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TRANSPLENDENT EASTER
PANEGYRIC Of RADIANT SPRING,
NATURE'S ANNIVERSARY.
Tfco Ghosts of Burled Ambitions, Sweet
Loves, and Boautful Uasi SihnesH.
Ressurrection of Hope, Love and
Human Joy—Leaves In Llfe’3 Book.
Our Departed Kindred end Fronds.
Earth's Time-Worn Pilgrims—Man
kind's Blessed Redeemer's Victory
Over Death and the Grave.
New York, April 1. —Even the man,
God help him! who has no belief, finds
that his heart gives an oxtra thump on
Easter day, for lie seems to discover some
thing finer and better and purer in the sun
shine itself, and he claims that it is because,
•li of a sudden, the flowers seem to have
sprung up. My friend, it isn t only the
flowers that are resurrected on Easter day.
It is the hopes, the loves, the joys of human.
Ity. Suddenly there comes up before us, as
if from a tomb, the ghost of the man or ;
woman that used to live. That
ghost that has about it a halo of
youth and hope, and on each side
of which stands an angel—the angel of faith
and the angel of love. We time-worn pil
grims find it bard to look this ghost in the
faoe. It is the ghost of buried ambitions, of
sweet loves and of beautiful unselfishness,
and it comes forward to face you to-day
when you lack belief; when you s:off at
love, and when you, most of all, worship
yourself. But this ghost of the past is good
to meet once in awhile, because sometimes
he makes the man of to-day take the leaf in
the book of life, that leaf on which there
are so many blots and so little that is fair
and beautiful, aud makes him turn it over,
and, having a fresh page, teaches him to
write upon it only the story cf kinduess and
consideration.
LOOKING BACKWARD.
When the sun dances on Easter morning
it is glad because you and 1 have met these
ghosts -it is because the old is dead and the
new is alive, and the new means joy to
everybody. Did you ever meet the ghost
of your past! Did you ever meet the man
you were twenty years ago? It is 11:45
o’clock; take up the mirror and look at
yourself. You see the faoe of a man whose
eyes tell of nights spent in dissipation, the
firmly-set mouth whispers of determination,
of greed, and, when the lips loosen a little,
of unbelief. You see a man who has been
successful, whose clothes are mado by the
best tailor, and whoso waistcoat of the mast
fashionable material is over a heart that,
when it beats at all beoauso of an emotion,
beats for fear stocks will go
up or down, beats with delight because you
have gotten the bettor of your enemy, or
beats with pride because your wife or your
daughter do credit to your name and your
millions. The bolls-areringing at 12 o’clock
os they chime out the news of the resurrec
tion; every flower in the land joins in with
its sweet chime, and into your room there
comes the man you buried twenty years
ago. His eyes are bright and flash with
boce; his lips show gentleness aud consider
ation in their shape, and all over the face
there is belief—belief in mankind, belief iu
heaven. Hisclothes are not as flue as yours,
but the heart that beats under them is brave
and honest, and couldn’t ovon give one
beat in approval of a mean thing. How
can you face your other sell? You
mutter something about a woman who
made you lose belief, you mutter something
about how hard it is to be hungry, and you
mutter something about getting on in tbo
world. My friend, you deliberately and
coolly buried your better self, and now it
bas come to ask for an accounting. Are
you prepared to give it? Can you sit down
with this other seif and, taking the Book of
Life in your hands, decide with it what the
future shall be? All the angels in heaven
ere singing: "Death is no more There is
your opportunity, take from the grave the
mau you ought to be and make him the
man who is, then, indeed, will your Easter
be a joyful ressurroction. A bringing back
from the tomb of forgetfulness the great
virtues, and most of all. that greatest of all
blessings—belief.
BLESSED ARE THE MERCIFUL.
And you, my friend, who are a woman,
you are alone before the bells begin to
chime. At the shrine of vanity, pride,
greed and selfishness you have worshiped,
and there you have buried the other wo
man. What will she think of you when
■he sees you? She was young iu heart as
well as in body. She didn’t fear growing
old in years, but you have made her old in
soul. She thought nothing of the outward
garb of people, and you have made her wor
ship what you call the fashion. She would
go to a great deal of trouble to do a kind
act. And you have concluded that only
fools are kind. She believed in u
God who had made her, in a
Holy Spirit that had sanctified her,
and in a Christ who bad redeemed her.
You have listened to the vulgar words of
men who have made dollars by their ignor
ance, and you thick there is nothing greater
than yourself. Poor fool! This girl bas
come from her grave to ask an accounting
of you. What right had you to bury her;
Are you the happier woman! Is the world
the better for it? As she enters and looks
at you, get down on your knees and pray to
the God iu whom you have tried not to be
lieve, to make you the woman you used to
be, to make this Easter day one of perfect
resurrection for you, to raise from the dead
the woman you were, and to give her life
again. Then, indeed, aud then only, will
you be of service to this world and the next.
KINDNESS AND CONSIDERATION.
And the little children and the dumb ani
mals can all see the angels on Easter morn
ing, and they are the only ones. And way
tip-town, where some kind people have made
a resting-place for the children who are
sick and weary, ib a little boy. He might
be your son, or he might be miue. He
tosses about on his bed, and sighs about his
pales, and it seems as if relief would never
come. And a young girl comes In, and
he begs of her to tell him about boys
who can run about, and with tears
in her voice she does as ho asks, and
he hears wonderful stories of the boys
who are playing tops down in the square
and the boys who are going to the circus,
and how when he gets well he shall go. And
when she goes away, she ki-seshirngoed-by,
this pretty, kind girl, and she lays a bunch
of lilies in his band. And then mere comes
to see him an old man. He calls him "Grand
daddy,’’ and they talk about the little rooms
they lived in, aud they laugh and are merry,
and every now and thou * ‘granddaddy’s”
voice breaks, and he goes away to get a
driuk of water, and once be looks at one of
the sisters inquiringly, and she answers him,
sadly. "Not very long.”
Aud then grunddaddy goes back to bis
boy and another visitor comes—a boy they
both know, a boy who would have come
earlier but he had to get rid of his evening
papers first, and he has brought a beautiful
present, au Easter egg boiled a lovely
purple and having “A Happy Easter” writ
ten out on it in the most c’.aiiorate manner.
And the boy that seiis the papers tells tbs
sick boy all the nows of the dav and the
sick boy laughs a weak little laugh when he
heara about the ball'gamos and whsu he
hears how there wasa scrap down the street
and how his friend wen. Then the little
newsboy goes away, saying as a good-by,
“I hope you will have a kuppv Easter,”and
gramidaddy sits there and smilos a ,and the
sick boy smiles back, and
THE PERFUME OF THE LILIES
ii over and about everybody, anil the pur
ple of the Easter egg seems to sell of that
great glory which is in neaven and noppla t,
else.
It is getting very near 12 o’clock, arid
there is a loud ring at the door. They have
put a screen around the boy s bed, but the
lamp is burning bright and granddad'!y
and the sister are watching. Sun, body
comes and soys something to the sister. .She
goes away, and then coroeß back, bringing
with her in her arms a little baby, inch
she lays down beside the sick boy. On its
gown is pumed a card which rends: “1 nn
buy has uubody iu the world to care for
him.” And the sick boy looks up and savs:
“He has just come in ume for grand
daddv. What would granddad iy do
without a boy” And he puts his
poor little thin hand down beside the baby:
then he looks up pitifully, but gladly, and
says: "His logs are ail right, granddaddy;
he can run end jump when be gets oin
enough, and he wili be my Easter present to
y ou." And nobody said a word; but just
i then the Easter t ells began to ring, the - ink
l>oy raised himself a little, pointed to the
door, and io u weak, quavering voice sang,
"Lo! the white-robed < ue3 stand by the
door.” And a minute after he was asleep,
aud granddaddy knelt beside the two boys,
tne living one and the Sleeping one, and he
took the living one as a gift from the Bleep
ing one, and because he knew he was resur
rected from the tomb of vice; and be very
sure as all the angels sang they thought of
granddaddy and both his boys.
SWEET FLOWERS AND RESURRECTION.
It is at the altar of the chapel, aud
womanly fingers are putting lovely flowers
all about it, to tell to the world at large that
Christ lias arisen, and one woman as she
lays the fragrant blossoms down is careful
and exact, though she looks unhappy and
| unforgiving and notwithstanding she bos
given much to make God’s house beautiful,
a loving girl doubts in her neart whether
those gifts are acceptable. And the church
is made a bower of beauty. The lilies of
peace and purity are everywhere, and the
little blue violets that blossomed as Christ
went to Cavalry, are sending forth their
fragrance and bowing their heads like gen
tle nuns at prayer, aud the work is all doue.
And everybody has knelt down to
say a prayer, as the announce
ment of Easter is made to a waiting world.
Everybody but this one woman, who stands
alonu and silent. When the bells finish
their chime, the great organ takes up the
tune and there goes through the churoh such
music as the masters of old wrote when
they were inspired by faith. For a minute
the woman stands, then quick as a flash she
is in the organ loft, her arms about the
neck of a man, ami she is crying as did the
mother of old. "Mv son, O, my son.” And
in the sight of the Almighty God all that
she has given is as nothing compared to the
exquisite flower of forgiveness, whioh she
laid at the feet of her newly risen Savior.
NATURE’S EASTER HALLELUJAH 1
You want to take flowers to show your
faith. You want to put on the altar of love
the sweet white lilies that you may offer a
pure and immaculate life.
You want to put the gentle blue violets to
symbolize modesty and continual prayer.
You want to put the rich red roses to
symbolize the world of love that you gladly
give.
You want to put the purple passion
flowers to symbolize what you would suffer
for the sake of right.
Y'ou want to put the odorous orange
blooms to show bow unselfish your love
can be.
You want to put the bunches of fair
lilacs to symbolize the greatness of your
charity.
You want to put the stately hyacinths
and gorgeous tulips to symbolize the pomp
and majesty, that should surround the
King of Kings.
You want to put the green leaves and
grasses to symbolize, that as they grow
everywhere, so is the grace of God omni
present.
You want most of all to put your own
heart, purified by suffering, scarred it may
be by contact with the world, but for that
very reason a thousand times more valu
able. Who is the soldier, who will be most
lauded* He who has gone through the war,
has fought a close fight, and who, notwith
standing his wounds, has come out victori
ous. And its the heart of a soldier that
makes the best Easter present. And thig is
what you and I want to givo when the bells
are ringing the news all over the world—
that wonderful news “That death is no
more,” whioh means that to the soldier who
has faith, hope and charity .death only comes
as a resifulsleep, and that after it there is
an awakening of love and joy and happiness
eternal. ' Bab.
THE WOMAN OF FASHION.
THE EASTER PARADE ALL READY
TO BEGIN THE MARCH.
Two of the Leaders Described—TP bat
Will Strike the Beholder at First
Glance The Impression Every
Woman Must Aim to Give—Some
More Spring Millinery.
(Covt/rioM.)
New York, April 1, —Well, the show
day has almost arrived. The suspense will
soon be over, and wo shall be regarding, be
fore long, the costumes which we have
waited so long to behold. I have been
doing some private detective work during
the last few days, and am able to describe
with great minuteness several entire toilets
that will appear for the first time to-mor
roy.
One is very gay and attractive, made of
a light, flowery material, with just one
■mall ruffle at the skirt. The bodice is
very simple, gathered in at the waist line
in a velvet belt, with big sleeves. It is the
cape that sets off the whole thing; for the
cope has two deep ruffles of changeable
silk, and then a Bhort ruffle of heavy lace,
very deeply pointed. Three twisted cords
join the cape in front, which is not intended
to meet, but stands apart to show the full
ness of the bodice beneath.
Another is very giddy—all bows and puffs
and lace. Tim material is ondiue, tho color
delicate anemone. The pretty sloping skirt
has three bands of white faille for trimming
—broad bands, distributed at even dis
tances from waist to feet. Each band has a
standing bow at the left side. The corsage
bas its slight fullness drawn together in a
small puff in front, aud beneath, coming
from the shoulders and stretching out under
tho arms, are toft folds of white faille,
drawn togatlier, also at the left side ond
caught at the belt with a bow. A twisted
rope of anemone velvet edges tbe folds of
faille. At the shoulders are two more small
bows and below the two ondine flounces of
the sleeves is a deep flounoe of soft lace.
The effect is wonderfully pleasing, although
almost too dainty to wear these fickle spring
days.
We are certainly getting broader and
broader. There is no telling what we shall
come to, if we keep on. What with capes,
nd brt el.es, and berthes, and collars with
big Il it s, we are about as wide at the top
as wo are at the feet. The hour-glass ef
fects are accentuated more aud more, aud
poor woman will soon loose all recollection
of the good old days when her garb still
conveyed some slight suggestion of what
she really looked like. If Venus was to ap
pear once more in the flesh she wonid con
clude that her race hud spent itself, that its
light bad gone out upon this earth and that
anew gouius had appeared, different in ail
respects from the noble women of her time.
Our appearance is indeed deplorable, and
our case would be hoiwless were it not for
the small comfort found in the fact that
such a large proportion of womankind
has sttll common souse enough to
condemn the extravagances, even while
unwillingly forced to adopt them.
Laris is up in arms against the hoop, even
while it tells of the skirts which one sees
there that measure seven j aFds around.
We must lay the blame this time at the feet
of our English cousins, of common souse
fame, who fail to adhere to their principles
when they allow these unsightly, flaring
ruffles to assert themselves without rebuke.
Tub poor Bhort Hkirt Reform League,
which is struggling so bravely in that same
country for existence, go3 to the other ex
treme und wants the skirts lifted several
inches rrorn tbe ground. Americans, be
ware of the British reforms! I.t us have
none of them. l <et us stand by what our
common sense and beauty sense dictate and
we shall do well.
__ The newest short cape has but two ruffles.
The upper one, however, turns over so as to
form what is equivalent to a third. The
THE MORNING NEWS: SUNDAY, APRIL 2, 1893—SIXTEEN PAGES.
j turn-over is crinolined, and accordingly
siands out stitfly, looking very pretty, bo
! ever, as it isso abort that it scarcely passes
the shoulder. Another short one has a
single cape, plaited, cat oi>-m in ti e bee* as
well a- in the front; edged with three tiny
rows of piaiu braid, and adorned wi ll a
small collarette. A third is q iiie long; has
a box plait back and front aud deep iace
ruffles falling over each shoulder. It has
also a rolling passementerie collar which
extends down int > a pointed yoke both
back and front. There are a few single
capes, with nothing Out a rolling collar;
and these are generally lined with brilliant
j silk, to give them sufficient character.
| Of course, if you don’t wear a cape or
| coat with innumerable rutfles, the ruffles
: must appear on your costume. There are a
i hundred ways of adjusting them. You
may put three full, short ones on eacn shoul
der; you may wear a pointed bertha, rather
full; you may add a full laco btb, cut away
at the neck in a V, falling from each
shoulder in loose folds, caught up at each
shouldor in rosettes, and falling to the belt
In front; yon may make a perfectly plain,
tight shoulder cape, open It in front, and
turn it back in re vers lined with some bright
color; you may have deep, full brstelles,
forming a big V back and front of your
bodice, meeting at the velvet belt (these, by
the way, seem to be most popular at present)
for they produce marvelous effects over
sleeves of equal proportions, and the most
modest, inoffensive woman in tne world
can make a wonderful impression upon the
biggest, bravest man of her acquaintance if
she is possessed of so powerful a weapon as
those self-same ruffles.
There’s a gorgeous cloak coming out to
morrow, to be worn by a rather young old
lady. It is made of very rich, dark green
satin, and is not long, just passing the hips.
Down the iron runs a broad band of exceed
ingly heavy gold embroidery. The plain
undersleeve is made of purple velvet, aud is
edged with this same embroidery. Over
the purple sleeve hangs a loose green satin
oue, and the oversleeve is edged with jet.
A deep point of purple velvet falls loosely
from the back, which has also another aud
smaller point above, of the heavy gold
work. The purple hanging is lengthened
by a long, gold tassel. The big collar is
also purplo.
I have seen some more beautiful Easter
bonnets. One hat is made of genuine gold
thread, closely woven in fine net pattern. it
has a goldeu brown low crown of a very
smooth, braided straw, and the brim is
edged with this straw also. It has little for
trimming; nothing save a big spray of moss
rose buds.
A rather new purple bathos purple straw
for foundation; a broad brim, which is cov
ered with a loose blaok net puff, has purple
plumes, shading from pale to deep shades,
has purple aigrettes; and at the base of the
plumes an immense brooch, all set in brill
iants that have been tinged with purple
also.
A queer green hat, with green brixn, and
wide edge of roses inside the brim, has no
crown. The place where the crown belongs
Is vacant. Another beautiful hat, which
will not, however, be worn on Easter day,
is made of white lace. It has a very wide
flare to the brim, aud the laoe is thickly
embroidered with pearls. A full pearl
ornament stands in front, leaning against
two white plumes; at the back a single
black plume stands solitary. The hat has
wide crepe strings.
Then there is a straw hat, very pale-ool
ored, that has small, shiny straw knobs dot
ting the crown. At the front of the hat, a
little to one side, are two small velvet
rosettes, one of deep orange velvet, the
other of brilliant green. Above these
rosettes stand very high and erect, two
steel ornaments, like wings. In the front,
also, at the other side, right on the small,
standing briru, which is covered with lace
straw of a creamy shade, nestle two velvet
flowers, green and pale yellow, both specked
all over with white, as though they had
peeped forth too early in the spring and had
Deen nipped by the frost.
But a big, magnificent leghorn will, when
it steps forth, cast ail these in the shade.
It lies in its box all ready to be worn, and
must, perforce, lie there some time yet.
But when it does appear you will see a
beautiful soft straw, wltb a broader brim
than ever, caught up as only the leghorn
oan be. in such big curves ond swoops.
Jnst under the big curve that lifts itself
from the face lies a tiny bunch of purple
violets, a genuine dark purple. A few of
these also run partly around the low crown,
which is almost concealed by the lines of
the Drim. Just in front of these are two
great yellow plumes, and at the back a dark
purple velvet bow, which ruus off into
broad ribbons that tie at one side of the
chin in a big bow. It is most stunning.
Eva A. Schubert.
A .lUDGMENTOFSOLO MON
From the New York Time j.
"Hugh, come here,” oalled Alfred Ne
valis, the active partner of Novalls, Son &
Cos., forwarders, from his private office.
The bookkeeper loft his desk in the mid
dle room and stood silent before his master.
“Close the door and sit down.”
Hugh obeyed quietly, demurely, as he
did everything else, as undisturbed and as
imperturable as the belfry is to the clangor
of the bell.
"Soph—that is Mrs. Nevalls—has re
turned from Armway and is now visiting
her mother, Mrs. Tracy,” began Mr. Ne
valls.
“Sorry to hear that, sir.”
"And she has little Mary with her.”
Mr. Nevalls looked fiercely at his retainer
as if expecting a response, and Hugh re
plied; "Sorry again, sir.”
"Yes, aud by Die lord I won’t stand it.
My—that is, Mrs. Nevalls bus broken her
word, or at least our understanding; while
I have been prompt and true to every
undertaking. What did she mean As
saying that she would take the house
at Armway aid educate the child if she
didn’t inteud to stay there? She knew full
well that separation or no separation, I
would never submit my little girl to the
domination of that old harridan. And yet
she is hack here in a month's time.
"I suppose, as it al ways was, it’s ‘Mother.’
D n ‘Mother!’ She has ruined two lives,
but she Bhan’t ruin the third! 1 tell you,
Hugh, I won’t stand it: by jove, 1 won’t
stund it I” And Mr. Nevalls. as if to exem
plify this determination, began to pace up
and down the floor. “You must get little
Mary for me,” he continued. “I am her
natural guardian. Tbe law gives me tbe
right, and now Sophia’s—l mean Mrs. Ne
valls’ —own act makes it a duty. You must
get her, and trust me, I’ll keep her.”
“Yes, sir,” said Hugh, aud he arose as If
he had been asked to fetch a file of papers.
“Wait a moment. Don’t be so abrupt.
Can’t you see I’m nervous? You won’t do
anything to shock Sophia? She has such a
tender, sensitive nature.”
‘ 'O! no. indeed, sir.”
“And will you need any money?’
“I will let you know this afternoon, when
I have reconnoitered and found out how old
and ugly the maid is.”
“Well, take your time and method,
Hugh. I trust you. But look out for that
old warrior if you value your eyes and
hair.”
"Can’t spare them, sir, even to oblige a
lady.” And silently, furtively, Hugh
passed iuto his office and thence out of the
warehouse, leaving word with the boy at
the door that he was going to a funeral and
would not be back before night if he bad to
drive to the cemetery.
And Alfred Nevalls swung around in his
clmir and clutched the topmost le.ter as if
It were a drowning man’s straw. But to
no avail. He oould not work. Who can,
indeed, when self cries out for justifica
tion? The black letters lost their form and
meaning and assumed delightful shapes of a
fascinating young woman, of a charming
little girl.- Delightful, yet exasporuting,
for these pictures seemed to say: “We are
yours; why don’t you claim us and hold us!
Only a coward would abandou those so
weak and trustful.”
“What a fool I’ve always been!” thought
Alfred. “And what’s worse, how foolish
my present course will some day surely
seem. From idiotic fancy I have passed
through a driveling youth into asinine
ma 'hood, aud there 1 stick. What a mud
dle i’ve male of life, or rather what a
muddle life ia. The more happiness
<ne s ores, tne ijuieker it spoils. And yet,
when 1 roturne i from cjl.ege and father
t ok me into b 3 urss. and Sophia smiled,
as she always bad r-milel since we were very
little cbilJrei t gather, and even that old
vixen didn’t chow her teeth exoeptto grin,
why, earth seemed an Kdeu."
Meanwhile the faithful Hugh was rnedi
tating after hts nature, as he proceeded on
his mission. “People that play with fire
are act to jump and suck their fingers.” he
mused. “Matrimonial quarrels are so ro
mantio 011 the stage aud so easily settled;
hut in real life, with a rod-faced ranger to
fan ’em the prairie flowers are quickly
swept away and nothing left but blaok,
baked soil. Well, iet them go it.”
Hugh turned into a side street and stopped
before a mean looking shop, whose windows
bore the pr ud insig.ua of Lombardy and
displayed a motley collection of diamonds,
harmonicas, revolvers, watones, flutes and
razors. \V hen be came out a few minutes
later his derby hat had been replaoed by a
broad brim aud bis demure black frock
coat by a velveteen snooting jacket. He
gave bis drooping mustache an upward
twist and grinued inanely, and looked far
more like a German teuor out of a job than
the confidential clerk of a reputable for
warding house.
It was a fait day, sunshiny, brilliant,
with a zest to the air like the tingle of wiiie.
Hugh took a car to the park aud then
strolled across toward Sammis street, in
which the Tracey mansion was situated.
There were Put few iMxiestrlaus abroad,
here and there a maid trundling her charge
or watching its play from one of the
benches; but Hugh saw no fluttering gleam
of little Mary’s golden curls. He reached a
clump of evergreens from which he could
espy the grove, and beyond this a terrace,
at the foot of which ran the street through
whioh he had arrived.
On the upper and lower side of the grove
were broad fields, on which the school
children were permitted to play croquet
and tennis. But now these were deserted.
Indeed, if the park was lonely mornings,
this was its loneliest part; hardly a sound,
hardly a motion, save the cackle of a falling
twig or the lazy curl of smoke from groat
piles of burning leaves.
Hugh found an obscure seat, and drawing
his hat over his eyes, thrust his bauds into
his breeches pockets, outstretched hia long
legs, and, seeming to sleep, narrowly
watched.
Presently a flaxen-haired, robust maid
was busied with the ioe at the Tracey’s
basement entry, and then Hugh awoke,
dv hat more natural than that a poor Ger
man exilo should daro approach and accost
a woman of his race * As hat inure natural
tbau that a blue-eyed madohen should chat
ter at the joyful sound of her mother
tongue?
O, yes, she was more than busy. She
could not linger with the much-to-be com
miserated respectable stranger. Her mis
tress was a housewife with eyes of the lynx,
and her mistress’ daughter had arrived to
visit and was quite ill, aud she must attend
to her and the little girl, besides tbe many
duties of the ordinary day. A pleasaut
hour for a stroll with the child? Indeed it
was, aud more the pity. Her mistress
would not let her grandchild out of her
sight; did she fear that she might harm one
so innocent? And tbe madchen shrugged
her plump shoulders and hurried into tbe
house as the whistle resounded and a shrill
voice strained the tube.
So Hugh, by a circuitous route, returned
to his eyrie and waited, feeling rather dis
couraged. But by and by tbe door of the
Tracey mansion opened and slammed, and
a short, stout, red-faced woman, who looked
angry with herself since there was no other
suitable antagonist present, came down tbe
steps, tightly grasping a child by the hand,
a dainty little girl, with long golden hair
and happy eyes, and feet that danced impa
tient to the rostralnt of her grandmother's
stride. She marched up the street os if to a
bastion. She wheeled at the corner and
entered the park by that very path near
which Hugh lay in ambush, and little Mary
skipped blithely by uer aide like a cupid at
tending one of tbe fates.
"Deuce take it,” muttered Hugh. “I
never shall have a better chance. There’s
not a soul in sight. But what can I do?
I can’t loosen those breadhooks short of a
garrotiug.”
He withdrew the closer among the ever
greens as the pair approached, and looked
about him in desperation. The lazy curl of
the smoke caught his eye and suggested a
wicked design. But there was sucoess in
it, for saint or shrew, victim or vixen,
would surely be affeoted alike by such a
peril. He deftly wove a wisp of leaves,
twigs and grass. He lighted it. He crept
behind tho matron and dropped it on her
trailing woolen skirt, in an instant he was
by her side with hands upraised and alarm
protruding eyes.
"Beg pardon,” ma’am,” he shouted, “but
your dress is all ablaze.”
Now if there was one thing—persons were
out of tho running—that the Widow Traoey
feared it was lire. There was a directness
about it which she could appreciate. Her
lecture oil lamps, which she delivered when
ever anew servant was engaged, aud conse
quently very often, would have been a
pots nt advertising medium for an electric
liebt company. And so, as she looked be
hind her and saw the smudge, she lost her
head and found her feet at the same mo
ment. Without a thought of the child,
she sped across the lawn toward her
borne, surprising the air with singular
screams.
Hugh stamped on the wisp, which he had
adroitly kicked from the skirt, and then,
raising the terrified little girl lightly in his
arms, disappeared through the windings of
the grove. A moment later they were
seated in u down-town car. little Mary con
tentedly munching her orange and Hugh
holding her band as carefully, if not as ag
gressively, as her grandmother had.
"You are glad to go and see your papa?”
said he.
“Yes, and my mamma, too.”
“And you love your papa*”
**G, yes, and my dear mamma.”
Hugh thought for a moment. It was
touching to hear this child speak so con
fidingly of parents who had separated.
Their bickerings had not affected her in
stinct at least; perhaps its purity might
bind what they had loosed.
“That’s right, little one,” he said, “always
speak of your father and mother as if they
were united in all things as they are in your
love.”
Little Mary looked at him inquiringly as
if she but half comprehended.
“I love my papa and my mamma, bofe of
dem together,” she stoutly reiterated.
Poor Widow Tracey ran and screamed
and smelled smoke and felt hot until she
reached the street. Then as she oould not
help from perceiving that the passers-by
were not a whit alarmed for her safety, but
rather for their own shunning her as one of
unsound mind, she gradually appreciated
that her blood was responsible for the heat
and the bonfires for the smoke, and then she
suddenly recalled little Mary.
Back to the park she sped, screaming
anew and more surprisingly, and those who
had only suspected were now sure of her
mauia. Back to the very spot, where the
offending wisp still smoldered, but no
signs of the child, no signs of him who had
so basely deceived her. Unharmed, yet
scorched by the fires of indignation, Mrs.
Traoey at length returned to her daughter’s
room in a whirl of volubility.
“He’s doue It,” she cried. “The wretch,
tho villain. lie’s stolen the child; we are
ruined, undone. I’ll have the law on him
if I live. O, how I hate him, with his smug
German spies, i’ll arrest that one for arson,
for breach of the peace, for—kidnapping.
Sophia, what ails you?* Why aren’t you
excited? Why don’t you faint?’’
But Sophia only settled back on the pil
lows and smiled.
"My little girl is safe with her father,”
she said. "I—l only wish she had on a
prettier dress.”
“O, you!” screamed the widow. “I know
you. You are as weak as your father was.
But I’ll strengthen you as I used to
strengthen him. I’ll send for my lawyer.
We'U sec whether Justice is the woman they
fi mre her to he. I’ll sand for little Mr.
Phibba. And, O, my dear chill. b 9 firm,
n ••number your wroais; try to be like me.”
B a Sophia only smiled, and was silent.
Little Mr. Phibbs came, and the next day
Alfred Nevalls was served wi;h a writ of
habeas corpus requiring hitn to have the
body of one Mary Nevalls, an infa it, by
hi;n alleged to be unlawfully detail ed, to
gether writh the cause of her detention, be
fore the Hon. Samuel Balger, justice of the
supreme court, at nil chambers on the fol
lowing Saturday. IVhen this was served
by Pnibbs, Jr., who exhibited the county
clerk's seal and the indorsement of the
judge on the original with the air of a vet
eran, Hugh whistled and murmured, “1
thought so;” and Mr. Nevalls swore. A
moment later and bo dispatched bis clerk ia
hot haste In quest of his attorney, the vigor
ous At el Burgess.
Saturday morning bright and early the
Widow Tracey oocupied Judge Badger’s
front office. Little Mr. Phibbs, smiling and
sparkllug, was in her tram, and sn was
Sophia, silent, distrait, with heaving bosom
and twitching lips. The widow sniffed
curiously at the unopened letters on the
desk and regarded the black and red labeled
law books with suspicion and disdain. As
why should she not, who was a law unto
herself I And little Mr. Phibbs twirled his
glasses, consulted his watch and mentally
calculated a bill of costs.
Little Mary arrived in charge of a stal
wart nurse, backed bv the faithful Hugh,
atul then there was commotion. The widow
sobbed and raised her hand in eloquent ap
peal. tshe throw herself on her knees be
fore the child and strained her to her pin
cushiony breast. And the stalwart nurse
said * ‘Humph,” which meant a great deal
more, and Hugh unconsciously twisted his
mustaches into similarity with the German
tenor’s. But little Mary stretched our her
arms to her mother, who quietly crossed
the room and took her on her lap, nor did
the guardian twain offer any opposition.
The widow, being thus relieved, turned
her attention to her male foe whom she
recognized, despite his seda e attire. In
piercing tones sue denounced him 9 a spy,
an nsssssiD, a petroleuse—this latter con
fidently with contempt of gender. She
dared him to deny bis villainy, which ha
made no attempt to do. and demanded of
the two court officers in waiting his imme
diate seizure and immurement. As those
two representatives of the dormant side of
the law were political associates of Hugh’s,
and lived in the same ward, they merely
grinned and occasionally commanded
silence.
Justice Badger entered from his private
office, and, bowing stiffly, seated himself at
his desk, and began to fuss with his papers.
Presently Alfred Nevails.in company with
Abel Burgess. Esq., aad a great armful of
legal tomes, entered.
Alfred saluted his wife gravely arid seatod
himself on the opposite side of the room.
And poor Sophia bent her head and kissed
little Mary’s cheek.
Abel Burgess arose and hitched his coat
collar.
“May it please your honor,” he said, “we
waive certain objections to the sufficiency
of the petition and to the form of the writ.
We produce herewith the child, and file our
return alleging that we are her lawful
guardian and entitled to her custody.”
“Wo traverse that return, vour honor,"
replied little Mr. Phibbs briskly. “Aud
shall show that the defendant is an improp
er and dangerous person for such a charge,
by reason of dissolute haoits, atheistic
views aad violent temper.”
“Good, good!” cried the widow, but
Sophia looked toward her husband with
tear-fliied eyes, as if protesting, “I don’t
believe him. ”
“Then you must take the affirmative,"
growled Abel Burgess.
“Softly, my friend, we shall see about
that,” breathed little Mr. Phibbs. And
hammer and tongs, gently and insinuat
ingly, the twain argued and reargued, the
one citing unanswerable cases, the other
quoting indisputable statutes.
Finally Justice Badger, who had sat like
one in a reverie with his eyes fixed on little
Mary, raised hiß hand and the discussion
ceased.
“An application of this nature," he said,
“appeals to the equitable side of the court.
There is but one view to be oonsldered, and
that is the welfare of this Interesting little
girl. To insure this I oan deliver her into
the oare of her father, of her mother, or of
any third person,” (there Sophia sobbed)
“but before entering upon an investigation
which seems likely to be acrimonious, and
to deepen unhappy differences, I wish to
hear from the one who, after all, has the
most at stake. Come to me little one, won’t
you? Don't be afraid.”
Little Mary slid from her mother’s lap
and climbed quite courageously on the
judge’s knee.
“Tell me how old you are, my dear?”
“Nearly 7, sir.”
“And do you love vour papa?”
“My papa aud my dear mamma."
“And would you like to stay alwavs with
your papa and have him take cara of you?”
“With ray papa and my dear mamma. I
want bofa of dem together.”
Sophia’s head wae bowed; her tears were
dropping on her distracted bosom. Alfred
crossed the room and stood by his wife’s
side.
“O, why did you leave me?” he whispered,
“and why did you return? You knew it
would make me angry.”
“I—l hoped it would; for then I would
surely see you."
"There, there,” said Judge Badger quite
fiercely as he tucked his bandana away in
his coat-tail pocket. “Enough of this. I’ll
adjourn the hearing indefinitely and con
sign this sweet little child to the care of her
parents. ‘Whom God hath joined together
let no man put asunder,’ nor any old
woman, either,” and he glanced vindict
ively toward the baffled ranger.
SIMTSON OF liUSSORA.
BY JAMES PAYN.
From the Chicago Times.
I have a profound distrust of all travelers.
Not because they are prone to tell me un
truths about their experiences, for that has
in o great measure become a dangerous ex
periment; wherever they may have been,
other people now also have been, and it is
easy, if I may use a professional expression,
to “correct tbeir proofs.” No, my distrust
arises from the ideas in my own mind of the
experiences that they do not tell me. When
they get away from the regions of civiliza
tion, and out of the influence of publio
opinion, thick I to myself, what is it these
people do uot do? For the very faot of a
man’s being a traveler is, between ourselves,
by no means a good sign. Why does he
pot stop at home in the bosom of his family,
or. if ho has no family, acquire one? it is
his duty as a citizen.
One of the quietest and best fellow* I
ever knew—and l have known him all my
life—was Simpson of Bussora. i was at
school with him five and forty years ago,
and though his house of business ! at the
distant spot just mentioned, I had met him
from time to time during his periodical
visits to this country, and always found
him unchanged—gentle, unassuming, mod
est and orthodox in his opinions. Our house
does a little business with him in shawls and
carpets, but our acquaintance is mainly so
cial. My wife and daughters are very
partial to him and deligut in his Persian
tales, which are picturesque and full of
local color. He brings them little bottles
of scent whioh perfume the whole neighbor
hood, and now and then a scarf the
envy of tbeir friends.
I never, however, entertained any idea
of Simpson as a son-in-law until my wife
put it into my head. He lived too far
away for me to picture him in such a rela
tion, and though I knew he had made
inouev, I did not think he had made enough
to return home aud settle. His iucome
was a Very handsome one, but living at
Bussora, he had given me to understand,
was dear and did uot admit of much saving.
Above all, Simpson struck me as by no
means a marrying man. Whenever the
subjeot of matrimony was mooted he al
ways smiled in that dry, cyuical way
which proclaims the confirmed bachelor.
Household matters did not inter
est him. he did not take much to obildren,
he would smoke until the small hours of the
morning and raise his eyebr >ws when one
said it was late and perhaps one’s wife
might, be sitting up. lie would sag “re
ally!” as though suoh an Idea as one’s wife
sitting tip for one was preposterous but
could never conoern him.
I need not go into the causes which led to
my conversing with Simpson on the subject
of matrimony. Suffice it to say that 1 did
not do 60 of my own free will. I hed re
ceived instructions from my wife to "sound”
Simpson on the matter, with relation to
some “ideas” that she bad got into her head
with respect to our seooud daughter, Jane,
and “to hear was to obey,” as they sav at
Bussora.
“My dear Simpson," said I, as we were
cracslug our walnuts together after a little
dinner under my own roof, “I often wonder
why a man like you, with a large iucome
and a fine house, as you describe your home
to be at Bussora, has never married. It
must be rather wretched living out there
all alone.”
“Well, it would be, no doubt,”said Simp
son in his quiet way. “But, Lord bless you,
I’ve been married these twenty years!”
You might have knocked me dowu with
a feather.
“Married these twenty years! You as
tound me. Why, how was it you never
spoke about it?”
“O, I don’t know; I thought it wouldn’t
interest you. She was a Persian, you know.
If she had been a European, theu I should
have told you.”
“A Persian wife! Dear me,” said I, “how
funny It seems!” 1 said "funay,” but at the
same time all the suspicions that I enter
tained (and now entertain more than ever)
respecting travelers and persons who abjure
civilization crowded into my mind. “Now,
what color, my dear Simpson, if I may put
the queition without imcertiuouce, are your
oht'.dren?”
“ Well, we’ve got no children,” said Simp
son in his usual imperturbable tone. “Wo
never had any.”
I don’t quite know why, but somehow or
other I thought this creditable to Simpson.
It wa9 very wrong in him to have married
a Persian, perhaps a fire worshiper, or at
best a Mohammedan, but It was a comfort
to think that the evil had, so to speak,
stopped there. To think of Simpson with a
heap of parti-colored children, professing,
perhaps, their mother’s outlandish faith as
they grew up. would have been painful to
me in connection with the fact that Simp
son was at that moment under my roof,
the same roof with my wife and daughters,
and that I was the church warden of our
district church. I forsook at once the par
ticular subject of Simpson’s wife to discuss
the general subject of polygamy.
“The Persians have more wives than one,
have they not?” inquired I.
“Those who can afford it have,” said be;
“but this is not so usual as you may imag
ine ”
“I need not ask how so profligate a system
must needs work,” said I. “It is a domestic
failure, of course?”
“You need not ask the question, as you
say,” replied Simpson, oraoking a walnut.
“But if you do ask, I am bouud to say it i9
so far like marriage in this country—it is
sometimes a domestio failure and sometimes
not. Perhaps it requires more judgment In
selection; you have not only to please your
self, you kuow, but to please your other
wives.”
“Goodness gracious!” said I, “how coolly
you talk about it! I hope no European who
happens to be resident lu this strange com
munity ever gives in to the custom?”
“Some do aud some don’t,” was the reply
of Simpson. "I lived in Persia with one
wife for fifteen years before I gave in."
“ IVbat! You married a second wife,
your Urst wile being alive?”
“Just so,” was tbe unabashed rejoinder.
Simpsou swept the walnut shells into a
corner of his plate and helped himself to
sherry. “I have now four wives.”
“Bless my soul and body!” said I. "Four
wives?”
“Yes. The story of my little menage
may seom in your ears rattier curious. If it
will not bore you I’ll tell you about it.”
1 had no words to decline tbe offer even if
I wished it My breath was fairly taken
away by Simpson’s four wives. The trav
eler who once told me that he liked his food
uncooked (human flesh) bad given me rather
a turn, but that was nothing to this revela
tion of my present companion; a man we
had always considered of the highest re
spectability, aud who my wife had thought
would have suited our Jane.
‘‘Well, it was at a pionio party on the
plaius near Bussora that the thing first
came about. My wife and I were both
present at it, aud, my European notions
preventing my believing there could be the
least misunderstanding about it, since I was
already married, I made myself very agree
able to a certain Persian lady. She was
neither young nor pretty —just like what
my wife herself, indeed, had grown to be
by that time —and I no more thought of
making her my No. 2 than—dear me—of
embracing Mohammedanism.
"My attentions, however, were miscon
strued, and her brother, being a violent man
in the shah’s cavalry, and knowing I hail a
fairish income, insisted on my becoming his
brother-in-law. I believe Irish marriages
are often brought about in tbe same way,
so there was nothing in that; the pecu
liarity of tbe case lay in my having a wife
already, and one who was very rosoliite, in
deed, to prevent my having another. I
spare you the troubles tnat ensued. Be
tween ray wife No. 1 on the one hand, and
her sharp tongue, and tbe officer of Spabia
on the other, with his sharp sword, I was
placed in a very unpleasant position, I
promise you, but in the end I married
Khaleda.
“I am sorry to say the two ladies got on
extremely ill together. It was said by a
great English wit that when one's wife gets
to be 40 one ought to be allowed to change
her for two 20’, like a £4O note, and I dare
say that would lie very nice; but, unhap
pily, I had now two wives, each 40, if they
were a day, and there was no prospect of
parting from them in any way.
“Pirouze and Khaleda led me a most un
happy life. They quarreled from morning
to night, and so far from being able to play
off one against the other, as I had secretly
hoped, I was treated with great unkindness
by both of them. They were a matter of
very considerable expense, of oourse, and
very little satisfaction. My position. In
fact, became intolerable; and as I could
please neither of them I resolved to please
myself by marrying No. 3."
“A 20, I suppose?” said I, interested in
spite of myself in this remarkable narra
tion.
"Well, yes; that is she would have been a
20 in England, but in Persia young ladies
marry a good deal earlier. She was a
charming creature, and cost me "
“What! Did you buy her?” cried lin as
tonishment and horror.
“Well, no, not exactly; her father, how
ever, insisted upon something baudsonie,
and there wore heavyisb fees to be her
mothers and sisters, and to the governor of
Bussora. The custom of the oountry is
curious In that respect. After one’s
second wife a considerable tax is
levied by the government upon marry
ing men. However, Badoura was
wortb all the money; she sang, she played
divinely; that is, she would have done so if
sh 9 had uot been always crying. Pirouze
and Khaleda made her life utterly misera
ble. Hitherto they had been at daggers
drawn with one another, but now they
united together to persecu'e the unhappy
Badoura. Her very life was searcelv safe
witn them. Wretched as my former lot
had tieen it was now unendurable, for one
can bear one's own misery better than that
of those we love."
Here Simpson took out his handkerchief,
of a beautiful Persian pattern, aud pressed
it to his eyes.
“Yes, my dear friend, they led my Ba
doura a dog's life—did those two women.
I felt myself powerlesi to protect her, for I
was never pbystcaliy strong; and though
I did not understand one-half of tbe epi
thets they showered upon her, I could see
by the effeot they had upon her that they
were most injurious—what I have no doubt
in this country would be considered action
able. For her, however, there wae no
remedy, and I thl .k she would have fun i-
ZobeMe ”‘ r parSJOUtloai ha 1 1 married
" N "- 1 crie ? aghast. “What on earth
did you do that for?*’ a
“1 married Zobeide solely and wholly for
Badoura’* sake. I chose her, not for her
beauty nor her virtues, nor her accomplish
ments, but entirely for her thews a:,d s'n
ews. i eaid to her; 'Z >belde, you are a
strong and powerful young woman- if r
maze you my wife, will you protect my
lamb? and she said,‘l will.’ it w u , th ~
most satisfactory investment—t mean the
happiest choice—l over made. My home is
now the abode of peioe. In eno wing 0 f
the house abide Pirouze and Khaleda hi
the other Zobeide and Badoura; two on
the east side and two on the west. Each
respect* the other, for although Pirouze
and Khaleda are strong females and c uld
eaoh wring tbe neck of dear Bidoura Z
beide is stronger than both of them to
gether, and protects her. Thus the opposing
element* are, a* it were, neutralized- tbe
combatant* respect one another, ‘and
I am the head of the uniied bouse. I
got letters from all of my four wives thi*
morning, eaoh of them most characteristic.
Badoura forgot to pay the postage—she has
a soul above pecuniary details—and her let
ter was the dearest of all "
“Don’t cry. Situ peon," said I—“don’t cry
old fellow. The steamer goes Tuesday, end
then you will see all vour wives again. They
will welcome you with outstretched arms—
eight outstretched arms, like the octopus.”
I confess I was affected by my friend's
artless narration at the time, though, since
I have reflected upou tne matter, my moral
sense has reasserted itselt and Is outraged
I state tbe matter as fairly as I can. I ha-, a
been to plooics myself, as'a married mau
and made myself agreeable to the ladies'
Well, iu Persia this might have cost me my
life, or the expense of a second establish,
ment. So far there is every excuse for
Simpson. But, on the other hand the as
tounding fact remains that there are four
Mrs. Simpsons at Bussora. When
ever 1 look at his qmet
business-like face, or hear him talk
ing to my wife and the girls about Persian
scenery, this revelation of his strikes me
anew with wonder. Of oourse I have not
told them about bis domestio relations; it
would be too great n shock on their respect
ive systems; yet the possession of such a
secret all to myself is too bard to bear, and
I have therefore laid it before the publio.
The whole thing resolve* itself into a rule
of-three Bum. If even a quiet, respectable
fellow like Simpson, residing at Bussora,
has four wives, how mauy wives—well, i
don’t mean exactly that; but how much
queerer things must people do who are not
ao quiet and respectable as Simpson, and
who live still farther off.
THE 1804 DOLLAR 16 BART.
Its History Is a Mystery—Stories About
the Coins.
From the Boston Transcript.
The whole history of this coinage is
shrouded in mystery. Acoordmg to the
mint records 19,750 silver dollars were coined
in 1804. This is the last authentic record
of tbe mintage, and it is not known whether
they were held in the treasury and subse
quently struck over into a Inter date, or
wnether they were sent to Africa to pay off
our sailors, as one story runs. The origin
of this yarn is likewise shadowy, tut
it is given here for what it is
worth, which, it is feared, is not as
much as the face value of its subject. In
1804 tbe United States was engaged m a
war up the Mediterranean with Tripoli,
and it is said that the dollars coined that
year were sent out to pay off our tsoemen.
As the coins were new and bright the
natives took a great fancy to them when
“Jack” would ring them down inpayment
for Sitne jimcrack for bis Nauoy at home.
The chiefs of the tribes, or boys, if that is a
more correct term, as yoon as they heard
about these gleaming white dollars coveted
them for ornaments and tokens, aud took
measure* to get possession of all they could.
It appears, from the scarcity of the dollnrs
in this country, that they were unusually
successful, and must have either robtea or
tricked away tbejpay of about every man
in the Amerioau fleet.
Auotber Btory about tbe specimens now
in collections s not quite so romantic, but it
is none the lest interesting. It is tbatCapt.
Hall of the United States secret service iu
the west, who was accidentally shot in 1887,
was at the time of bis death inveetigating
the counterfeiting of antiquated coins for
colleciions of numismatics. His attention
was first drawn to this subject by the sale
of an 1804 dollar at an auction sale of a col
lection in Philadelphia. The captain exam
ined the coin and atones questioned its gen
uineness. and, on taking it to the mint, it
was found to be a counterfeit. Under the
aotian of aoids which were applied slight
traots of a lighter metal were discovered,
marking a comploto square at the bnsj of
the figure “4” of the “i804,” and a further
expert analysis disclosed the fact of sts be
ing a modified dollar of 1805. of which issue
there are many; the “o” had been drilled
out and the opening plugged with a “4”
taken from some other issue. Thß coin had
then been tr. atid to corrosive acid to give
it the old and worn look.
It is further stated by persons well posted
on the subject that ttie dies lor this mintage
were out of the possession of the mint for
over a year and a half before they were de
stroyed, and it is believed that many of tbe
specimens now held in collection were niaia
at this time. This was in 1828, it is said.
Much a procedure is, of course, a penal of
fense, and the *tory may be entirely with
out foundation, although it is credited by
many students of numismatics. When the
collection of H. R. Linderman, at one time
director of the mints, was sold by auction in
New York in 1888, a fine proof of the 18J4
dollar brought $470. The market value of
the coin varies. One catalogue fixes it at
S2OO while another offers SOOO for speci
mens at from SI,OOO to $2,000.
This dollar has a flying eagle with thir
teen stars upon the reverse, while the face
hears the date and a head of the Goddess of
Liberty with flowing hair.
LEMON ELIXIR.
A Pleasant Lemon Tonic.
For Biliousness, Constipation, Malaria,
Colds and the Grip.
For Indigestion, Siek and N’ervous Head
ache.
For Sleeplessness, Nervousness aud Hear*
Disease.
For Fever, Chills, Debility and Kidney
Disease, take Lemon Elixir.
Indies, for natural aa<l thorough organic
regulation, take Lemon Elixir.
Dr. Moziey’s Lemon Elixir is prepared
from the fresh juice of Demons, combined
with other vegetable liver tonioa, aud will
not fail you in any of tbe above named dis
eases. 50-cent and $1 bottles at druggists.
Prepared only by Dr. H. Mozley, Atlanta,
Ga.
At the Capital.
I have just taken the last of two bottle*
of Dr. H. Moziey’s Lemon Eiixir for nerv
ous headache, indigestion, with diseased
liver and kidneys. The Elixir cured me. I
found it the greatestjmeiiicine I ever used.
J. H. Mennich, Attorney,
1225 F street, vVashington, D. C.
From a Prominent Lady.
I have not been able in two years to walk
or stand without suffering pain.
Since taking Dr. Moziey’s Lemon Elixir I
can walk half a mile without suffering the
least inconvenience.
Mrs. R. H. Bloodworth,
—ad. Griffin, Ga.
When Baby wasssick, weigaTefcer Castoria.
When she wos.a Child, she cried for Castoria.
When she became Miss, she clung to Castoria
When die had Children, sheave theowCastorik
