Indianapolis Journal, Indianapolis, Marion County, 17 November 1883 — Page 11

The Supper of St. Gregory. A tale for Roman guides to tell To careless, sight-worn travelers still* Who pause beside the narrow cell Os Gregory on the Caellan Hill. One day before the monk’s door cam© A beggar, stretching empty palms, Fainting and fast-sick, in the name Os the Most Holy asking alms. , - And the monk answered: “All I have \ In this poor cell of mine I give, yd The silver cup my mother cave: \ Iu Christ’s name take thou it. aud live.’* J# Tears passed; and, called at last to bear '' The pastoral crook ami keys of Rome, .•he poor monk, in Bt. Peter’s chair. Sat the crowned lord of Christendom. “Prepare a feast,” St. Gregory cried, “And let twelve, beggars sit thereat.” The beggars came, and one beside, An unknown stranger, with them sat. “I asked thee not,” the Pontiff spake, “O, stranger: but if need be thine, 1 bid thee welcome, for the sake Os Him who is thy Lord and mine.” A grave, calm face the stranger raised. Like His who on the Gennesaret trod, Or His on whom the Chaldeans gazed, Whose form was as the Sou of God. “Know’at thou,” ho said, “thy gift of cd?” And in the hand he lifted up The Pontiff marveled to behold Ouce more his mother’s silver cup. “Thy prayers and alms have risen, and bloom Bweetly among the flowers of heaven. I am The Wonderful, through whom Whate’er thou askest shall be giveu.” He spake and vanished. Gregory fell With his twelve guests in inure accord Prone on their faces, knowing well Tneir eyes of flesh had seen the Lord. The old-time legend is not vain; Ifor vain thy art, Verona’s Paul, Telling it o’er and o’er again On gray Vicenza’s frescoed wall. Bttll, wheresoever pity shares Its bread with sorrow, want, and sin. And love the beggar’s feast prepares, The uninvited Guest comes in. Unheard, because our ears are dull; Unseen, because our eyes are dim, Ho walks our earth. The Wonderful, Ana all good deeds are done to Him, —John G. Whittier, in Docember Harper’s. Her Picture. I see her now—the faireßt thiDg That over mocked man’s picturing, and pinture her as one who drew Aside life's curtain and looked through The mists of all life’s mystery As from a wood to open sea. The soft, wide eyes of wonderment That trusting looked you through and through; The sweet, arched mouth, a bow new beat. That sent love’s arrow swift and true. That sweet, arched month! The Orient Hath not such pearls In all her stores; Not all her stoned, spice-set shores Havo fragrance such as it hath spent, I picture her as one who knew How rare is truth to bo untrue— As one who know the awful sign Os death, of life of the divine jßweot pity of all loves, all hates, Beneath the iron-footed fates. I picture her as seeking peace And olive leaves and vine-sot lund; While, strife stood by on either hand, .And wrung her tears like rosaries. H picture her in parsing rhyme As of, yet not a part of, theso—--A woman born above her time; A woman waiting in bor place* With patient pity on her face. Her face, her earnest baby face; Her young face, so uncommon wise— The tender love light in her eyes— Two stars of lieaveu out of place. Two stars that sang as stars of old Their silent eloquence of song. From skies of dory aud of gold. Where God in purple passed along— That patient, haby face of hors That won a thousand worshipers! That silent, pleadine face among Ton thousand faces just the one I still shall love when all is done, And life lies by, a harp unstrung. That face, like shining sheaves among: That face half hid, 'mid sheaves of gold; That face that never can grow old; Aud yet has never been quite young. —Joaquin Miller. The ItTilkmaid. A NF.W SONG TO AN OI.FJ TUNE. Across the grass Tsee her pass; She comes with tripping pace— A maid 1 know—anti March wtuds blow Her hair across her face; — With a hoy, Dolly! ho, Dolly! Dolly shall bo mine Before the spray Is white with May, Or blooms the eglantine. The Marclt winds blow, r watch her go; Her eye is hrown and clear; Her cheek is brown and soft as down (To those who see it near!)— With a hey, eto. What has she not that thoy have got— The dames that walk in silk! If she undo her ’kerchief blue, Her neck is white as mils. With a hey, eto. Bet those who will be proud and chill For me, from June to Juno, My Dolly's words are sweet as curds— Her laugh is like a tune;— Wi th a hey, eto. Break, break to bear. O crocus-spear! O tall, Dent lilies, flame! There’ll he a bride at blaster-tide, And Dolly is her name. With a hey, Dolly-! ho, Dolly! Dolly shall be mine— Before the spray is white with May, Or blooms the eglantine, —Austin Dobson, in December Uarper. Come Near. Come near to roe. T ueed Thv glorious presenoo Through cho dense darkness of this troubled hour. Bhine on my soul, and fill It with the essence Os Thy pervading and uplifttug power. Come near, come hear to me. t ome nearer yet. I have no strength to reach Thee. My soul is like a bird with broken wings. IDean down from Thy fair heights of peace and teach me The balm Thy toneh to mortal beings brings. Dean down, O God, lean down. Como near. And yet, if those eternal plaoes Hold greater tusks to occupy Thy hands, Bend Thy blest angels, whose celestial faces Bmile sometimes on us from the spirit lauds. Bend one, send one to mo. I must buve help. lam so weak and broken I cannot help myself—l know not how. That moral force of which so much is spoken Will not sustain and fortify me now— I must, I must have help. Borne outside aid, some strength from spirit sources We ail must have, in hours like this, or die. To One, to all of those mysterious forces Which men call God, I iift my voice aud cry, Come near, oome near to me —Ella Wheeler. When the Gentians Blow. Not in any garden close Where the lily and the rose In stately sweetnees grow! But in some waste field, or nook. Where you’d never think to look, Do the gentians blow. Radiant plumes of golden rod Twlxt the purple asters nod, Red the sumacs glow, All the oorn is heaped in shocks, And the blue birds fly in Hocks, When the gentians blow. High o’er rustling sedges dun. Swaying sunflowers watch the sun Fearing signs of enow; And the wandering oricket's note 111 the ohtll air seems to float; When the gentians blow. —Elizabeth Cumings, in November Wide Awake. As When Bhe Was Young. •‘I have used Parker’s Hair Balsam and like it hotter than any similar preparation I know or,” ■writoe Mrs. Ellen Perry, wife of Rev. P. Porry, of Coldbrook Springs, Mass. My hair was almost entirely gray, but a dollar bottle or the Balsatu lias restored the softness nnd the hrown oolor it liad when I was young—not a single gray hair left.. Since 1 began applying the Balsam iny hair ’•as stopped falling our, and I find ’hat it is a pererty harmless and agreoable dressing.”

MRS. KNOI.LYS. Century for November, The great Pasterzen glacier rises in western Austria, and flows into Carinthia, and is fourteen or seventeen miles long, as you measure it from its birth in the snow-field, or from where it begins to move from the higher snows, and its active course is marked by the first wrinkle. It flows in a straight, steady sweep, a grand avenue, guarded by giant mountains, steep and wide; a prototype, huge and undesigned, of the giants’ stairway in the Venice palace. No known force can block its path; it would need a cataclysm to reverse its progress. Wliat falls upon it moves with it, what lies beneath it moves with it—down to the polished surface of the earth’s frame, laid bare; no blade of grass grows so slowly as it moves, no meteor of the air is so irresistible. Its suhstant ice curls freely, molds and breaks itself like water —breaks in waves, plastic like honey, crested lightly with a frozen spray; it winds tenderly about the rocky shore, arid the granite, disintegrated into crumbs, flows on with it. All this so quietly that busy, oflicious little man lived a score of thousand years before he noticed even that the glacier moved, Now, however, men have learned to congregate upon its shores, and admire. Scientists stick staves in the ground (not too near, lest the earth should move with it), and appraise the majesty of its motion; ladies, politely mystified, give little screams of pleased surprise; young men, secretly exultant, pace the yard or two between the sticks, a distance that takes the frozen stream a year to compass, and look out upon it half contemptuously. Then they cross it—carefully, they have enough respect left for that—with their cunninglynailed shoes and a rope; an hour or two they dally with it, till at last being hungry and cold, they walk to the inn for supper. At supper they tell stories of their prowess, pay money to the guides who have protected them, and fall asleep after tea with weariness. Meantime the darkness falls outside; but the white presence of the glacier breaks the night, and strange shapes unseen of men dance in its ashen hollows. It is so old that the realms of life and death conflict; change is on the surface, but immortality broods in the deeper places. The moon rises and sinks; the glacier moves silently, like a time-piece marking the centuries, grooving the record of Its being on the world itself —a feature to be read and studied by far-off generations of some other world. The glacier has a light of its own, and gleams to stars above, and the Great Glockner mountain flings his shadow of the planets in its face. Mrs. Ktiollya was a young English bride, sunny-haired, hopeful-eyed, with lips that parted to make you love them—parted before they smiled, and all the soft regions of her face broke into attendant dimples. And then, Igst you should think it meant for you, she looked quickly up to “Charles,” as she would then call him even to strangers, and Charles looked down to her. Charles was a short foot taller, with much the same hair and eyes, thick flossy whiskers, broad shoulders, and a bass voice. This was iu the days before political economy cut Hymen’s wings. Charles, like Mary, had little money, but great hopes; and he was clerk in a government office, with a friendly impression of everybody and much trust in himself. And old Harry Colquhoun, his chief, had given them six weeks to go to Switzerland and be happy in, all in celebration of Charles Knollys’ majority and marriage to his young wife. So they had both forgotten heaven for the nonce, having a passable substitute; but the powers divine overlooked them pleasantly and forgave it. And even the phlegmatic driver of their Einspanner looked back from the corner of his eye at the schone Englanderin, arid compared her mentally with the far-famed beauty of the Konigasee. So they rattled on in their curious conveyance, with the pole in the middle and one horse out on one side, and still found more beauty in each other’s eyes than in the world about them. Although Charles was only one and twenty, Mary Knollys was barely eighteen, and to her he seemed godlike in his age, as in all other things. Her life had been as simple as it had been short. She remembered being a little girl, and the next thing that occurred was Charles Knollys, and positively the next thing of importance was being Mrs. Charles Knollys; so that old Mrs. Knollys, her guardian aunt and his, had first called her a love of a baby, and then but a baby in love. All this, of course, was five and forty years ago, for you know how old she was when she went again to Switzerland last summer —three and sixty. They first saw the great mountains from the summit, of the Schatberg. This is a little height, three cornered, between three lakes—a natural Belvedere for central Europe. Mr. and Mrs. Knollys were seated on a couch of Alpine roses behind a rhodouendronbush, watching the sunset; but as Charles was desirous of kissing Mrs. Knollys, and the rhododendron bush was not thick enough, they were waiting for the sun to go down. He was very slow in doing this, and by way of consolation Knollys was keeping his wife’s hand hidden in the folds of her dress. Undoubtedly a modern lady would have been talking of the scenery, giving word-color pictures of the view; but I am afraid Mrs. Knollys had been looking at her husband and talking with him of the cottage they had bought in a Surrey village, not far from Box Hill, and thinking how the little carvings and embroideries would look there which they had bought abroad. And, indeed, Mrs. Charles secretly thought Box Hill an eminence far preferable to the Venediger, and Charles’s face an infinitely more interesting sight than any lake, however expressive. But (he sun, looking askance at them through the lower mist, was not jealous; all the same, he spread his glory lavishly for them, and the bright little mirror of a lake twinkled cannily upward from below. Finally it grew dark; then there was less talking. It was full night when they went in, she was leaning on his arm and looking up; and the moonbeam on the snowy shoulder of the Glockner, twenty leagues away, came over straightaway from the mountain to her face. Three days later Charles Knollys, crossing with her the lower portion of the Pasterzen glacier, slipped into a crevasse and vanished utterly from the earth. All this you know. And I was also told more of the young girl, bride and widow at eighteen; how she sought to throw herself into the clear blue gulf; how she refused to leave Ileiligenblut; how she would sit, tearless, by the rim of the crevasse, day after day. and gaze into its profundity. A guide or man was a 1 Wat’s with her at these times, for it was still feared she would follow her young husband to the depths of that still sea. Her aunt went over from England to her; the summer waxed; autumn storms set in; but no power could win her from the place whence Charles had gone. If there was a time worse for her than that first moment, it was when they told her tiiat Ids body never could be found. Thev did not dare to tell her this for many days, but busied themselves with idle oranea and ladders, and made futile pretenses with ropes. Some of the big, simple-hearted guides even descended into the chasm, absenting themselves for an hour or bo, to give her an idea that something was being done. Poor Mrs. Knollys would have followed them had she been allowed, to wander through the purple galleries, calling Charles. It was well she could not; for all Kasper could do was to lower himself a hundred yards or so, chisel out a niche and stand in it smoking his honest pipe to pass the time, and trying to fancy he could hear the murmur of the waters down below. Meantime Mrs. Knollys strained her eyes peering downward from

THE INDIANAPOLIS JOURNAL, SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 17, 1883.

above, leaning on the rope about her waist, looking over the clear brink of the bergschrund. * It was the Herr Doctor Zimmermann who first told her the truth. Not that the good Doctor meant to do so. The Herr Doctor had had his attention turned to glaciers by some rounded stones in his garden by the Traunsee, and more particularly by the Ilerr Privatdocent Spluthner. Spluthner, like Uncle Toby, had bis hobby-horse, his pet conjuring words, his gods ex maebina, which he brought upon the field in scientific emergencies, and these gods, as with Thales, were fire and water. Craters and floods were his accustomed scape-goats, upon whose heads were cnarged all things unaccountable, and the Herr Doctor, who had only one element left to choose from, and that a passive one, but knew, on general principles, thatSplutliner must be wrong, got as far off as he could and took ice. And Spluthner having poohpoohed this, Zimmermann rode his hypothesis with redoubled zeal. He became convinced that ice was the embodiment of orthodoxy. Fixing his professional spectacles on his substantial nose, he went into Carinthia and ascended the great Venice mountains, much as be would have performed any other scientific experiment Then he encamped on the shores of the Pasterzen glacier and proceeded to make a study of it So it happened that the Doctor, taking a morning stroll over the subject of his experiment, in search of small things which might verify his theory, met Mrs. Knollys sitting in her accustomed place. The Doctor had been much puzzled that morning on finding in a rock at the foot of the glacier the impression, or sigu manual as it were, of a certain fish, whose acquaintance the Doctor had previously made only in tropical seas. This fact seeming, superficially, to chime in with Spluthnerian mistakes in a most heterodox way, the Doctor’s mind had for a moment been diverted from the ice, and he was wondering what the fish had been going to do in that particular gallery and secretly doubting whether it bad known its own mind and gone thither with the full knowledge and permission of its maternal relative. Indeed, the good Doctor would probably have ascribed its presence to the malicious and personal causation of the devil, but that the one point on which he and Spluttiner were agreed was the ignoring of unscientific hypothesis. The Doctor’s objections to the devil were none the less strenuous for being purely scientific. Thus ruminating, the Doctor came to the crevasse where Mrs. Knollys was sitting, and to which a little path bad now been worn from the inn. There was nothing: of scientific interest about the fair young English girl, and the Doctor did not notice her; but he took from his waistcoat pocket a leaden bullet moulded by himself, aud marked: "Johannes Carpentarius, juvavianus, A. U. C. 2590,” and dropped it, with much satisfaction, into the crevasse. Mrs. Knollys gave a little cry; the bullet was heard for some seconds tinkling against the sides of the chasm; the tinkles grew quickly fainter, but they waited in vain for the noise of the final fall. “May the Spluthner live that he may learn by it,” muttered the Doctor. “I can never recover it.” Then he remembered that the experiment had been attended with a sound unaccounted for by the conformity of the bullet to the laws of gravitation; and looking up he saw Mrs. Knollys in front of him, no longer crying, but Very pale. Zimmerman started, and in in his confusion dropped his best brass registering thermometer, which also rattled down the abyss. “You say," whispered Mrs. Knollys, “that it can never be recovered!” “Madame,” spoke the Doctor, doffiing his hat, “how would you recofer from a blaca when the smallest approximation which I has yet been able to make puts the depth from the surface of the bed of the gletscher at vrom sixteen hundred to sixteen hundred and sixty meters in distance?” Doctor Zimmerman spoke very good English, and he pushed his hat on the back of his head and assumed his professional attitude. “But they were all trying—” Mrs. Knoliys spoke faintly. “They said that they hoped he could be recovered.” The stranger was the oldest gentleman she had seen, and Mrs. Knollys felt almost like confiding in him. “Oh, I must have the—the body.” She closed in a sob; but the Herr Doctor caught at the last word, and this suggested to him only the language of scientific experiment. “Recofer it? If, Madame,” Zimmerman went on, with all the satisfaction attendant on the enunciation of a scientific truth, “we take a body and drop it into the sehrund of this gletscher, and the ice-stream moves so slower at its base than on the upper part; and the ice will cover it; efen if we could reach the base, which is a mile in depth. Then, see you, it is all caused by the motion of the ice—” But at this Mrs. Knollys had given a faint cry, and her guide rushed up angrily to the old professor, who stared helplessly forward. “Goa will help me, sir,” said.she to the Doctor, and she gave the guide her arm and walked wearily away. The professor still stared in amazement at ltor enthusiasm for scientific experiment and the passion with which she greeted his discoveries. Here was a person who utterly refused to be referred to the agency of ice, or even, like Spluthner, of fire and water, and went out of the range of allowable hypotheses to call upon a Noumenon. Now, both Spluthner and Zimmerman had studied all natural agencies, and made allowance for them, but for the Divine they had always hitherto proved an alibi. The Doctor could make nothing of it At the inn that evening he saw Mrs. Knollys with swollen eyes, and remembering the scene of the afternoon, he made inquiries about her of the inn-keeper. The latter had heard the guide’s account of the meeting, and as soon as Zimmerman had made plain what he had told her of the falling body, “Triple blockhead!” said he. “Es war ihr Mann.” The Herr Professor staggered back into his seat, and the kindly innkeeper ran up stairs to see what had happened to his poor young guest. Mrs. Knollys had recovered from the first shock by this time, hut the truth could no longer be withheld. The inn-keeper could but nod his head sadly when she told him that to recover tier Charles was hopeless. Ail the guides said the same thing. The poor girl's husband had vanished from the world as utterly as if his body had been burned to ashes and scattered in the pathway of the winds. Charles Knollys was gone, utterly gone; no more to be met with by his girlwife, save as spirit to spirit, soul to soul, in ultramundane place. The fair-haired young Englishman lived but in her memory, as his soul, if still existent, lived in places indeterminate, unknown to Dr. Zimmerman and his compeers. Slowly Mrs. Knollys acquired the belief that she was never to see lier Charles again. Then, at last, she resolved to go—to go home. Her strength now gave way; and when her aunt Jest, she had with iter hut the ghost of Mrs. Knollys —a broken figure, drooping in the carriage, veiled in black. The innkeeper and all the guides stood bareheaded, silent, about the door, as the carriage drove off, bearing the bereaved widow back to England. When the Herr Doctor had heard the innkeeper's answer, he sat for some time with his hands planted on his knees, looking through his spectacles at the opposite wall, Then he lifted one hand and struck his brow impatiently. It was his way when a chemical reaction had come out wrong. “Triple blockhead!” said he; "triple blockhead, thou art so bad as Spluthner.” No self-condemnation could have been worse to him than this. Thinking again of Mrs. Knollys, he gave one deep, gruff sob. Then he took his liat, and going out, wandered by the shore of the glacier in the night, repeating to himself the Englishwoman's words: "They said that they hoped he could be recovered.” Zimmerman came to the tent where he kept his instruments, and

stood there, looking at the sea of ice. He went to his measuring pegs, two rods of iron; one sunk deep and frozen in the glacier, the other drilled into a rock on the shore. “Triple blockhead!” said he again, “thou art worse than Spluthner. The Spluthner said the glacier did not move; thou, thou knowest that it does.” He sighted front his rods to the mountain opposite. There was a slight and all but imperceptible change of direction from the day before. He could not bear to see the English girl again and all the next day was absent from the inn. For a month he stopped at Heiligenblut, and busied himself with his instruments. The guides of the piace greeted him coldly every day, as they started on their glacier excursions or their chamois hunting. But none the less did Zimmermann return the following summer, and work upon his great essay in refutation of the Spluthner. Mrs. Knollys went back to the little cottage in Surrey, and lived there. The chests and cases she brought hack lay unopened in the store-room; the little rooms of the cottage that was to be their borne remained hare and unadorned, as Charles had seen them last. She could not bring herself to alter them now. What she had looked forward to do with him she had no strength to do alone. She rarely went out. There was no place where she could go to think of him. He was gone; gone front England, gone from the very surface of the earth. If he had only been buried in some quiet English churchyard, she thought—some green place lying open to the sun, where she could go and scatter flowers on his grave, where she could sit and look forward amid her tears to the time when she should lie side by side with him—they would then be separated for her short life alone. Now it seemed to her that they were far apart fewer. But late the next summer she had a letter from the place. It was from Dr. Zimmerman. There is no need here to trace the quaint German phrases, the formalism, the cold terms of science in which he made his meaning plain. It spoke of erosion; of the movement of the summer; of the action of the underwaters on the ice. And it told her, with tender sympathy, oddly blended with the pride of scientific success, that he had given a year’s most careful study to the place; with all his instruments of measurement he had tested the relentless glacier’s flow; and it closed by assuring her that her husband might yet be found—in five and forty years. In five and forty years—the poor professor staked his scientific reputation on the fact—in five and forty years she might return, and the glacier would give up its dead. This letter made Mrs. Knollys happier. It made her willing to live; it made her almost long to live until old age—that her Ghurles's body might be given back. She took heart to beautify her little home. The trifling articles she had bought with Charles were now brought out—the little curiosities and pictures he had given her on their wedding journey. She would ask how such and such a thing looked, turning her pretty head to some kind visitor, as she ranged them on the walls; now and then she would have to lay the picture down and cry a little silently as she remembered where Charles had told her it would look best. Still she sought to furnish the rooms as they had planned them in their mind; she made 'her surroundings, as nearly as she could, as they had pictured them together. One room she never went into; it was the room Charles had meant to have for the nursery. Site had no child. . But she changed, as we all change, with the passing of the years. I first remember her as a woman middle-aged, sweet-faced, hardly like a widow, nor yet like an old maid. She was rather like a young girl in love, with her lover absent on a long journey. She lived more with the memory of her husband, she clung to him more, than if sue had had a child. She never married; you would have guessed that; but, after the professor’s letter, she never quite seemed to realize that her husband was dead. Was lie not coming back to ner? Never in all my knowledge of dear Enelish women have I known a woman so much loved. In how many houses was she always the most welcome guest! How often we boys would go to her for sympathy! I know she was the confidante of all our love affairs. I cannot speak for girls; but I fancy she was much the same with them. Many of us owed our life’s happiness to her. She would chide us gently in our pettiness and folly, and teach us by her very presence and example what thing it was that alone could keep life sweet. How well we all remember the little .Surrey cottage, the little home fireside where the husband had never been! I think she grew to imagine his presence, even the presence of children; hoys, curly-headed, like Charles, and sweet, blueeyed daughters; and the fact that it was all imagining seemed but to make the place more holy. Charles still lived to her as she had believed him in the month that they were married; he lived through life with her as her young love had fancied he would be. She never thought of evil that might have occurred; of failing affection, of cares. Her happiness was in her mind alone; so ail the earthly part was absent. There were but two events in her life—that which was past and that which was to come. She had lived through his loss, now she lived on for his recovery. But, as I have said, she changed, as all things mortal change—all but the earth, and the ice stream and the stars above it. She read much, and her mind grew deep and broad, none the less gentle with it all. She was wiser in the worid; she knew the depths of human hope and sorrow. You remember her only as an old lady whom we loved. Only her heart did not change—l forgot that; her heart and the memory of that last loving smile upon his face, as he bent d-nvn to look into her eyes before he slipped and fell. She lived on and waited for his body, as possibly his other self —who knows? —waited for hers. As she grew older she grew taller; her eyes were quieter, her hair a little straighter, darker than of yore; her face changed, only the expression remained the same. Mary Knoilys! Human lives rarely look more than a year, or five ahead; Mary Knollys looked five and forty. Many of us wait, and grow weary with waiting, for those few years alone, and for some living friend: Mary Knollys waited five and forty years—for the dead. Still, after that first year, she never wore all black; only silvery grays, and white with a black ribbon or two; I have said that she almost seemed to think her husband living. Site would fancy his doing this or that with her; how he would joy in this good fortune, or share her sorrows—which were few, mercifully. His memory seemed to be a living thing to her, to go through life with her, hand in hand: it changed as she grew old; it altered itself to suit her changing thought; until the very memory of her memory seemed to make it sure that he had really been alive with her, really shared her happiness or sorrow, in the far-off days of her earliest widowhood. It hardly seemed that lie had been gone already then—she remembered him so well. She could not think that he had never been with her in their little cottage. And now, at sixty, I know she thought of him as an old man, too; sitting by their fireside, late in life, mature, deep-souled, wise with the wisdom of years, going back with her fondly, to recall theold, old happiness of their bridal journey, when they set off for the happy honeymoon abroad, and the long life now passed stretched out brightly before them both. She never spoke of this, and you children never knew it; but it was always in her mind. There was a plain stone in the little SurTey church-yard, now gray and moss-grown with the rains of forty years, on which you remember reading: “Charles Knolleys—lost in Carinthia.” This is all she would have inscribed; he was but lost; no one knew that he was dead. Was he not yet to be found? There was no erassy mound beside it; the earth was smooth. Not even the date

was there. But Mrs. Knollys never went to read it. She waited until he should come; until the last journey, repeating the travels of their wedding-days, when she should go to Germany to bring him home. go the womau’s life went on in England, and the glacier in the Alps continued to move on slowly; aud the woman waited for it to be gone. In the summer of 1882 the little Carintbiau village of Ileiligenblut was haunted by two persons. One was a young German scientist, with long hair and spectacles; the other was a tall English lady, slightly bent, with a face whereon the finger of time had deeply written tender things. Her hair was white as silver, and she wore a long, black veil. Their habits were strangely similar. Every morning, when the eastern light shone into the ice-cavern at the base of the great Pasterzen glacier, these two would walk thither; then both would sit for an hour or two and peer into its depths. Neither knew why the other was there. Ttie woman would go back for an hour in the late afternoon; the man never. He knew that the morning light was necessary for his search. The man was the famous you >g Zimmerman, son of his father, the old Doctor, long since dead. But the Herr Doctor iiad written a . nous tract, wlien late in life, refuting ail Spluthners, past, present and to come; and had charged liis son, in hri dying moments, as a most sacred trust, that he should repair to the base of the Pasterzen glacier in the year 1882. where lie would find a leaden bullet, graven with his father’s name, and the date A. U. C. 2590. All this would be vindication of his father's science. Spluthner, too, was a very old man, and Zimmerman the younger (for even he was no longer young) was fearful lest Spluthner should not live to witness his own refutation. Ttie woman and the man never spoke to each other. Alas, no one could have known Mrs. Knollys for the fair English girl who had been there in the young days of the century; not even the innkeeper, had lie been there. But he, too, was long since dead. Mrs. Knollys was now bent and white-haired; she had forgotten, herself, how she had looked in those old days. Her life had been lived. She was now like a woman of another world; it seemed another world in which her fair hair had twined about her husband’s fingers, anil she and Charles had stood upon the evening mountain and looked in one another’s eyes. That was the world of her wedoing days, but it seemed more like a world she had left when born on earth. And now he was coming back to her in this. Meantime the great Pasterzen glacier had moved on, marking only the centuries; the men upon its borders had seen no change; the same great waves lifted their snowy heads upon its surface; the same crevasse was still where he had fallen. At night the moonbeams falling still shivered off its glassy face; its pale presence filled ttie night, and immortality lay brooding in its hollows. Friends were with Mrs. Knollys, hut she left them at the inn. One old guide remembered her, and asked to bear her company. He went with her in the morning and sat a few yards from her, waiting. Iu the afternoon she went alone. He would not have credited you had you told him that the glacier moved. He thought it but an Englishwoman’s fancy, but he waited with her. Himself had never forgotten that old day. And Mrs. Knollys sat there silently, searching the clear depths of the ice, that she might find her husband. One day she saw a ghost. The latest beam of the sun, falling on a mountain opposite, had shone back into the ice-cavern; and seemingly deep within, in the grave azure light, she fancied site saw a face turned toward her. She even thought she saw Charles’s yellow hair, and the self-same smile his litis had worn when he bent down to her before he fell. It could be but a fancy. She went home, and was silent with her friends about lit Bad happened. In flip moonlight she went back, and again the next morning, before dawn. She told no one of her going; but the old guide met Per at the door, and walked silently behind her. She had slept, the glacier ever present in her dreams. The sun had not yet risen when she came, and she sat a long time in the cavern, listening to the murmur of the river flowing under the glacier at her feet. Slowly the dawn began, and again she seemed to see the shimmer of a face—such a face as one sees in the coals of a dying fire. Then the full sun came over the eastern mountain, and the guide heard a woman’s cry. There before her was Charles Knoliys. The face seemed hardly pale, and there was the same faint smile—a smile like her memory of five-and-forty years gone by. Safeiu the clear ice, still, unharmed, there lay—o God! not her Charles, not the Charles of her own thought, who had lived through life with her and shared her sixty years, not the old man she had borne thither in her mind—but a boy, a boy of one and twenty lying asleep, a ghost from another world coming to confront her from the distant past, immortal in the immortality of the giacier. There was his quaint coat, of the fashion of haif a century before; his blue eyes open; his young; clear brow; all the form of the past she had forgotten, and she, Ins bride, stood there to welcome him, with her wrinkles, her bent figure aud thin white hairs. She was living, he was dead, and she was two and forty years older than he. . Then at last the long-kept tears came to her, and she bent her white head in the snow. The old man came up with his pick silently and began working in the ice. The woman lay weeping and the boy, with his still, faint smile, lay looking at them through the clear ice-veil from his open eyes. I believe that the Professor found Iris bullet; I know not. I believe that the scientific world rang with his name and the thesis that he published on the glacier's motion, and the changeless temperature his father’s lost thermometer had shown. All this yon may read. I know no more. But I know that in the English churchyard there are now two graves, and a gingle stone, to Charles Knollys and Mary, his wife; the boy of one and twenty sleeps there with his bride of sixty-three; his youtur frame with her old one, bis yellow hair beside her white. And Ido not know that there is not some place, not here, where they are still together. and he is twenty-one anil she is still eighteen. Ido not know this; but I know that all the pamphlets of the German Doctor cannot tell me false. Meantime, the great Pasterzen glacier moves on, and the rocks with it; and the mountain flings his shadow of the planets in its face. Savngo CritieiHiu of “Uuolo Tom.” Washington (la.) Press. We iiave been ho rod once more by “Uncle Tom’s Cabin.” We should like to sec it prohibited. The dramatization has reduced a pathetic and noble storyffo the lowest depths of caricature, travesty, burlesque and nonsense. The ambition of troupes consists in crowding onto the stage the most jackasses, yellow dogs eaten up with fleas, and duplicated and supernumerary Tupsies and Lawyer Markses. And such Evas and Uucie Toms as they let loose on a long-suffering public ought to die early and be killed with the most violent deaths. It is the most disgusting sort of melodramatic poppycock that gels on the stage nowadays, and yet it draws, ami convicts the popular taste of being low and frivolous. A class of folks that think the theater is “awful” flock tosee this scurvy, disgraceful play, which has sunk into utter vulgarity and is almost beneath contempt, *The celebrated Vegetable Compound for fetttoles, which within a few years has made tile name of Mrs. I„ydia E. I'inkhum Known in every part of the civilized world, relieves suffering by the safe and sure method of equalizing the vital forces and thus regulating tile organic functions. It Is only by sueh a method that disease is over arrested and removed.

ODDS AND ENDS. Motto for voting lovers: So fa and no father.—Key-Note. in my hand no prize T bring: Simply to toy cioocye cling. —From B. Btit>r\s Yestcr Poems. Small boy—Pa, did you know iua long be* fore you married her? Pa—l didn’t. I didn’t know her until long after I had mar’ ried her. —Progress. ‘•Those picture cards I brought back from Boston,” remarked Mrs. Partington in a pensive mood. “They are momentums of the Art Loan Imposition.”—Life. The newspaper foreman got a marriage notice among a lot of items headed “Horrors of 1883,” and witen the editor learned that the groom’s income was only $7 a week, he said it had better remain under that head. —Norristown Herald. Speakri g of the beneficial effects upon consumptives attributed to spruce forests, a Providence paper predicts that the day will uome when pine and spruce pillows will be as frequent a household appurtenance in our bleak climate as the quinine bottle has long been in Southern and Western States. “What would you do if you were I, and I were you?” tenderly inquired a voting swe” of his lady friend,ws he escorted her ' church. “Well." she said, “it I were ~ would throw away that vile cigarette, cv. toy cane for fire-wood, wear my watch-chi. underneath my coat, and stay at home nigh and pray for brains!” Colonel Beeler was nervous: "X may be a fool, but——" “Nobody has disputed it,” broke in his wife. “Now do wait, until you are denied a privilege, will you?” “I say I may be a fool,” the Colonel continued; “in fact, I quite agree with you that I am,” and he looked significantly at his marriage certificate hanging on the wall. Harvard student to Matthew Arnold —We take great pride in our English ancestry, Mr. Arnold. Mr. Arnold—You ought to; there is no better stock. Harvard student —But I am glad the men of English blood are not so numerous in this country as they are in England. Mr. Arnold (somewhat confused) —Why? Harvard student—Because the saving virtues, you know, abide with the minority. The Daily Experience. I hear a voice, i know not whence it conies. It speaks In strange and hollow tones to me; I strain mv ear to catch the wild, wieril note. And as 1 wait the murmuring words havo flown. Without a sign it breaks upon nty ear. It seems to come from some place far remote, It whispers or it shrieks, it laughs or cries. Or slugs a song, with wild, unearthly note. Sometimes it seems a jargon of all sounds, As if a thousand fiends gave forth the tone, And as I ponder, this I only know. Someone is raising thunder with my ’phone. THE VANITY OF GREATNESS. Brother Gardner Discourses on the Advantages of Humble Life. Detroit Free Press. “De odder night,” began the president, as the club came to order, “de ole man Birch cum oher to my cabin an’ cried bekase lie had not becum a great an’ famous man. Datsot nte to finkin.’ “Cicero was a great man, but I cannot find it on record dat lie eber took any nto’ comfort dan Samuel Shin does. Samuel has 'null to eat an' drink an' w’ar, an’ of an ebenin’ he kin sot down in a snug co’ner an' eat snow apples an’ read de paper. He am hartules to de community as lie am. Make a great man of him ati’ lie might invent a new sort o’ religun, or originate anew theory in pollytics, or do sutitiiip’ or other to upsot de minds of half de people. “Demosthenes was a great man, but I can’t find data coal dealer's collector could put his hand on him when wanted, as he kin on Civoi-U... Jo, You can't find dat iiis wife was a good cook, or dat he had a bath-room in his house, or a ettpaio on Pis ba’n, or dat lie relished his dinner any better dan Brudder .Tones does, while he had de same chilblains an’ hea,lnches an’ nightmares. As Giveadant now libs an’ circulates children kin piav with him. wood-piles in iiisnayborhood am safe, an’ mo’ dan one poo’ family ant indebted to him fur a shillin' in money or a basket of ’taters. Make him a great philosopher an' who kin tell how many rows an’ riots an’ broken heads could be laid to his door. “I’lato was a great man. but I can’t find dat he was fed on partiekier fine beef or mutton, or dat his tailor gin hint an extra fit, or dat lie got a discount when he bought ten pounds of sugar all to once. When Wuydown Bebee gets sot down in front of iris cook stove, a checkerboard on liis lap, an’ a panful of popcorn at liis right haul, wid live pickaninnies rollin' ober each udder on de Hoo’, he am takin’ a heap mo' comfort dan Pluto eber dreamed of. He lias no soarin’ ambishun. He neither wants to save de worid nor spite it. lie makes no predicksliuns for people to worry ober. an' iris theories nebber jar de disiies off de shelf. Make him a great man and his comfort an’ happiness fly away, an' he sots himself up to te roll an’ command an’ becum eberybody’s antagonist. “De man who sighs to trade fa’r wages, a warm house an’ a peaceful h’arthstun fur de glory of Bonaparte am a doit. “De man who sacrifices iris clean, humble cabin—his easy ole coat, his co’n-eob pipe an’ his pitcher o' aider fur de gab of an orator or de delusbuns of a philosopher trades his ’taters fur wind-fall apples. Lot us purceed to bizness.” They Sold Him a Hole. Wall Street News. He was telling the story in the billiardroom of a Denver hotel. Said he: “There were three of ns, you see, and Nevada was a cold climate for us. We were dead broke, haif starved and clear discouraged, when along came a New Yorker. He wouldn’t play cards, wouldn’t he robbed, and we couldn’t stick him with forged land patents or bogus pre-emptions. One day we trailed out and dug a hole into a hill and salted it a bit, and rushed back and offered the New Yorker the big discovery for $3,000 cash down.” “And he bit?” “Took right hold like a pair of pincers. Why, he never even stopped to beat us down. We got a cool thousand apiece and started for ’Frisco.” “Pretty cool, that was.” “Well, I dunno. If there was anything cool about that transaction, it was the way that New Yorker Hunted up a pard, set miners to work, bought machinery, ar.d look over $750,000 out of that ’ar hole inside of eight months! Maybe we got over feeling flat, but I guess not.” A Queer Document. San Francisco Chronicle. The wisdom of a Solomon will be reouired to distribute the estate of Francisco according to the terms of his will, which was hied yesterday. The remarkable portion of the document reads as follows: I, Francisco Perea, now residing at Tcmrsoul. Oakland, county of Alameda, being aware of the uncertainty of life and in failing health, hut or sound and dlapoedmr mind and memory, (in make, publish and declare this to he my Inst will and testament in the following manner, that i to say: First, I give and bequeath unto mv brother Henry ami Roeey Kubelar, old woman, each a good share; Mias and to sons, something considerable; Mary C’ruze, a piano; Peter Cruse* a small share; Meeker Craze, S2O; ('archun Leith, $10; Douua Aliena, a share; Johu B. Leith, a share. BUKNE TT’S COCOAIXK, Ilia Best and Cheapest Hair Dressing, it kills dandruff, allays irritation, aud promotes a vigorous growth of the hair. Burnett's Flavoring Extracts nre invariably acknowledged the purest and best.

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