history. I want to see her—oh, Lord Bayneham, I want to see her, because she is my onlv child.'* "Your child!" cried Lord Bayneham. in unutterable wonder. "Yes," said Paul, "my child. Her mother was the fairest and sweetest girl in all Scotland, and she was my wile. Lord Bayneham, I thought my own had returned to me again, young and lovely as I first knew her. She is my daughter. I was Lord Hutton's dearest friend her mother was Lady Hutton's foster sister Lady Hutton adopted her when my wife joined me over the seas."

There was a silence for some few moments, and a thousand thoughts flashed through Lord Bayneham's mind. This explained all that had seemed so mysterious—the notes—ah, and perhaps the interview.

Why was this kept a secret from me?" he said, sadly. "It has caused bitter sorrow." "I will tell you, Lord Bayneham," said the dying man. "My daughter longed to make her secret known to you,—it embittered her life. She knew nothing of it until her poor mother went to see her, and died at the Firs cottage. Her mother, my poor Magdalen, forced her to take an oath that she would never reveale it, and the oath she faithfully kept. It seemed like an especial decree from heaven that I should go to Bayneham, and find there my wife's grave and my living child. I knew she was my daughter from a ring that I had given her mother, and which she wore, and from her picture, my lord "Yes, I remember,"said Lord Bayneham, "badly "why did you not tell me the truth?,' "You will hear," continued the dying man "I dared not, because my whole life is a living lie. She told me so. My name, Lord Bayneham, is Stephen Hurst,—I dare utter it now that I am dying. My father was a gentleman—no truer or nobler ever lived. I was always wild and wicked. When I had wasted my little fortune I went with Lord Hutton to visit the lady he loved, Miss Erskine of Brynmar, and there I met Magdalen Burns, the fairest girl I ever saw. "I married her and we went to London. Let me tell you what I did, Lord

Bayneham,—yesterday I would have died sooner than have told it to-day I car® not. I committed a forgery, ana i#™ Mntenced to transportation.

Ah, do not tarn from me, my lord 1 have Buffered -tor my Mm, I lived through a martyrdom,—nowordacan «ll what my punishment was like.

Magdalen came to me like an angel oi u, and goodness I treated her with barbarous cruelty, and drove her from me and broke her heart. "When the time of my sentence expired I went away to the di«mp,«id

there, like many others, made a large fortune. "Lord Bayneham, I am dying here alone, and every sin of my life seems to recoil upon my head. I never meant men to know who I was. I have kept my secret, hoping to make for myself a new life from the wreck of the old one. All things have prospered with me I had wealth and honor—my heart's wish—a marriage with Lady Grahame was soon to be accomplished, and now it is all over. I have wasted my life, and would fain have it to begin again." "I cannot understand," said Lord Bayneham, gently, "why you wished this to be kept a secret from me." "I dreaded it being known," he replied.

[F. E. Weatherly.] ....,

Stephen Hurst, I should have

been despised and outlawed as Paul Fulton, men have esteemed me. If I had claimed my child, I must have told who I was. She begged me, with tears, to tell you, but I would not." "She is sacrificed to your pride, Lord Bayneham. "Tell me, on the last evening you were at Bayneham did you meet my wife and your daughter in the Lady's Walk? Did you talk to her there." "Yes," said Stephen Hurst, "I did so. I asked her to meet me there, and most unwillingly she complied." "You gave two notes into her hand, continued Lord Bayneham, sadly. "Yes," replied Stephen "but how do you know, and why do you mention these things?" "Because they have helped to destroy my wife," cried the young earl "she has been sacrificed to your sins and your pride. She was asked to explain those notes and refused she was asked why she was in the Lady's Walk—her bracelet was found there— she would not tell there was some terrible mistake, and your daughter has left home. I know not where she has gone I cannot find her, and begin to despair of ever seeing her again. Oh, if you had but told me the truth "Do not reproach me," said the dying man "has not my sin found me out? I could have died more easily with my child's face near me. Through my own fault this one hope js lost to me—I shall never see her again."

He lay there mourning, to himself that his sin had found him out From that moment, when he heard that his sin and pride had destroyed his child, he seemed to have no more hope. A blank, awful despair seized him the expression of his face alarmed Lord Bayneham. "Can nothing more bo done? he asked of Dr. Arne "has he seen any one Could not some one pray with him "If he wishes it." said the doctor. "Lord Bayneham, he added, "I see many death-beds, and the most wretched and dreary death is always that of the worldling who has never thought of the time when he must die. Candidly speaking, my lord, nothing can be done for his body, and I fear but little for his mind.

We will draw the curtain over that death-bed they who were present never forgot it. The awful scene ended at last, and the man who reaped as he had sown went to his judgment.

CHAPTER XXXV.

It was not until Stephen Hurst had been dead for some hours that the mystery of that fatal mistake flashed across Lord Bayneham's mind. He remembered how he had gone into his wife's room and told her he know all, meaning that he knew she had been in the Lady's Walk. She doubtless thought, by that expression he knew all the secret of her parentage and her father's sin.

Then Lord Bayneham remembered that careless conversation, when the poor child asked him what he should do, if, after marriage, he discovered he had made a mistake in his wife, and he had replied, jestingly, "Such^a one must go home to her friends!" How blind and stupid he had been not to remember all this before! She clasped her hands when he told her he knew all, and asked if she was to go.

If he had but remained with her ten minutes longer, all would have been explained now he began to fear he should never see her again.

Lord Bayneham behaved nobly to his wife's father. He kept his secret. No will was found and he made no claim upon that large fortune. For the sake of the money he would not betray in death a secret the unhappy man had sacrificed so much to keep. As a friend, he attended to his funeral and went as chief mourner but never, by one word, did he hint that Paul Fulton was other than he had appeared.

For two days the papers made the most of that fatal accident, and all fashionable London was concerned for one day, and forget it tho next. Lady Grahame was very sorry and much distressed. "It seemed such a sad thing," she said to everybody, "he was a handsome man, and so very agreeable."

In a few davs Lady Grahame recovered from the effects of the shock, and, strange to say, that very year she met the Duke of Laleham, who was charmed by her manners and love of comfort in which he rivaled her. She is now Duchess of Laleham and once, confidential mood, was heard to _^y to believed there was a special providence ioor Mr. Fulton's death."

say to Miss Lowe, that, "after all, she

Lord Bayneham redoubled his ef-

forts to discover his wife, but they were all in vain he could find no trace of her it seemed as though she had disappeared from the face of the .partfc. The detective said he had n^rer been baffled before, but was baffled now. From the time the ticket collector had seen her in Euston

Qquare

she disap

peared. People began to smile at the advertisements, they were so common. But all and everything was in vain silence, and mystery dark as night, shrouded the fate of the young Countess of Bayneham.

Lord Bayneham returned home,— he was anxious to clear the memory of his beloved wife from even the least cloud of suspicion. Barbara Earle shed warm tears of love and pity when she heard the story. The Countess was more touched than she cared to own both saw clearly how the mistake had arisen. Believing that her husband knew all" her secret, and could not ardon her, Lady Hilda had left the lome where she though*: herself no longer loved or esteemed.

Tliey now understood all that had seemed mysterious the young lady of Bav*#ham had stood, as it were, befires—she could not betray and dared not clear herself suspicion that had- been

ameu mye ornfiham \two jer,

Jhe

Arsed. "It should be a lesson," said Barbara Earle, musingly. "One ought never to judgd from appearances—I never will again." "What shall you do, Claude?" asked Lady Bayneham, after a short pause. "I do not know, mother," he replied, sadly. "If I pleased myself, I should give up the search and die. I am worn out with fatigue and sorrow I see no hope of finding my dear wife n. But, as you have often remindme, the men of my race never despair must live on, and dear my life, I suppose."

Barbara's eyes filled with tears as she gazed upon the sad, worn face. Was it for this she had sacrificed her love and her happiness? Better for her cousin if this fair-faced girl had never crossed his path. He was fearfully altered these few days of suspense had told upon him were were deep lines of sorrow on the brow, and round the firm lips. There was an air of depression that contrasted painfully with his former gay, kindly manner.

Do not give up, Claude," said Lady Bayneham, laying her hand lovingly on her son's shoulder "it is a great trial, but have a sure hope ail will yet oe -well. "We must do our best to find your -wife. Remember, you do not live for yourself. Your mother the name and honor o! your family, the fame of your race—all depend on you.

Do not give up. Hard and bitter Borrows come to us, one and all. The

brave fight on, the weak give way. Fight on, my son no Bayneham was ever weak or cowardly." "I will do my best, mother," he said, wearily. "I think more of Hilda than Of myself she is so young and

fentle

she has no one in the world

ut me." ^4' From Bayneham, as from Ixjndon, every effort was made to discover Lady Hilda's place of refuge, but all in vain. Weeks became months, but no tracenot even the slightest—was found. She never claimed one farthing of the large sum daily accumulating for her. Lord Bayneham had directed that no notice should be taken of her letters^— that Bayneham should be kept in readiness for her, and the money carefullv saved but she never wrote for any* and that added more than anything to his troubles. If living, what was her fate, without money or friends? Lord Bayneham tried to bear up bravely, but he

Boon

became

exceedingly ill, and in less than six months after his wife's flight the yodhg Earl lay between life and death, fighting a hard battle with the grim king, and his mother kept watch by him, in sorrow too deep for words. The detective had promised that he would not give the case up, but it was evident from his want of zeal that he had no'longerany hope.

The doctors, summoned by the unhappy countess to h§r son's bedside, said there was one chance for him, and only one he must have entire change of scene and change of air, and they recommended him a stay of some length on the continent.

He was not willing to go. To leave England seemed like abandoning his wife yet to remain was, if wise men spoke truly, certain death. The last tune he left home, a beautiful young face, glowing with happiness and love, smiled by his side now he must go on his journey alone, his heart cold and dead to hope, love and happiness

One fine morning there stood' on the pier of Dover a group that attracted some attention—a tall stately lady, with the look of one who had once been beautiful, and by her side a noble girl, whose face made one the better for seeing it both were devoted to what seemed at first sight the wreck of a young and handsome man. Passersby stopped to gaze again at that white, worn face, with its sad, despairing eyes. Lady Bayneham and Barbara would have gone with Claude, but he would not hear of it. "Stay behind, mother," he said with trembling lips, "and do what yon can. My lost darling may come home do not let her find it desolate."

They went with him to Dover and watched the boat disappear with ey«s that were wet with tears. In the mother's heart there was but little hope of ever seeing her son again. "Ah, Barbara," said Lady Bayneham, as in the far distance the steamer sidled out of sight, "I wish my son had married you. This trouble will kill him. Brynmar woods have been very fatal to us."

But Barbara would not agree with her lady-ship she saw much to admire and pity in Lady Hilda, and she would hear no word that was not uttered either in love or praise.

Bertie Carlyon had been unremitting in his endeavors to assist Lord Bayneham. He had been with him up to the eve of his departure, when a telegram from London obliged him to return there. Lady Bayneham asked him to visit her at Bayneham when his business was ended, and he did so, longing to be once more with Barbara, and to know if he had any more reason to hope. He was warmly welcomed by the two desolate, sorrowing ladies. It seemed difficult to believe that this silent house, over which care and trouble hung iu such dark clouds, was the brilliant castle of Bayneham, where lately gaiety and beauty had reigned supreme.

Bertie Carlyon and Barbara Earle were standing at the same window from which they had once watched Lord Bayneham and his fair young wife set forth on their bridal tour, when Barbara said musingly, "Who could have foreseen this ending to so fair a love story "Does it frighten you said Bertie. "Ah, Barbara, if you could only try to love me—no such fate would ever overtake us." "Why?" asked Barbara. "Because I should have all faith in you," replied Bertie. "Mind, I am not blaming Claude—the circumstances were strange ones. If—but, ah! Barbara, the words are presumptious— if you were my wife, and I saw that you were keeping any secret from me, I should respect your silence, because I believe in you.' "It seems easy for vou to

Bay

now," replied Barbara, with a smile "it is impossible to teli what course one would take under similar circumstances." "Barbara," said Bertie Carlyon, "his handsome face all eagerness and love, "it is long since I fiist dared to whisper to you of my love. You did not reject me you said brave and noble words to me that have incited me to take a true man's part in the world. Under your banner, Barbara, I have fought we'u dare I ask for my reward?"

There was no affectation of coquetry in the expression of Barbara Earle's beautiful soul-lit face. "I am not given to flattery," she said quietly, "but I must praise, Bertie you have done well, and I am proud of you. Ask what reward you will, and if it is in my power to grant it, it shall soon be yours."

Bertie Carlyon's face paled as he listened to these words, so full of hope and promise. Something like a mist of tears swam before his eyes, and his voice trembled as he spoke. Laying one hand on the white jeweled fingers of Barbara Earle, he said: "Be my wife, Barbara. Earth holds no higher reward than your love." He read her consent in the drooping, blushing face and the eloquent eyes. "I am not worthy of such happiness," he said, quietly. "You are the noblest woman in the world, Barbara teach me to be worthy of you." "Do not set me on so high a pedestal, Bertie," said Barbara, "or I may fail from it. I have something more to say you know I speak very plainly. I do love you but 1 could not bear to think much of our happiness while so dark a cloud hangs over Bayneham. Help us to drive that away, and then we will speak of this again." "It shall be as you will, Barbara," he whispered, kissing the white, firm hand that rested so lovingly in his own. "I know no will save yours."

So they agreed that the love which was to last through life should not be mentioned while care and sorrow lay heavily upon their dearest friends. How could they speak *f love and marriage when both ended so fatally at Bayneham?

CHAPTER XXXVI.

Three years passed away, and brought *Jut little change to Bayneham. The Countess watehed and waited in silence she had renounced all active efforts for the discovery of her son's wife. At stated intervals advertisements were inserted in the papers, but Lady Bayneham had ceased to hope. She never breathed her suspicions even to Barbara Earle but in her own mind Bhe believed that Hilda vtps dead: no other fact could account for her long-continued silence. Her son said nothing of returning to England. He seemed to have forgotten the claims upon him »t home. She spent long hours in pacing up and down the picture gallery at Bayneham Castle. Her son, the brave handsome boy, whose future she had mapped out with such pride and hope, was the last earl his portrait hung there. Whose would take the vacant place next to his? There was no one to inherit the title—it would die out—the grand old race must come to an end. Claude -would never remarry while there -was the least doubt as to his wife's fate. Even if intelli-

gence came of her death Lady Bayne-

.lii

ham did not believe he would ever care for another woman, he had loved his lost wife so well.

The grand old race must end, and that conviction brought deep and lasting sorrow to the proud lady she had hoped before she died to clasp the young heir of Bayneham in her arms, to see, and love, and bless the young boy who was to succeed her son.

Her pride was sorely humbled. Her son was an unhappy exile, wandering in foreign lands, childlessand solitary. She wished—and wsihed in vain—that she had been kinder to her own sons wife that she had taught the poor motherless child to love and trust her. How different everything would then have been! Hilda would have flown to her in her trouble it was too late! Her cool, haughty pride, her unkindness, had done its work. When sorrow came to the fair young child whom her son had wedded, the last person she would have appealed to was her husband's mother, who ought to have been a mother to her.

The dark hair, of which the countess had been so proud, grew white with sorrow, not age the fair, proud face had deep lines, 6ach telling of grief and long night watches and Lady Bayneham saw no help. She had written several times, imploring her son to return but he replied tLat the the very sight of Bayneham would kill him, that he would never return there until something was known of his wife's fate. Her entreaties were all in vain and the countess said to herself that the grand old race was doomed.

It preyed deeply upon her no rest came to her. Her days and nights were one long dream of anxiety. Sorrow and suspense aged her. One evening Barbara Earle, going suddenly into her aunt's room, found her weeping bitterly.

Barbara started at the sight she never remembered to have seen tears in those proud eyes before. "Barbara," said Lady Bayneham, in a low voice, "my heart is breaking what shall we do to persuade Claude to return?" "I see no way," replied Miss Earle "but the last thing, the trouble I can bear least, is to see you give way, aunt that must not be." "I cannot'help it," said Lady Bayneham, despairingly: "it will kill me, Barbara. I have fought against sorrow, but it has mastered me at last. Unless my son returns soon he will notrsee me again." "Let me write and tell him sr, aunt," urged Miss Earle. "No," said the countess "he cannot endure the name of the thought of home. If he returned for my sake, and evil came of it, I could never forgive myself. There is nothing for it but patience, and patience comes but slowlv to one like me."

Barbara Earle had many anxities it was three years since her cousin left his home, and Bertie had asked her to be his wife,—three years and then she told her lover that she was willing to be his wife, but they must wait until the cloud had passed from Bayneham. But it deepened instead of passing still Bertie never complained. He respected her wish, and never urged his own: and Barbara knew, by instinct, all that he felt. The last time he eame to Bayneham he looked tired and worn. His labors accumulated, and there

waB

no one to cheer or sympa

thize with him. He longed for the time when that noble, soul-lit face should shine in his own home and Barbara read the longing in his eyes. She had learned to love him dearly and well, though not, as in early youth, she had loved her cousin, for she was a woman now and it was a woman's love she gave to Bertie Carlyon. He was dearer to her than her cousin bad ever been. She did not like that resigned, sorrowful expression on his face. Her first duty, she felt, was to him, yet it was utterly impossible that she should leave her aunt.

Barbara Earle sat in her room, thinking deeply. Thought became action she went to her writing-table, and wrote a letter to Lord Bayneham. It was a sweet, womanly letter and in it she told him of Bertie Carlyon's love, —of her engagement to him, and of her inability to fulfill it until he returned home and once more took his place in the world. "There was a time," wrote Barbara,— "I pray you to pardon me if I remind you of it,—when, for your happiness, I sacrificed all the hope of happiness I had in life I ask but little in return, and that little is the sacrifice of some morbid feeling. I ask you to return home your mother wants her son, your tenants and servants want their master, your country wants one of her ablest and truest sons and, Claude, Bertie wants me." "That will be irresistable," said Barbara Earle to herself, with a smile. "He will never tolerate the thought that he is keeping us apart, and my aunt will have a son."

Barbara ludged rightly,—Lord Bayneham could not withstand that appeal. He remembered the time when Barbara had generously given him his freedom, trampling under his foot her own love and regret. Now one who loved her, and was worthy of her, had won her, and he, in his turn, must sacrifice bimBelf as she' had done. The appeal was successful. Lady Bayneham was beside herself with delight when she received a letter from her son, saying that he intended soon to return, and resume the duties he had so long neglected. Barbara said nothing of her letter, and the countess congratulated herself that her wishes had guided her son.

There was but little said when he arrived, for both mother and cousin were startled at his appearance. He no longer looked ill, but there was an air of settled melancholy on his face that told of his sorrow more expressively than any words could have done. He wore deep mourning—a faet which startled Lady Bayneham. Before separating on the evening of his arrival, she went up to him, and, laying her hand gently upon him, asked him why it was. "Hush, mother," he replied in a broken voice,—"do not talk about it. I wear black for my wife if she had been living, I should have found her ere this. I believe her to be dead but do not Bpeak of her,—I cannot bear it yet."

Lady Bayneham quitted the room, leaving her son alone with her cousin. "Barbara," said Lord Bayneham, why did you ilot tell me this before? I have returned in obedience to your wish. Why have you kept this secret from me?" "We could not think of love or happiness while you are in sorrow," she replied. "I saw my aunt wasting away. Bertie said nothing, but his look touched my heart. Everything was going wrong,-HSO I wrote for you." "I am glad pf it," replied her cousin "and now that the first shock of seeing the old place is over, I am glad to be at home. "As we are alone," said Barbara, "I have something that I wish to say to you. Claude, you must rouse yourself you have sunk in a sea of sorrow this must not be. Trouble makes heroes of some men, and cowards of others. You know best where a Bayneham Bhould stand. Remember, even should Hilda be dead, your life does not end in her grave."

My happiness and love lie there," said Lord Bayneham. That may be," continued Mies Earle, "but we must not live for ourselves. There are many men who have never known happiness at all. Your fate is hard enough, but it is not the hardest in the world. Learn to bear it, and you will learn to live." "I will try," said Lord Bayneham and he kept his word.

They aaw plainly enough how great the effort was. He gave himself np to the strict performance of his duty,—he omitted nothing. His mother sighed, when, on passing the room door, die saw the lamp burning, leng after midnight she sighed again when, in the early hours of the morning, she heard him pacing wearily up and down his chamber.

Before he had been at Bayneham long, the countess, believing the effort too great for him, proposed that they should leave home for a time, and go

London. He consented, for all places were alikp to the unhappy

THE TEBKB HAtJTE EXPRESS, SUNDAY MOBNflTO, FEBRUARY It, 1884.

young husband, who#s love thoughts were with his Wife. In London, he once mare redoubled his efforts, but all wera in vain he went to Brynmar, but nothing had been seen or heard there oi Lady Hilda. He had also several interviews with the detective and with Dr. Grayson, but it was all in vain. His wife seemed to have vanished from the face of the earth. [To be continued in (he Sunday Exprett.]

CRANKS AT THE WHITE HOUSE

Some of the Peculiar People who Want to See the President. The Washington Star says: Meeting one of the guardians of the executive mansion and grounds off duty a few dayB ago, a Star reporter asked him if he had any trouble with cranks now. "Well, there are not

PRECOCIOUS PRETTY PETS.

A Cat Marvel—Poetry by a Parrot—A ntlcs of Mirthful Monkeys. The New York Morning Journal says: A little boy in this city owns a Maltese cat that can open the kitchen toor by itself. The door shuts with an old-fashioned latch, and the cat jumps on the table, puts out its paw, and lifts the latch. Then she jumps down and opens the door with her nose. The same cat used to live in the country and slept in the diary, never touching a bit of the milk or cream.

A Brooklyn gentleman owns a parrot who can say the alphabet backward and bless himself. This same parrot is fond of milk punch and likes to play going on a spree. He recites "Hohenlinden," with a verse from "Mother Goose" in between every stanza.

An old woman living near Greenwood cemetery owns an old white goose who, every night after all fowls are asleep, walks across to the cemetery and remains there until midnight. She then comes back, making a straight line for the house, flaps her wings three times, and goes to bed. The old woman has always been afraid to follow her and is afraid to kill her.

An old maid, living on Twenty-Sixth street, who believes in the Darwinian theory, has three pet monkeys that she has trained to act like human beings. They walk on their hind legs with the aid of a cane. Two of tliem are dressed like men, and the other like a young lady. They each have a bedroom, and eat at the table with forks and knives. Their owner thinks that she can civilize them, and believes they have souls. She has_ family prayers every evening, at which they are present.

A little black Spitz dog, owned by a gentleman i^this citv, can smoke a cigar, mix a# kind of drink to order, and play a fair game of dominoes. He yasjtrained in a Texas inn.

1 1

Magistrate and Prisoner Both Drunk. Pall Mall Gazette.

The following curious scene was enacted in the mayor's court of a certain town of Lincolnshire: "Unfortunately for the mayor his duties on the bench claim his attention as he rises from the table. A man was bronght up before him on the charge of being drunk a,nd incapable. The mayor, who had previously been smiling benignly around on the crowd assembled in the court, looking at the man unsteadily for a moment with blinking eyes, and on the completion of the evidence said: "Prishner, yotv—yon orra be ashamed o' yershelf! Ton have to pay four ana ten pence oi month!' The prisoner was removed

waa assisted oat ty his clerk.

,ffT .- m\

ONE WAY

many around

J£is rough weather," was the reply, but you newspaper men don't catch on to one in ten of the queer people who try to Bee the president, but are intercepted before they reach the house,, or are turned away from the door." "I should think," said the reporter, "you would be imposed on sometimes by plausable fellows who, only a 'little off" mentallly, like Guiteau, are more dangerous than raving maniacs." "As a general thing you can gauge 'em on sight," was the reply. "There is a wandering of the eyes, or an ab ruptness of speech, or a wildness of gesture, or some peculiarity of dress or manner. This, however, is not always the case. I remember when Hayes was president I was on duty in the grounds one night when a reception was going on. I was approached from the White Houso portico by a tall, clean-shaven, middle-aged man, neatly dressed in a black walking suit, who asked, in atone as if he merely wanted a-chat with some one: 'Are you a watchman here 'In that line,' said I.

The president is giving a reception, I believe.' 'I believe he is,' said I. "'A public reception, isn't it?" asked the stranger. 'I don't know anything about that, answered. '"Would you take me to be a respectable citizen?'was the next question. 'Hardly able to jukge on so Bhort an acquaintance,' said I. "The stranger chuckled quietly at this and said: 'Quite right. But from my general appearance now, my manners and conversation, would you set me down aB respectable or otherwise? 'Respectable,' I said. 'Just so. And yet in this great and glorious land of the free,' sarcastically, 'a respectable citizen is suddenly turned away from the door of the executive mansion by flunkies when he simply seeks, with other citizens, to pay his respects to the officer they have chosen by ballot to preside over them at atime, too, set apart, it is understood, foi that purpose.' 'But,' said I, 'there must have been a reason. Perhaps you are mistaken, and this is not a puhlic recigjtion.' 'Asked if I had a card,' continued the stranger, indignantly (ignoring my last remark) 'questioned and crossquestioned as if I was a felon or conspirator, and the door then shut in my face. All right if this is St. Petersburg and that is the palace of the czar (pointing to the white house) infamously wrong if this is Washington and that is the White House." "So far there had not been anything in the man's manner Or talk,' concontinued the watchman, "to indicate that he was anything more than a visitor to the city, disgusted and indignant at his disappointment in being summarily deprived of what he, perhaps, considered his only chance while here to see the president but suddenly changing his manner after his last remark, he abruptly asked me, in the sepulchral tones of the ghost in 'Hamlet': 'Do you ever read the bible 'Sometimes,' I answered. 'Did you ever read the book of Revelation?" "'Yes.' 'Do you remember the red man in that book 'I can't say that I do.' 'Well, read it again, guardian of the night read it again,' said the stranger, adding quickly: 'I am the red man there mentioned. I hold in my hands the fates of nations and their rulers. I make and unmake presidents—Washington, Jefferson, Jackson, Lincoln, Grant, and this man Hayes. They were elected yes, but elections cannot change destiny. That I control. Let the present occupant of the White House beware!' And with a threatening shake of his long forefinger at the mansion the man started down the flag sidewalk toward the gateway. Now if that fellow had got in he might have behaved as well as anybody. But in case he had got started on the book of Revelations there is no knowing what might have happened."

ENJOY LIFE.

laugh at the Fanny Stories That Are Going the Bounds—How the Little Girl Got Her Revenge When She Grew

Up—K Texas Editor's Narrow Kscape— Humorous Pargmph* Prom the Kx. channel. It you dont like to see people spooning an night.

Catching cold In the dense August dew. Pray don't trouble yourself about breaking them up:

Nobody's spooning yon. If you don't like to see a man handle a Though the heat her complexion may strew, There's no need to raise such a denoe of a row

Nobody's spooning you.

If you don't think we ought to drive out alone, With no third party in view, It's not necessary for yon to look shocked

Nobody'8 driving you.

PAINFULLY EMBABRASSED.

Detroit Free Press. A stranger who got into the Union depot yards yesterday while trying to find the railroad ferry slip would have been run down by one of the numerous switch locomotives had not a man at work in the flour sheds seized him and pulled him off of the track. The stranger was greatly confused and shaken up for a moment, but after he had taken a seat on the platform and got his breath he called out: "My man, that was nobly done! I expect you can make use of $5,000 in cash?"

The stranger breathed heavily, rubbed his arm, and after a minute continued: "Yes, I feel just like making you a present of a thousand dollars.''

This was a painful reduction from hiB first observation, but it wasn't for the flour-roller to find fault. He brushed away at the stranger's hat to get the dust off, and as he handed it over he was informed: "I think you would know where to put $100 if you had it, eh "I want nothing, sir. You were in danger, and I pulled you away." "But I shall insist upon you accepting something. You certainly Baved my life, and I shouldn't begrudge $25."

He got out his wallet, which was crowded full of bills, and as he handled them over he remarked: "Ten dollars would buy your wife a dress, and every time she wore it you could think of me." «Yes sir."

The bill came out but was quickly replaced, and after a minute spent in some mental calculation the stranger all at once handed out a two-dollar bill with the observation: "Here, my man, go and get you a new hat, and rest assured I shall ever be grateful to yon."

Thon it was seen that the laborer was painfully embarrassed. He shifted from one leg to the other, looked up and down the shed, and when asked the trouble be replied: "Please, sir, but haven't you any small change about you? I think a quarter woiud be plenty of reward for saving your life." "A quarter! Well, considering the railroad company pays you for the time you were hauling me around, maybe that's enough. Here it is, and I hope you will make good use of it. I guess I can get down to the slip all right from here, but if you happen to save my life again you can look for a half dollar at least."

AN EDITOR'S NARROW ESCAPE. Texas Sittings. "I wish very much you would settle this little bill," said a collector, walking into the sanctum of an Austin journalist.

The editor glanced fearlessly at the document and exclaimed: "Little bill! Why, man alife, this biU is nearly twice aB much as I agreed to pay for thoBe trousers. You must come down 50 per cent, and then perhaps I'll pay it, sometime next

8P"W^e

„e don't do that. The legislatureis in session now and we have a good deal or business with them. We calculate that only one man in two pays, so for that reason we have to make out the bills for twice the amount" "Then regard me as one of the men who don't pay." "In that case yon will be placed in the same category with members of the legislature."

The editor seemed absorbed in thought. Finally he heaved a great sigh and murmured: "I wouldn do it if It wasn't for my family," he pulled out a large roll of bank notes and picking out a five-dollar bill handed it over to the enemy, and thus prevented a stigdla being placed upon his reputation. why BHE WAS MAD. *. Boston Transcript. "I'm just as mad as I can be!" exclaimed Annabelle, as she entered the house, her face flushed with vexation or anger, as one might choose to call it. "Why, what is the matter, Belle?" asked her mother. "Matter enough, mother," replied Annabelle. "This world»is utterly selfish, and I despise it. I fell down on the ice, a little below here, and what do you think The first man that came along said he hoped I had broken no bones. Well, he was a surgeon. Next, Grosgrain, the dry goods dealer, told me he trusted my clothing was not injured and then, Mrs. Scrubb, the washerwoman, hoped my undergarments weren't soiled, but I can forgive all these considering I broke no bones,'did-not injure my clothing or soil my undergarments they are in business and were looking out for business. But I won't forgive that Smithbury. He came along and helped me up, saying he hoped I hadn't hurt myself. That was all right, but I saw him smile twice, once when I fell, and again when he spoke to me and 1 hate him. 1 tell you this is a selfish, cruel, sordid, unfeeling world—there!"

A B*AD INDICTMENT. i-s.

Arkansas Traveler. .( A highly respected citizen was arraigned before court for shooting and killing a friend. The evidence was direct, and after exhaustive arguments had been made, fhe Judge said: "It is clearly proved that you are guilty as charged by the indictment." "But I protest my innocence," replied the prisoner. "The indictment reads that I did shoot and kill the gentleman with powder and a leaden bullet. This is a mistake. I had no bullets at the time, so I loaded mv gun with powder and a horse-shoe nail. "That, indeed, alters the case," Said the judge. "The indictment said bullet when it should have said nail. You are discharged, sir."

A MAN OF ABILITY.

Philadelphia Call. Ton want a situation as conductor, do you?" said the president of the road. ?'YelC ®r," the Bjit'licant replied. "Have you the necessary qualifications for such a responsible position "I am sure I have, sir." "Well, suppose yonr train should meet with a serious disaster in which a number of passengers would be killed and a large amount of property destroyed, what action would you take in such a case?" "I would telegraph the newspapers that the accident was of little importance and then send word to the president of the road to sell the stock short." "H'm," replied the president, "I am afraid those are not the proper qualifications for a good conductor, bat yon area man of ability, I see. We want a first-class superintendent. Yon can consider yourself engaged as superintendent of the road at a salary of $10,000 a year."

BT7H1KD AXOTHKB.

Arkansas Traveler, 1 "X see," said Mr. Tomlinson, torn-

ing from his newspaper and addressing his better two-thirds, "that old man Grettle has buried another wife." "Whit, you don't say so? Why,his first wife only died two weeks ago. When did he marry again "He hasn't married again." "Tomlinson,are you a fool?" "Presumably, my dear, but why this outburst Grettle has buried another man's wife. He is an undertaker you

LACGHLBT8.

A man who always tells the barkeeper to "hang it np" is a great barower.

A coat-tail flirtation is the latest. A wrinkled coat-tail bearing dusty toemarks means: "I have spoken to your father."

The reson men never stop at one glass when taking whisky is because it is a creal drink and always has to be continued in the necks.

The question now is: Can a man who rejects a leap-year proposal be sued for a breach of promise? Things are looking very dark for the male sex.

The African has his color-line, too. A colored barber in an Idaho town refuses to shave Indians. The red men of the forest should hold a convention immediately.

The life of a Kentuckian has been shortened by tobacco. A hogshead of the weed fell on him and crushed him out of symmetrical proportions. It cannot be denied that tobacco in large quantities is injurious. "Where shall we find our teachers?" asks an educational exchange. Well, many of aur sweet girl teachers may be found sitting on sofas with nice young men, any time after 8 o'clock p. m.

While scattering a few* crums for the sparrows, this severe weather, don't forget to throw out a lot of old tomatocans, barrel hoops and cast-off shoes for the poor goat, which has as much right to live as the imported feathered biped.

Key came home very late the other night and was creeping upstairs in his stocking feet when suddenly one of the shoes in his hand slipped from his grasp and went rattling down to the entry blow. Key looked after it in an unsteady way by the dim light of the moon and then said with an idiotic smile to the indignant Mrs. Key: "What doth it profit a man if he gain the top stair and lose his own sole?" fjSSK 1

J{ The Vanderbilt Family New York Letter to Boston Globe. Between Vanderbilt and Gould there is a certain conservative understanding. Both know that panic are bad things for either. Vanderbilt probably dislikes Gould, considers him treacherous, yet Gould does more to steady the stock market than Vanderbilt, and they are therefore compelled to accept each other as accessories. Gould uses Vandeibit to refer to as an example of solvency and stability. Vanderbit knows too much to provoke Gould, and therefore they keep their hands off each other. Mr. Vanderbilt has a Btrong, rather coarse nature. He is weaker than his father, not much cultivated, and among his friends are few men of fineness of character. At the same time his repulsions for dishonest men and tricksters are frank. In both Gould and Vanderbilt lies a certain amount of religious basis. It does not tell in their lives

much as intheirsuper-

stitions. Old Commodore Vanderbilt was a stern parent, a hard taskmaster, and he had a few plain principles which he thrashed into his children. A few men who knew him very well say that he was, according to his own understanding, honest that he did not delight in evil nor conspiracy. His son William, who always called him poppy," went off ana married the daughter of a religious family, and Cornelius, a young man, between thirty and forty, goes to the Grand Central depot, I understand, and leads the Young Men's Christian Association meetings there. He keeps out of speculation. The speculator of the family is William K. Vanderbilt, who married a Virginia wife, and inhabits the beautiful carved residence on Fifth avenue, opposite the Langham hotel, which hotel was formerly Mme. Restelle's house of confinement. Persons who affect here to know say that young Cornelius is worth $10,000,000,and that William K. has lost by speculation in the last two years $3,000,000 to $5,000,000.

Vanderbilt's third sen offended him by marrying the wife of his cousin, as I understand it, but that has been long ago looked over by the family.

Strong animal instincts are in all his stock^George Vanderbilt, who is named for his deceased uncle, whom Commodore Vanderbilt regarded as the only able son whom he ever produced, and sent him to WeBt Point, is said to be inclined to books and literature, and probably his tastes had something to ao with' the paintings his father has collected.

Jay Gould, as you can see by his compositions written in youth, was of a Baptist or Methodist turn, and people say that he is to this day apprehensive, timid, and even superstitious, which I should think would be the case with all stock gamblera. When men bet they are likely to believe in dreams, omens and conjunctions^-1

The Chinese Fire Low.

Japan Gazette. When the French troops made their first and unsuccessful advance against Sontay, some importance was attachea by the special correspondent of the English papers to the circumstance that the Black Flags apparently fired low. It was pointed out that most of the bullet wounds were found in the legs and lower parts of their bodies. course the practice of firing low is one strongly urged upon troops, a shower of bullets being much more effective if fired low, even if it strikes the ground in front of the advancing hostile force, than it would be if sent into the air over the heads of the approaching enemy. But we heard a rather interesting explanation of the reason why the Black Flags and their allies fire low expressed the other day by one who has had a great amount of experience with Chinese troops. He said thatthebulk of the Chinese had no idea of the use of the sights on the rifles, and it was almost useless to attempt to teach them the value of such contrivances. Thus, a Chinese soldier, armed with a modern rifle, would never think of raising the sight of his weapon when he was railed upon to use it, especially in the face of an enemy. He would fire at an object six hundred yards off with the sight down, the consequence being that, the muzzle of the fle not receiving the necessary elevation to carry the bullet over along distance, the ball would strike or descend very close to the ground before it reached its destination. It was also asserted ^that some of the Chinese soldiers actually knocked the sights ofl their rifles as being useless. We need hardly say that the Chinese can never become effective soldiers until the appreciate the value of sighting the rifles and the circumstahces we have narrated will go as further proof of the miserable condition of the Chinese forces the supineness and incompetency of the officers, and the ill-pre-pared state of Chinese armies to resist

European troops.

Clearing a Ball Room In. Three Minutes. Arkansaw Traveler.

At Conway the saloon law went into effect at midnight.. A fashionable ball was in progress, and just qf 12 o'clock a man ascended the platform and said: "Fellow citizens, the saloons *re opened." Three minutes afterward not a was in the hall.

Mr John G. Whittier says those who missed hearing Wendell Phillips in his younger day*niased a great deal, and. t«Hng him altogether, it is doubtful if we shall look upon his like again as an orator.

•CHRIST ON CALVARY."

Hnnkacq'a Last Pain tins—An Old Subject Revived. Paris Letter to London Times.

I saw to-day at Munkaczy's studio the new picture which tht great modern master is now finishing. The subject of it is "ChriBt on Calvary." This solemn and touching picture, which will be exhibited here at Easter in a room constructed specially for it, will certainly produce as great an impression in the artistic world as his "Christ before Pilate." The two pictures will be exhibited here alongside each other and the public will be able to follow 'the sequence of the master's artistic thought. The figure of Christ on Calvary is Blighty larger than that of Christ before Pilate. Though the new picture is not yet quite finished, its transcendent merit is already yisible.

The painter depicts the scene where the Saviour has just expired. The skv is black with clouds and streaked with lightning, and beyond the horizon |t Jerusalem the veil of the Terrple is seen rent in twain. Jesus Christ, pale in death and inclining forward, has given up the ghost The Centurion has dropped in terror beside the cross. Mary, the mother, on her knees, is bathing in tears her son's feet. Mary Magdalen, her golden hair hanging loosely over her shoulders, her face in her hands, is also on her knees before the cross. John, overwhelmed with grief, is on the other side, and a Jewish woman looks on, a sad spectator of the crucifixion.

The terrified crowd is descending the hill. Some Roman cavalry look on ashamed. One of the executioners, a man of brutal mien, shouldering the ladder and axe in hand, is carried along by the multitude. Some Jews, terror stricken, have their eyes riveted on the cross. Two rabbis are discussing as they descend. One of them is proving the necessity of the sentence the other, the older one, looks sombre and alarmed. For him an everlasting crime has been committed, and you can see that he is thinking of what that crime will cost his race's decendant8 in blood and suffering. In front a man of sinister, false glance, and haggard, desperate eve, is fleeing faster than the rest. If Judas had not already hanged himself, never would a human figure have better represented the despair of that traitor. Perhaps the painter has committed a voluntary anachronism,

for on seeingthis madden

ed fugitive one cannot help exclaiming: "That is Judas!" The three crosses are in the foreground at the right extremity, and the rest of the immense canvas is filled by the fleeing multitude. The sky is magnificent and sombre, and the lightning illuminates the dark clouds that hang over the mountains, the valleys and the scarcely visible town. You see amid the confused movement of the crowd that it is bewildered and terrorstricken. The group at the foot of the croBB is of wonderful beauty and feeling, and the general color is harmonious and striking to a degree which even Munkaczy nimself has never before attained.

This picture is certainly one of the most perfect which have been produced for many a year, combining all the majesty of the classic schools with the modern and personal stamp that marks it of the nineteenth century. When one gazes on this picture and hears Munkaczy speak, one realizes the feelings which the contemporaries of Rubens, Murillo, or Veronese muBt have experienced when they conversed with those great masters who were destined to be handed down to the admiration of posterity.

I have no hesitation in saying—and I am proud to be the first to say so— that tne "Christ on Calvary" will not afford room even for the few reservations that tempted the general admiration for "Christ before Pilate."

BUILDED BY THE COOKS.

Candy Palaces, Jelly Landscapes, and President Arthur Done in Sugar. New York Sun.

Men in broadcloth and fine linen and women in silks and diamonds swept in dense throngs past six big tables that stretched the entire length of Irving hall last night, and rapturously admired the works of culinary architecture with which the French cooks had decked the tables. Fish and fowl, confectionery and bread were combined iu artistic designs that delighted the eve and made the mouth water.

Chef Sherry, of the Gramercy, exhibited President Arthur done in white sugar, engaged in his favorite pastime of hooking big trout, and the Union League chef displayed two Herculeses holding a huge salmon in a net over a lake in which disported gold fish, eels, and turtles, and also the Fort of Solferino, built of jelly and candy, and raised above a tiny lake illuminated with lanterns held by sea dragons of mutton tallow. Near by towered a vase of palms, twisted with flowers that were modelled so perfectly in imitation of artistic majolica ware that visitors broke the petals of the flowers to convince themselves that they were really sugar. The vase was made by the Brevoort chief. The fifteen-year-old .son of the Grand aion chef had a pyramid of larded quail, and there were also illuminated ice palaces of candy^landscajjes sketched with colored jellies, prizeiowl from the poultry show, roasted roast pigs fantastically dressed, and cartoons of the chefs themselves, worked in sugar and fruits.

When the throng had seen everything it sauntered over a steam-heated bridge into the academy, which was brilliantly decked with banners, and where an orchestra played for the crowd of dancers. At intervals during the dancing the throng went back and ate up all the wonderful bits of edible architecture.

A Terrible Birth-Mark.

Philadelphia Press. A most remarkable case of human sufi'ering, and one which has steadily baliled medical science, is reported in 8pringfield, Erie county, Pa. William Furgeson, when seven years of age, seized with severe pains in his right hand, and though he is now fortysix years of age, he has been annually attacked, singularly though at each time suffering more than at the preceding. Convulsions and paroxysms now visit him at exactly the same period of the year, and always at the same hour in the evening. He is now Buffering the most acute agony, and is visited by scores of physicians, who in every case have been completely baffled. By this peculiar freak of nature his body becomes terribly contorted. Respiratien almost ceases, and he becomes for the time being unconscious, and on awakening shows every evidence of having passed through a most terrible ordeal. On being restored be becomes perfectly well, and is only troubled at intervals of a year, but with positive regularity. The case can only he ac counted for by the factthatFurgeson'f mother, shortly before his birth, saw the contortions and evidencesof agony in a snake which had been thrown into fire, and that he has become thus birth-marked.

Blatne as an Editor.

Philadelphia Press. Mr. Blaine is very systematic in his literary work. His methods are those of the journalist rather than of the professional book-maker. He is, indeed, a born newspaper man, and it is a pity, some of us think, that he^ did not follow that calling instead of awitchoff from editing a country paper to for congress. I happen to know, the way, that when speaker of the house of representatives he had a great temptation to pat his feet on the very )p round of the journalistic ladder, [e was offered the editorship of one of tie greatest New York newspapers at salary larger than any editor now receives and nearly as large as that of

from a journal which has never

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pression

VICTIMS OF INSOMNIA.

How the Busy Life on Wail street Often Murders gleep.-Sew York Lawyers, Brokers and Merchants who Walk the

Streets of Brooklyn at Night—Reminiscences of a Recent Heavy Failure.

New York World. "It's one of those things I can't account for," said a Brooklyn policeman a few nights ago. The officer was a tall, broad-shouldered man perhaps a little gruff in his manner, for he was a patrolman in a "bad" precinct, where voice and farial expression soft and gentle are not often needed. Yet withal he was a man for whom the expresston, "Beneath this rude exterior," etc., might well be Buited. He had called the reporter's attention to a man closely muffled in a heavy overcoat who was disappearing in the darkness down the street. The officer tried the knob of the store door, and" then, in answer to a look of inquiry, continued: "I was thinking when I spoke of something that every policeman on night patrol must have noticed in? Brooklyn. I refer to the number of people who are seen wandering about the city at night It has been a study to me ever since I came on the force,, and as I said before it's one oi those "A, things I can't account for. I've been 4 on duty in this city for nearly seventeen years, and in five different precincts. During that time I've endeav-

who allow the cares of business to* worry them so that sleep is the furthest thing from their minds at night. I could point out not less than forty men—some of 'em are lawyers, others are in Wall street and still others are merchants—if you were only on post with me for a week. The business they transact during the day is all gone over with, again at night by those active brains and insomnia is the result. There was a failure down in Wall street not long ago, and I see by the papers that the man who went under is suffering from mental strain. I might have

glat

iven the reporters something about case, for the man has been a night-walker for nearly a year. He can't sleep, and on several occasions when I have met him at 2, 3, or 4 o'clock in the morning, he has complained about his head and of the continual wretchedness his business,, stocks, bonds and even his money causea him. When I heard it I thanked my lucky stars that I was a Brooklyn policeman at a thousand a year, "I had a talk with a doctor about thiB matter a couple of months ago and he told me that tnis insomnia, I think he called it, was getting to be a very common complaint He was astonished when I told him that I met men on my post who had come from New York to find relief for their troubled brains. Of course, there is nothing particular about Brooklyn that makes a man feel better but, you see, it's quiet over here, and a man of business doesn run the risk of meeting his business friends at night."

WOMEN AS JOURNALISTS.

Capricious, Whimsical, Unreasonable and Unreliable. Jo Howard's letter in the Boston Herald says: I was sitting iess than, an hour ago in the office of a powerful: journalist. A lady's card was brought^ him, and a few minutes after, when hia secretary reported that the lady-, was Beeking work, he sent word todismiss her. Then turning to me(. he said: "I have concluded to give no more work to women. They are utterly uselsss as writers on a daily journal you can never depend on' them they are capricious, whimmy, unreasonable and unreliable. I expressed some surprise that he should deem them unreliable, but he said that his experience taught him. that women's intuitions are very quick, and that they interfered seriously with the preparation of reports or sketches which would be acceptable to a newspaper whose conductors wanted news and not opinions. In my own experience I have found many difficulties ins-. the way of utilizing women, and, on the. osher hand, some of the best work I.' .• have had done was by women. Some years ago while editing a daily paper here, I bad occasion to treat extensively of labor matters, to look into trade unions, and discuss the problem of strikes. I tried several professional agitators, but in every instance found theirprejudicesinterfered with the honestyof their work. Accident brought in my way a lady by the name of Sheppard, and after one or two trials I turned the whole matter over to her. She attended ty it so thoroughly, and mastered it so absolutely, and treated it so sensibly as to more than satisfy me not only, bnt to attract the attention of the senior Bennett, who asked me if I had anv objection to giving him the name of the writer of those article*,

ortd to solve the problem of night-' walkers, but without success. Some peculiarities of that class have come under my notice as a policeman, and I will tell you what I've learned. "Brooklyn, they sav, is the bedroom of New York. Well, to a certain extent it is, but besides it is a midnight, promenade for citizens who have little use tor a bedroom. "When I was on duty in the Fourth precinct several years ago I met a man about thirty-five years old one morning. He was coming up Clinton avenue and I was standing on the corner of DeKalb. I paid no particular attention to him, but I do remember:* now to think of it. that his head was,,. bent forward so tnat his chin rested1 upon his breast. As he passed me' very slowly I saw that he was worried. I said to myself as he crossed the', street: 'He's been caught in some game' over in New York and the lads nave soaked him.' Two nights afterwards I met him again. He waB coming down the same street He hadn't been 5' drinking. When I stopped him he looked up rather suddenly, and he gave me a card. After I had read his name and found that he was one of the partners in a wholesale establish-1 menton Broadway, over in the city, he said: 'My business or something, I don't know what it is, keeps me awake nearly every night. When I go to bed early in the evening I ao nothing but roll and toss about, and when I retire at midnight or later it'a just the Bame. I don't sleep more than one night a week on an average,." and so I come over to Brooklyn, where very few people know me, and walk about until I think I'm tired enough to drop off through exhaustion. Some nights I can go home after a couple of hours' walk and go to sleep and other nights it is impossible to get a wink.'" "That man who went around the corner, is he the same man asked the reporter. "Yes, sir but—let's see, four and five are nine—yes, I first saw him in. 1875, and that's nine years ago. Changed? Why I've never seen a man grow old so fast in all my life. When I first met him he had been in business five years. His hair was black and he couldn't have been more than thirty-five years old. I remember that's what I thought he was at the time. But now I shouldn't know him if I didn't meet him nearly every week. His face has grown haggard and his hair and beara is as gray as a rat. "Now from learning a little of hia

,'if