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PART three.
CHEATER LOVE HATH NO MAN.
BY ADELINE SERGEANT,
I ,rh,.r of The Story of a Penitent Soul/
ces,” “Great Mill-street
They sai<i that he was dying, and he
,j that they were right. For the last
Jfteen years he had suffered a kind of
martyrdom, and it was a blessed thing
[ha , , ven martyrdom shotild end at last.
The workhouse nurse was very kind to
hint. She brought him broth and medi
cine at slated hours, and made him extra
c^p t of tea; but although he was serupu
lotisly grateful, it fretted him a little
ffhtn she came up to his bed; he felt that
6he niust know' his story and despise him
for it, although she seemed so kind. On
,he whole, he would rather that she stay
ed away, lie did not mind being alone.
He could lie still and look at the white
washed wall, or the glimpse of blue sky
and green trees afforded by the window
opposite his bed, and dream of the old
days when he had been a deacon of the
i„';, pendent Chapel in Easterby, and su
perintendent of the Sunday school, and
treasurer of the chapel funds, and half a
hundred things beside. It was a long
time ago, but he liked sometimes to think
of it. Life had been happy and prosper
ous then; and James—the son for whom
he had given up all that made life worth
living-had been a little lad with curly
hair, and eye 9 as blue as the summer
ekles.
He was an old man now. poor, broken
down. d.sgraced; but he thanked God in
his heart that his life w'as nearly over, and
that Jim had never known the truth.
Under his pillow were Jim’s letters.
They had been written in queer places ; in
a sailing ship, Over a bush Are, from the
bottom of a mine; but they were ail af
fectionate and hopeful, and light-hearted,
and the joy of old Matthew Hornhlower’s
ieart. Now and then there was a word of
lenitence for past wildness and disobedi
ence, which was more precious to him
than all the rest. For it showed the
father that his sacrifices had not been
made in vain. He liked to think of his son
now— the prosperous, even wealthy, far
mer out in Australia, with wife and child
ren. horses, cattle and lunds—and he had
a tender triumph in the thought that
Jim s prosperity was after all, his doing—
the doing of the father who might years
ago have blighted the son’s life with a
word— a word which he refused to speak.
As he thought of these things, with a
fair.t smile on his withered lips, his mind
passed by an atural transition to the cir
cumstances of his own life. He saw him
self shrinking for the first time from the
eyes of his brother deacons; he remember
• 1 the calling of that church-meeting In
which he had been solemnly deprived of
his offices in the church; he recalled that
most difficult hour of all, when Mr. Shil
lito, the minister, had visited him pri
vately. and prayed with him, earnestly
and gently, seeking to lead him to repent
ance. Ah, how hard it had been to re
sist! What a subtle temptation to coun
terfeit the contrition which he did not
feel! And with what heart-break did he
realize, from bitter experience, that not
one of his old friends trusted him, or stood
up for him, or henceforth thought of him
15 anything but a convicted sinner, whom
'.heir charity alone had saved from public
disgi.,, e and punishment.
lie could not blame them. Thinking over
Lie matter, it seemed to him that they had
>en very kind. Grave, godly men, anx
‘"ii ' to maintain an upright walk and con-
Vfrsaiion, had shown him mercy, and
ri. and to convince him of the error of his
"ays. It was not their fault if they had
broken his heart meanwhile.
His business fell away from that time
forward. Me had been a fairly success
‘l'l corn dealer, with a good connection,
at one time; but slowly and surely his
,rii bussed into other hands; people
s'* med to shrink from dealing with him.
“ n 1 ll,s receipts dwindled until he saved
;ln ’ ,Sl ■ front bankruptcy only by relln
•inishuig everything to his creditors. A
‘mall sum was returned to him, and he
| van life as a miller's man. Lately, how
’'cr, he had done little but odd Job’s; and
j! *'• "as completely invalided and had
bH-ri taken to the workhouse infirmary.
was a great downfall for him, and no
body could have felt it more keenly than
oil Mu thew llornblower.
Lasterby Union, as it was then called,
oud back from the high road, just out
o ” tne little town. It was a tall white
uilding, standing in u pleasant garden,
r,i there were velvet lawns, and bright
•owit-beds and blooming trees. I remeni
t° this day Hie great white guelder
'he snowball tree we used to call it
that overhung the gate. As children we
, 10 lo °k with awe upon the building,
wonder what lay behind the atone wall
r who cared for the guelder roses in
■jo garden, but never dared to pick the
■ bulls, although they hung so tempt
k‘V beyond the iron gates.
■ Inmates lived at the back of the
"here there were stone yards and
" "oils, I believe, Instead of green
u and snowball trees. But beyond
•' buy stretches of green meadow and
o'er-arching sky. Matthew Horn
r " ,a always thankful for that
rupse of green and blue.
| ‘V dreaming of old days until he he
"tiscious of some unusual stir in the
ii Im- outside his ward. Voices rose
f ‘ul. apparently In angry recrlmlna
" I'he sound worried him, and ho
• Ills eyes towards the door. The
m ”‘ r “ccupaiits of the ward were for the
~,'V baft in a seml-comatose state, jiro
irorn sleep or Imbecility, and no
"r attendant was In the room. But
h. r 1 tly ■ N * urse Leek returned, and with
u visitor—a man whom Matthew hud
"• n 'here before. He was u tall,
’ ""-bouidered. bearded man—possibly
'' " doc'tor, thought Matthew—and he
l.i / ,l l ight up to Matthew Horn
s " dslde and stood there silent, as
c had not a word to say.
t Mr. llornblower, as he was genor
-1 li;, and, In deference to his lost posl
"b an effort to be civil and grate
... be was to ull officials of the place.
Er , y "i". ' lay ' Blr -” he said, nodding his
y ' c'! Father! Don't you know me?”
sat up in bed and staged In
■M l , '' lrm - The nurse tossed her head
1,::; .V 1 n,, red something. It was against
I, eh that James llornblower should
01dV;.," ,| t 0 tnefce himself known to his
(nun ■ '. n " ü ßh to hill Uie poor old gerttle-
Tre ,T grumbled, as she turned away,
uld man held out his trembling
§Mje Jlofnintj fSetog.
’ "Jacobi’s wife,” “Under False Preten-
Mystery,” &c., %c.
arms. He had not stirred so much for
many days.
"Jim!” he said hoarsely. “Jim! my boy!
my boy!”
The bearded man’s arms were round the
gaunt white figure in a moment; the old
grey head drooped on the broad shoulder
like a child’s. The nurse approached with
a restorative, but Matthew waved her off;
his son’s presence was cordial enough for
him.
“Oh, father, I never thought to find you
here,” said James Hornblower.
"It's all right, my son; I’m quite com
fortable here. I’ve been foolish, no doubt
—improvident for my old age. But it's
nearly over now. I shall die happy now
I’ve seen thee again.”
“You’re not going to die at all,” said
James, doggedly. “You’re coming out of
this place this very afternoon. I’d like to
know how this came about, without my
hearing.”
“It’s no matter, Jim. The bitterness is
past.”
“You said you were well-to-do, and had
retired from business,” said the son, in an
accusing tone.
“I have retired, Jim. I’ve no more to
do.”
“But what are your friends about to let
you come here? Why didn’t they write to
me?”
“Friends?” He echoed the word as if it
had an unaccustomed sound to him.
"There were hosts of ’em when I was at
home,” said James. “There was old Shll
lito, the minister; you were hand and
glove with him, you know. Why didn’t he
write? If Pd known for a moment that
you were in need of anything, do you
think I wouldn’t have sent a big cheque?”
“I know you care for your old father,
Jim.” There was a wonderful pathos in
the old man’s tone.
“I should rather think so. It's a reflect
ion on me not to have let me know how
things were going. It’s a disgrace to me.
I shall tell old Shillito my mind when I
see him.”
"No, lad, no. Don’t speak to Mr. Shil
lito about it. He did not know your ad
dress.”
"He could have asked you for it. And
there was Driffield, the other deacon;
what was he about?”
Matthew Hornblower seemed to have
some difficulty in replying; and it was in
a reluctant voice that he forced out the
words :
“I ain't friends with him now, Jim, I’ve
changed. I’m not even a church mem
ber,”
“Eh, that’s a queer start,” said Jim.
“It's r.ecent, Isn’t it? You wrote me only
two months ago that you had charge of
the Sunday school, and were head deacop,
and I don’t know what.”
"So I was, Jim, so I was. But it was
sometime ago. Don’t talk about it, un
less you want to distress me, boy. I am
too old now—too old—for any work.”
It was a subterfuge, and he knew it.
But how could he tell his son that he had
been deposed in disgrace from the offices
that he used to hold? Jim stared for a
moment, and sat silent. He was much
ovei whelmed at the present state of things,
and very angry to think that he had been
kept in ignorance. And he was puzzled
by the change in his father, and the ab
sence of all his former friends.
In the days when James Hornblower
was an idle, shiftless lad, his father had
been a stern man, rigid in discipline, and
strict beyond measure in his religious
views. Behind the iron exterior, however,
there lay a warmth of affection which the
scapegrace had had the wit to discover
and the heart to appreciate. He had be
haved badly enough before he broke the
bonds that held him to his home and
flown to Australia, but in the bush he had
repented him of his misdeeds, and remem
bered tite love that had been silently lav
ished upon him. He came to return it
now.
He laid his father back upon the pillow,
and put his mouth close to the old man's
ear.
“Father," he said, in a softer voice, and
witii some hesitation, “you—you got the
money all right?”
The old man smiled a little; a singular
brightness came into his eyes.
“Yes, Jim, yes. I got the money all
right. Don't trouble yourself about that.’’
“It was fifty pounds, and the interest.
I never spoke of It in a letter. I could't,
somehow, although I sent it back; but I
often thought-out there—that I'd like to
hear you say, dad, that you' forgive me.”
“Y'es, Jim, my boy. And God bless
you.”
"That’s all right, then. I’m glad to have
said it—after all these years. Father, I
quite thought you could afford it. I hope
it wasn’t that loss which helped to cripple
you?”
"It was all right, Jim; you paid it
back.”
Jim drew a long breath. Something In
his father’s manner had made him more
ashamed than he had ever thought to be.
The nurse Interposed. Mr. Hornblower
must not be disturbed or excited any
more, she said. So Jim went forth to find
the authorities of the place, and to ar
range In his Imperious way for his father's
Immediate removal to the best Inn of the
place. He passed Driffield’s office, and
longed to go In and "speak his mind" to
the man who could not save an old friend
from the workhouse; but he put the visit
off to another day, because he was so
busy. And it was fortunate that he did.
He came back to the workhouse later In
the evening. He was informed that Mr.
Hornblower had sent for the minister.
Jim wondered why. He supposed that It
was to tell him that his son had at last re
turned.
His face relaxed into a grim smile, as he
stole into the ward. A screen had been
placed at the foot of the bed, out of re
spect to James Hornblower’s respectabil
ity rather than for any need of shelter.
He had no qualm about listening; he ex
pected to hear a paean of exultation from
his father's lips, and congratulating
speeches from those of Mr. Shlilito. He
had known Mr. Bhillito and liked him In
the days of old.
He listened. Gradually the smile for
sook his Ups.
What was the minister saying? And
why those warning tones?
“i fear, Mr. Hornblower,” he said, “that
your'request savours of carnal pride, and
a ciesire to escape from the penalty which
God doth always exact for sin."
Mr. Shillito had a naturally gentle voice;
but It Is wonder ful how stern a gentle
voice can be sometimes. Jim’s heart swell
ed within him; what did the old man
mean?
"I sympathise as any man that is a
father can sympathise with your desire to
SAVANNAH. GA.. SUNDAY. JANUARY 10. is 7.
keep him in ignorance of your fall; but my
poor friend, I'm In a painful position when
you ask me to do so. I will never force
the facts upon him. but if questioned, I
fear 1 must reply.”
Matthew Hornblower had laid silent, but
now he groaned, as if in bodily pain. Mr.
Shillito’s voice grew gentler, and he press
ed closer to the bed.
"During all these years. Matthew Horn
blower,” he said, “since the day when you
acknowledged the crime of which you had
been guilty, I have never heard a word of
penitence or contrition from your lips.
We had hoped that you would ask (o be
reinstalled as a church member, and on
sign of repentance we would have wel
comed you again—ay. with joy, even
as the angels do rejoice over one sinner
that repenteth. Let me implofe you tc
speak, even now. and to ask for God's for
giveness. You will surely not die in this
awful state of hardness and impenitence.”
The screen was roughly cast aside.
James llornbiower’s face appeared, crim
son with wrath and pride.
“Why do you insult my father in this
way? He, the most upright and honor
able of men! What do you mean?"
Matthew lifted up his wrinkled hands.
“For God’s sake, Shillito, do not tell my
boy!”
“1 must know,” said the younger man.
setting his lips. His clenched hands and
frowning brow might have struck terror
to the heart of a timid man, but the min
ister of Salem Chapel,, Easterby, was not
timid in spite of his usual gentleness. He
faced James Hornblower undauntedly.
“1 am grieved,” he said, “to have been
the means of introducing a discussion of
this kind. I will refer you to Mr. Driffield,
one of our deacons, and treasurer of the
chapei funds. He can answer all ques
tions better than I can.”
“I will hear it from you, not from Drif
field,” said Jim. “What do you accuse
my father of having done?”
"It is no mere accusation,” said the min
ister, in a nettled tone. “He avowed it—
confessed it before the church. Led away
by great temptation, in a time of pecuni
ary difficulty he appropriated to his own
use a sum of money for the chapel which
had been placed in his charge. AVe should
never have believed it but for his own con
fession—never.”
James Hornblower’s features had chang
ed from crimson to a livid grey. His Jaw
dropped, his eyes were fixed upon his
father’s quivering face, down which the
tears of age had begun to fall.
“A sum of money! How much? When?
Tell me the details, quick.”
"It was fifteen years ago this month;
Just about the time when you left home.
James. It was always thought probable
that you knew something of the matter,
and would not wait to see your father’s
disgrace. It was a sum of fifty pounds.
“Done up in a leather bag ready to go to
the bank. I know. And father—father
said ”
“He said he used it,” said Mr. Shillito.
sadly. “He could not refund it when call
ed upon to do so; but I am glad to say that
years afterwards he paid us the amount in
full, with interest and compound interest.
We did not prosecute,’ of course),”
“And ytofi’ bsHeve<? Irttrt? You turned
him out of the dhurch for this?”
“Jim, my boy. Be silent; it is all over
now.”
“He was deacon and superintendent and
head man at your chapel when I went
away. You turned him out?”
“It was Impossible that he should con
tinue to hold those positions,” said the
minister, rather firmly. Jim’s loud voice
and unbashed front took him by surprise.
“What a set of fools you must be!" ex
claimed the man from the bush, “not lo
know him better than that! Why, father,
what'was the good of it? It wouldn’t have
hurt me for all the world to know that I
took it!”
“You took it?” gasped the minister.
“I took it. I thought it was my father’s
money and that he’d never miss it. I sent
it back to him afterwards, and had no idea
but what it had been all right, though it
was a mean trick to walk oft with the
money without his consent. But I thought
I knew my father—and—and —l didn't, af
ter all.”
He dropped down Into the nearest chair
and hid his face in his hands.A mighty sob
heaved his broad shoulders, and his
father lay and looked at him with a ming
ling of love, shame and pity, which was
heavenly in its perfect peace. The minis
ter stood up, and positively gasped for
breath.
“I couldn’t ha’ made ’em understand,”
said Hornblower presently, in a soft and
placid voice. "They’d ha’ called him a
thief, and not seen that he was only bor
rowing off his father—as he thought. They
would have prosecuted, maybe, and that
would have spoiled his career. You see.
Mr. Shillito, how well he's done for him
self. Was it for me to put hindrances in
his way?"
"But my poor friend," said Mr. Shillito,
almost unable to speak, and taking the old
man’s nerveless hand In his, “you need not
have sacrificed yourßelf.”
“There seemed no other way,” said
Matthew'. “It was a question of him oi
me. Nobody else could ha’ corned at the
money. And It was better to he me
though it went against tne, Mr. Shillito. tr
tell the lie—lt did, indeed. I never told a
lie before nor since, so far as I can recol
lect. That was why I could never profes
the penitence you sought to arouse In me
But now I do sore repent the lie I told
and I trust the Lord will pardon me for it
considerin' the circumstances of the case
It seems to me He must ha' forgiven me
now that I see my boy standing at my bed
side again.”
“I don’t care who knows the truth,” said
Jim, standing up and speaking firmly
"Mr. Shillito, you'll see to it. My father’s
name’s got to be cleared at any cost. I'll
go to prison If you like ”
“No, no, there will be no occasion,” said
the minister. “Your father shall be hon
ored as he deserves, he sure of that. Horn
blower, my dear, dear old friend, can you
forgive me?”
Hornblower smiled and put out his hand
“Lord, now lettest Thou Thy servant de
part in peace,” he murmured, using word
that had often been In his heart during
the last few days and weeks.
"Y’ou shan't depart!” roared Jim, almost
beside hlms 4 with grief and something
not unlike a kind of rage. “You're going
to live, and show everybody what a hero
and saint you’ve been; you’ve got to live
for other people's sake—for mine most of
sll. How can I hear my life, father. If you
you die? You must live!"
And he did live. The stimulus of his
son’s presence helped him to struggle
back to a fair measure of health and
strengtH, sufficient at least to enable him
to resume once more his old duties its
chief office-bearer In the churph. He was
unanimously elected to all his former
offices, and knew once more the joy of be
ing deacon and Sunday school superin
tendent and treasurer of the chapel fund.
And after a few months he went with his
son to Australia, where we heard some
years later that his end—a quiet and
peaceful end—had come.
Perhaps the fullest compensation for all
his sacrifice was made h!m when at the
weekly prayer meeting at Salem Chapel,
in a hush of stilled expectancy, the minis
ter would rise in his place and say, with a
certain insistence In his tone;
“Our dear nrother, Deacon Hornblower,
will now conduct in prayer."
After fifteen years of silence, compen
sation indeed—yet who could give him
back those fifteen empty years?
The End.
A MOrOCYI'LB FORT.
On Wheels in Summer nml Runners
in Winter.
Copyright, 1897.
From the steam road-crusher to the mo
tocycle is only a step. Yet it took fifty
years to make it. From the motocyele
buggy to the artillery wagon is half a step,
yet it took the Messrs. Serpollet, famous
motocyele inventors of Paris, ten years to
take it. The artillery wagon for war is a
thing accomplished and the samples are
lielng run over the country roads of Wash
ington.
Sherman's toilsome “March to the Sea”
would never have been necessary If the
motocyele artillery wagon had been known
then. Perhaps Sherman could never have
got to the sea if there had been the Balti
more gasoline express wagon, which is
now a full-lledged Invention. But why
speculate when it is now fully agreed that
the sieges of Sebastapol, Lucknow, Paris
and Richmond will never again be possi
ble, with the modern appliances of steam
and electricity?
The motocyele artillery wagon is a mov
ing fort. It is built to transport armies
wherever they want to go. The forts are
capable of carrying 3,000 pounds and their
speed is fully five miles an hour.
The traveling fort is for advances into
the enemy’s country. Take that not
wholly impossible thing, a war with Spain,
and see how the motocyele fort could be
used. Suppose Spanish warships effected
a landing at some point of our long coast
line. The first news would reach us that
the enemy had landed and was marching
to take a city. Immediately the motocyele
forts would be mounted upon railway
trains and the army carried as far as the
line of railway was open. Then the
forts would be placed upon the ground
and loaded with men and ammunition.
The power in the dynamo would be start
ed by small gasoline burners, and away
the vehicles would start across country,
with every facility for routing the invad
ing army. Twenty forts, each carrying
3,000 pounds of men and ammunition, could
rout an army of 40,000 men.
The forts would be fitted with small can
non and with abundant holes for the
sharpshooters. They would carry dynam
ite shells and every small missile of de
struction.
At the front a revolving turret of Gat
ling guns would scatter small dynamite
bombs In ell direction* ia case of any stop
page by outlying pickets.
The speed of the motocyele fort can be
placed at twenty miles an hour. But this
is too great for any but a spurt. The aver
age speed would not be over three miles
an hour.
The motocyele fort when fully completed
will be much less expensive than any horse
power. The cost of operating a motocyele
carrying 3,000 pounds is one-tenth of the
cost of maintaining horses that could carry
the same weight, and in army use there
must always be horses or mules to trans
port the baggage, supplies, extra ammuni
tion and for the carrying of the sick and
wounded. Spain has a railroad tort, an
engine fitted with guns, but this goes only
on laid tracks.
The motocyele fort is also easy to man
age. It can be guided across smooth fields
and to open places in fences. It is more
easily steered than a team of horses and
has the advantage of not running away.
Another advantage of the fort will be
that it can be used in winter. The Idea of
a motocyele on runners Is a contradictory
one, because there must be something to
make wheels go around In order to carry
the vehicle along. But the motocyele can
be mounted on runners just the same.
This is done by placing runners under the
front wheels and under the fore part of
the hind wheels. In going over a slippery
surface the speed is much increased, os
the runners slip back keep a constant fric
tion exerted which propels the wagon for
ward. This has been frequently done with
the motocyele road wagon, so its use with
the artillery wagon will be a simple thing.
The cycle fort will be easily operated.
There is a lever managed by an experi
enced operatcr. This is in a v compartment
in the middle, separated by partitions from
the sharpshooters and the gunners. In
starting the fort the operator draws back
the lever, and in stopping it he pushes It
forward. There is a side lever for turn
ing or steering. All Is quickly and easily
managed. A friction clutch stops the car
wheels withlt. a few feet. Going at top
ipeed It can be stopped at twelve feet,
which is twice a horse’s length, and a
much shorter space than a horse would
leed to come to a standstill.
The fuel consumed is kerosene, which is
easy to obtain. A small quantity suffices
for a long journey. Five gallons will
arry the motocyele all day, the whole of
a ten-hour day, at a speed of three miles
per hour. This is very economical when
•ompared with the cost of keeping horses
one day. The flow of oil is easily regulated
and the speed kept at Just tne required
rate.
One of the advantages of the motocyele
Is that an army could completely surprise
the enemy with its use. Starting at dusk
from some distant place the wagons could
proceed in four different directions ami
ome upon the enemy at dawn from four
sides at once, the uniform speed of the
wagons enabling the commanders to cal
culate to a nicety the hour of coming upon
the enemy. Chester A. Arthur was very
enthusiastic over this plan for surprising
the enemy and one of his pictures shows
him In a motocyele, with a party of men,
experimenting upon a five-mile run. This
machine was one of the earliest horseless
carriages operated tn this country.
In time of peace the motocyele forts
would rest along with the army baggage
wagons. But In trouble they could be
quickly brought out, and with their use
would disappear the necessity for any of
the historic old "marches.”
, Allen Wltherby.
—The late Lord Chief Justice of Eng
land used to tell h! friends this anecdote
at his own expense: Driving In his coupe
towards his court one morning, an acci
dent happened to It at Orosvenor Square.
Fearing he would be belated, he called a
cab from the street rank, and bade the
Jehu drive him as rapidly as possible to
the courts of Justice. ‘And where are
they?” “What, u London cabby, and
don’t know where the law court* are at
old Templa Bar?” “Oh, the law hourts.
Is it? But you said court* of justice.”—
Tlt-Bitt.
SOHOSIS HAS A PINK TEA FUNERAL.
A Woman “Brings Out” Her
Daughter in a Pink Crepe Coffin.
It ceorn | loiiM, VI ii * it- and Light Ref reili men I h—"V e n ami Sensible” s n
RCNttoiis for Making the Inevitable Not I iiplenNnnt— Only a
Step From Fashionable Clothe* to Color Funerals.
New Y’ork, Jan. B.—“A prominent New
York woman, a member of Sorosis, recent
ly sent out invitations for her daughter's
debut. Two days before the ‘coming out’
the girl died suddenly. No invitations
were recalled. The grief-stricken woman
stood by the side of the coffin and silently
pressed the hands of her dear friends.
The girl, dressed in her pink silk coming
out gown, lay in a pink coffin covered with
pink roses. The funeral was at night,
and lights shone t hrough pink candle
shades, In an adjoining room was a
table set with light wines and cakes.”—
Drawing Room Gossip.
“I was the undertaker at that funeral,”
said an uptown obsequy director, "and 1
must say the effect was not unpleasant.
“When I called to the house the girl had
dropped, dead In the drawing-room while
superintending the trimming of the room
with pink, for her debut, two days later.
"I found the decorator draping the walls
with pink satin and the florist receiving
his orders for roses and pinks.
"THE GUESTS LIGHTLY REFRESHED THEMSELVES BEFORE DEPARTING FROM THE SADDENED HOMB. *
i made the suggestion that alt be al
lowed to remain, and the mother con
sented.
"The Invitations for the debut were not
recalled, but a line was sent telling of the
sad event.
"At the funeral hour the friends pressed
around the mother, who was gowned in
heaviest crepe. She sat beside the coffin,
which was all pink. In another room—
perhaps they were always there as part
of the hospitality of the house—were de
canters, cakes and a tea urn. The guests
sat down a moment before departing from
the sad scene.
“It was the most ‘extreme’ funeral over
which I have ever presided. Circum
stances led up to It, but the effect was so
calm, so beautiful, even so majestic, that
It will be repeated.
"The funeral, anyway.” he continued,
"has evolved from an obsequy to a func
tion. and 1 look for the next Innovation
to be in the line of refreshments and the
society reporter, and this not for a certain
few. hut as a general custom.
"The latter seems duly probable, for the
shroud hus given way to a toilette. The
refreshment Idea Is scarcely new, anti is
only In the same line as the wake, which
has always been popular among certain
classes.
“Since fashion has laid such violent
hands on the funeral as to Institute such
marked changes In the last forty years,
we may be prepared for anything.
“Tho difference In the expense of a fu
neral now and forty years ago affords an
excellent suggestion of the changes that
have taken place, for the cost must keep
pace with the details. Nowadays a first
class funeral costs about *460. Here Is a
Idll made out by my grandfather, who was
in this same business In New York In 1833
l cannot mention the names of patrons of
recent Mate, but this, my grandfather told
me was a bill of the mother of Commo
dore Vanderbilt, and was then very high.”
Here the undertaker took down from the
wall, wtiere it hung in a frame, a written
statement of funeral expenses, made out
on a bill head and duly receipted. Tho
paper was yellow with time and the ink
was faded. The cost of a funeral In 1858
was *46.50. It was Itemized as follows:
Mahogany coffin, lined with satin
and extra screwed *23 00
Flat plate, engraved 300
Flannel shroud 400
Book muslin cap 1 00
Four coaches 8 00
Two-horse hearse 8 00
Grave ; qq
Attendance 2 50
*46 50
“We live ten times as fast now," said
Che undertaker, "and it costs ten times as
much to even die.
“In the evolution of the funeral, we
have turned our attention from the mourn
ful garbing of ourselves to the more di
verting notion of giving an artistic and ef
fective function.
"For example, we cover coffins with
every delicate tint imaginable, and we
match the color to the color of the shroud.
Then we carry the same tint into flowers
and tie them with ribbons of the same
hue. The liorist comes in and trims the
apartments with palms and smilax just
the same as he does for social functions.
Cards are sent out and the whole affair is
conducted with conventional cool-heuded
ness.
“The only difference between the funeiai
of to-day and long ago Is tliut the cool
headedness Is acknowledged. Mourners
have always pulled themselves together
sufficiently to order crepe In gowns and
millinery, and they wanted it all in the
latest fashion, too. Now-a-days the house
decorations are as important as the per
sonal attire.
“Music Is engaged the same as it always
has been, and mournful melodies are still
in order. I predict that the time will come
when grand music appropriate to the ma
jesty of death will take the place of
the orthodox tunes. The long funeral
train is also a passing custom, and a pri
vate burial, which even the female mem
bers of the family do not attend, is fast
becoming popular.
“Then, too. we have a dressmaker who
gowns the body In an artistic manner,
making the gown where necessary. It Is
the usual custom, however, to use a pretty
gown of some delicate color that had been
worn In life.
"Then we make the casket to match.”
Here he produced a book it samples of
coffin covering. Every shade In the rain
bow was there. There was red for Cubans
and pinks, blues and purges tn delicate
tint*.
“This reminds me of a lavender coffin
we made for a prominent New York wo
man recently. She sent for me, and when
I arrived I found her directing a dress
maker In tho construction of a lavender
shroud. She gave me a sample of It for
the casket covering, asking the price, took |
her purse from beneath her pillow and
paid for it and then ordered me to see that
only violets were used In the decorations.
•I want to Rive a violet funeral,’ said she.
I followed her directions and the effect
was pleasant and very nrttstle.
“We frequently receive sealed letter*,
left for us in ’last effects,’ directing this
and that. And here there Is a change. My
father received no direction more elabo
rate than the style of coffin. Now I get
ull details from dress to decoration*.
“Fashionable funerals are crowded ‘to
hear the music,' and clergymen are get
ting richer and richer gowns.
“Will it ever be as fashionable a* it Is In
Paris ? Now, 1 can’t reply. Ilut I know
the society and dress reporters are not ab
gent." H. Holt Cahoon.
—A bicycle race with a panther wa* tho
exciting experience of an English lady
in Singapore one evening lately. When
rtillng slowly homeward along a road out
side of the two. the cyclist found that aha
was being quietly stalked by a huge black
panther. She had the presence of mind
to start off at full speed, and soon dis
tanced her pursuer.
PAGES 17 TO 20.
AMERICA'S LEANING TOWER.
I’romiiicM lo llfvome ns Famous an
Its Rival in Pisa.
From the Philadelphia Times.
The leaning tower of Pisa has a proto
type In America. It is more than 306 feat
high, and at the base Is two-thirds that
number of feet in circumference. At pres
ent It Is thirteen inches out of plumb, and
during a heavy storm sways back and
forth like a willow wand.
This remarkable structure is built on the
grounds of E. C. Stearns & Cos., according
lo a system Invented by Sanford E. Lor
litg, an architect of Syracuse, where the
tower is located. By his system, heavy
timbers are braced continuously and con
nected by iron shoulder plates, which take
the place of the skeleton steel construc
tion. The brick on the outside is merely
a veneer, and not a supporting wall in any
sense of the term. The tower Is unpro
tected and has to take, the force of every
gale that blows.
It Is just now the cause of a flerco
strife In Syracuse, because the people de
clare that it is an Imminent source of dan
ger and liable to fall at any moment.
Architect Lorlng, however, says that if it
was thirteen feet out of plumb, instead of
thirteen inches, it would still be as safe
us a church and that people might walk
about, under and around it all day and
be in no more danger than in Mammoth
Cave. The Syracuse common council
avers that the tower is a public menace
and the architect in reply holds that it is
perfectly intact and safe, and that it will
stand any strain likely to come in the fu
ture.
The Stearns tower has only become of
the leaning variety at a comparatively re
cent date. The circumstance that brought
it into prominence til this role was a hur
ricane, or, as some call It, a tornado. In
any event, It was a tremendous wind, the
fiercest which even the oldest inhabitant
of Syracuse ever heard of. The wind
came from the southeast, striking the
tower upon the faces. In its velocity im
mense trees were torn up by tfle roots, tho
roofs of great buildings were twisted oft
and torn away as if they had been of half
inch plank. Buildings in their entirety
were lifted up and smashed Into kindling
wood, but, though the big tower swayed
from side to side as if understanding that
It was made to bend and not break, it
did not fall.
On the top of this tall tower is a water
tank, and this tank contained at the Urns
of the storm its normal contents—lo,ooo
gallons of water. When the storm was
over and the sunlight shone again, hardly
a gallon of water had been lost from the
tank, so far as appearances Indicated.
The tower, however, showed the effect
of the terrlilc blow. Before the storm
happened the structure had been as
straight as a British grenadier, but now it
was found It had been twisted upon Its
axis and bent over so that it leaned in as
great a degree as the famous tower of
There are one or two in tho
walls and some of the window sashes are
In a woefully dilapidated condition, but
otherwise It seems to be In very good
shape, Indeed. The space between tho
third and fourth stories and the sixth and
seventh seems to have suffered from the
storm the most severely. The sole fact
that saved the tower from demolition was
the peculiarity of the structure, which is
curiously arranged Iron work. The brick
wall that seems to form the structure Is,
as stated, simply veneer, and the holes
that the storm rent through It Indicate
forcibly what would have been the fata
of the structure had the brick entered
Into Ita composition more largely. As it
is, U Is the strangest specimen of what
clever architectural work will stand, and
before the common council and the Stearns
people are through with the war it Is
making, It all promises to become one of
those legal tights that wWI go down Into
history ns events In which every one la In
terested.
—Fuddy— Haven’t you always had a
contempt for that slothful servant who
wrapped up his talent In a napkin?
Duddy—On the contrary, 1 have often
thought him deserving of praise. Just as
like as not, you know, his talent was on*
for music.—Boston Transcript.