Chapter C: F. Birdseye Believes They Bring Undergraduates More Under Influence (4)

Wagner had begun to apply his theory of leading motives, or reminiscent melodies. These motives are phrases of a few notes rendered by the orchestra, each of which symbolizes a character, a psychological mood, or an event of dramatic weight.

While listening to the story which the orchestra is telling, one may without difficulty foretell the entrance of a character, the approach of doom, or the fateful result of an action. From these motives, modulated through strange keys and sung by instruments of differing colors, the scores of Wagner’s late operas, from “Die Meistersinger” on, were in their entirety composed.

❧ ❧ ❧

[Sidenote: =Wagner.=]

Wagner received his idea for “The Flying Dutchman” from a dramatic episode in his own life. At the time of the production of his opera, “The Novice of Palermo,” he was living beyond his means in Russia, in the town of Riga.

The failure of his opera left him heavily in debt, and the importunities of creditors decided him to escape in disguise from Russian territory. Minna, his wife, masqueraded as the wife of a lumberman, who took her as far as Pillau, in north Prussia, to which place Wagner was assisted by a different route. From that seaport he embarked with his wife, an opera and a half, a diminutive purse, and a Newfoundland dog, on a sailing-vessel to London, and thence to Paris.

Before leaving Riga, Wagner had read the legend of the Flying Dutchman, who was condemned to sail forever till the love of a faithful woman should release him from this curse. Among the wild storms of Wagner’s own voyage, in the wild romance of the passage through Northern fiords, he became obsessed by the story.

Perhaps it was not only the charm of the music of the sea and the lilt of the sailor’s songs which inspired him, but also his own heart’s craving for a cessation from wandering, and a home blessed by peace.

❧ ❧ ❧

[Sidenote: =Argument.=]

When the curtain rises we gaze on a wide storm-tossed ocean; the ship of the Norwegian mariner, _Daland_, lies at anchor near shore. Presently the sails of the _Flying Dutchman’s_ vessel emerge, blood-red, from the blackness of the storm. The _Dutchman_ steps ashore, for another term of seven years is past, and he is free to seek once more on earth the love of a faithful woman, whose devotion shall save him from the curse of wandering.

When _Daland_ reappears on deck he sees the _Dutchman_ and greets him, although he is a stranger, with open-hearted cordiality. The _Dutchman_ begs asylum for a few days in _Daland’s_ home, a few miles away, offering _Daland_ in return a share of the treasures he has amassed. To this _Daland_ consents.

“Have you a daughter?” asks the _Dutchman_.

“A beautiful daughter named Senta,” _Daland_ answers.

Then, with the precipitancy characteristic of all Wagner’s lovers, the _Dutchman_ cries:

“Let her be my wife!”

_Daland_, gazing on the treasures which the _Dutchman_ has shown him, joyously gives his permission.

The second act shows us a room in _Daland’s_ house, where _Senta’s_ friends are sitting before wheels, gaily singing and spinning. _Senta_ herself sits apart, gazing sentimentally at a portrait over the door—the portrait of the _Flying Dutchman_.

The gay song of her friends irritates her, and she bids them cease.

“Then sing us a better song yourself!” they cry.

_Senta_ accepts the challenge, and sings the ballad of “The Flying Dutchman.” At its close she jumps up and cries that she will be the woman to save the suffering mariner.

A few minutes later _Daland_ enters, accompanied by the _Dutchman_. _Senta’s_ eyes leap away from her father to the man beside him. Speechless and immobile she stares at the face of her dreams.

“Father, who is this stranger?” she breathes.

And _Daland_ whispers that he is a rich mariner who has come to woo her, and whom she must favor.

_Daland_ then leaves them alone. For long moments they stare at each other, while the passion of love for the first time fills the _Dutchman’s_ heart, and _Senta_ sees her fancies take form in reality.

When _Daland_ returns, _Senta_ has plighted her faith in the arms of her long-desired lover.

The third act presents the sea again. Two ships lie at anchor. That of _Daland_, which is gay with lights and movement, and the fantom ship of the _Dutchman_, dark and silent. Suddenly the sea, calm elsewhere, begins to rise about the ship of the _Flying Dutchman_.

Tongues of light shriek about its masts, a storm howls, the crew appears, and in satanic strains taunt the captain because he has not even yet found a faithful woman. Then suddenly the sea subsides, and darkness and silence again cover the ship.

_Senta_ comes out of the door of her house, accompanied by a suitor, Erik. _Erik_ pleads with her not to marry the _Dutchman_, but to renew that affection for himself which she must, he says, formerly have felt. He reminds her of an occasion when she stood, her arm about his neck, her hand in his.

The _Dutchman_ has drawn near, quite unperceived by either one of them, and has heard this tale. Ignorant of _Senta’s_ passion for himself, and now believing her to be but a mere flirt, he rushes forward, crying, “Farewell, Senta!” Then, pointing to the anchored ship, whose blood-red sails are being hoisted, he cries:

“I am the Flying Dutchman!”

As he leaps on board, the vessel moves out of the harbor. _Senta_ runs to a rock, from which she plunges after her lover into the sea.

As she does so, the curse is lifted, the fantom ship falls apart, and _Senta_ and the _Flying Dutchman_ together arise transfigured from the waves.

A NATION WITHOUT A LANGUAGE.

Despite Their Intense Patriotism, the Swiss Borrow Their “Mother-Tongue”
from Three Other Countries—A Polyglot Parliament.

The Swiss constitute that curious anomaly, a nation without a language, and in this they are alone among all the peoples of the world. This is all the more remarkable when their intense patriotism is considered, and their really wonderful love of country.

The official languages are German, French, and Italian, these three being the recognized “mother-tongue” of the majority of the inhabitants.

About three-fourths of the people speak German, while the remainder
divide four other languages among them—mainly French and Italian—the
languages varying, as a rule, according to the proximity of the people
to each country whose tongue they speak.

Public documents and notices are printed in both the French and German
languages. In the Swiss National Parliament the members make their
speeches either in French or German, for nearly all the members
understand both these languages.

The orders of the President are translated by an official interpreter
and furnished to the newspapers in both languages.

Three, Seven, and Thirteen.

Strange Persistence in Nature of These Mystic Numbers, Each of Which Has
Ever Been Regarded as Deeply Significant by the Various Races at
Different Periods of History, and Especially in Religious Observance.

Superstition of some sort or other has been attached to certain numbers from time immemorial, but the numbers three, seven, and thirteen have been particularly favored, and three and seven have figured very prominently in mythology, scriptural history, and elsewhere. Three is called the perfect number, seven is regarded as lucky, and thirteen as unlucky.

It was Pythagoras who termed three the “perfect number,” because it expressed “the beginning, the middle, and the end,” signifying a perfect whole.

On this account he made it a symbol of the Deity, and the “Holy Trinity” is now, and doubtless will be always, the most potent symbol of Christianity. The world was supposed to be under the rule of three gods: Jupiter (heaven), Neptune (sea), and Pluto (Hades). Jove is represented carrying three-forked lightning. Neptune carries a trident, and Pluto is accompanied by a three-headed dog.

Divides Things Into Three Parts.

There are three Fates, three Furies, and three Graces. The Harpies are three in number; there are three Sibylline books, and the fountain in Mysia, from which Hylas drew water, was presided over by three nymphs. The pythoness sat on a tripod; the Muses are three times three. Both Man and the World are threefold—the former, body, soul, and spirit; the latter, earth, sea, and air. The enemies of Man are the world, the flesh, and the devil; the kingdoms of Nature are animal, vegetable, and mineral. The cardinal colors are red, yellow, and blue.

In almost all countries new laws have to pass three bodies. In the United States, State laws pass the Assembly, the State Senate, and the Governor. Federal laws pass the House of Representatives, the Senate, and the President. In England there are the Commons, the Lords, and the King to be reckoned with.

Concerning the church there were the “Three Chapters,” otherwise three books on the subject of the Incarnation and the two natures of Christ, which caused a great controversy during the reign of Justinian and the popedom of Vigilius. In 553 these books were condemned by the General Council at Constantinople. One was written by Theodore, of Mopsuestia; one by Theodoret, of Cyprus; and the third by Ibas, Bishop of Edessa.

It was the “three bishoprics” of France that passed to the German rule after the Franco-Prussian War. They were Metz, Verdun, and Lorraine, each of which was once under the lordship of a bishop. In early days the churches were usually provided with what was known as a “three decker.” This structure consisted of the clerk’s desk, the reading-desk, and the pulpit, one above the other. Then again, Epiphany or Twelfth Day is sometimes known as “Three Kings’ Day,” as it is supposed to commemorate the visit of the three kings, or wise men, to the infant Jesus.

The three estates of the realm are the nobility, the clergy, and the commonalty in England, the sovereign being in a class by himself. One of the collects in the English prayer-books thanks God for preserving “the king and the three estates of the realm.” It was Burke who designated the press of the country “the fourth estate.”

Mention must also be made of the “three R’s” of education: reading, ’riting, and ’rithmetic; and the Bible is composed of three parts: Old Testament, New Testament, and Apocrypha.

The Holiness of Seven.

Seven always has been a holy number, and that may be why it is considered lucky. The creation occupied seven days; there are seven spirits before the throne of God. There are seven days in the week; seven divisions of the Lord’s Prayer; seven ages in the life of man; and the just are supposed to fall “seven times a day.”

The moon has seven phases, every seventh year was sabbatical for the Jews, and seven times seven years was the “jubilee.” The three great feasts of the Jews lasted seven days, and seven weeks elapsed between the first and the second of these.

Levitical purifications lasted seven days. In the Bible are mentioned seven candlesticks, seven trumpets, seven stars, and seven horns. The Lamb had seven eyes. Ten times seven Israelites went into Egypt, and the exile lasted ten times seven years. There were ten times seven elders, and Pharaoh, in his dream, saw seven ears of corn and seven kine.

The bibles or sacred books of the world are seven in number: the Bible of the Christians; the Eddas of the Scandinavians; the Five Kings of the Chinese; the Koran of the Mohammedans; the Tri Pitikes of the Buddhists; the three Vedas of the Hindus; and the Zendavesta of the Persians. Incidentally, the Koran dates from the seventh century.

The seven churches of Asia were founded in the following cities: Ephesus, Smyrna, Pergamos, Thyatira, Sardis, Philadelphia, and Laodicea. Strangely enough, each of these churches, which were founded by the Apostles themselves, are now Mohammedan, and the cities in which they stand, with the exception of Smyrna, are more or less insignificant.

Before the throne of God stand seven angels. They are Michael, Gabriel, Lamael, Raphael, Zachariel, Anael, and Oriphel. The Deity is endowed with seven spirits: the Spirit of Wisdom, the Spirit of Understanding, the Spirit of Counsel, the Spirit of Power, the Spirit of Righteousness, the Spirit of Knowledge, and the Spirit of Divine Awfulness.

In the life of the Virgin Mary there were Seven Joys and Seven Sorrows. The former were the Annunciation, the Visitation, the Nativity, the Adoration of the Magi, the Presentation in the Temple, the finding of Christ among the Doctors, and the Assumption. The sorrows were: Simeon’s Prophecy, the Flight into Egypt, the unexplained absence of Christ, the Betrayal, the Crucifixion, the Descent from the Cross, and the Ascension, when Mary was left alone. In the picture “Our Lady of Dolors” she is represented with her breast pierced with seven swords emblematic of her seven sorrows.

Seven Men Who Did Wonders In Chivalry.

The Seven Champions of Christendom were: St. George, of England, who was imprisoned seven years; St. Denys, of France, who lived seven years in the form of a hart; St. James, of Spain, who was dumb for seven years out of love for a Jewess; St. Anthony, of Italy, who was released from his enchanted sleep by St. George’s sons, who quenched seven lamps; St Andrew, of Scotland, who delivered six ladies who had lived seven years as white swans; St. David, of Wales, who was released from a seven years’ enchanted sleep by St. George; and St. Patrick, of Ireland.

The Seven Sages of Greece and their mottoes were: Solon, of Athens: “Know thyself.” Chilo, of Sparta: “Consider the end.” Thales, of Miletos: “Who hateth suretyship is sure.” Bias, of Priene: “Most men are bad.” Cleobulos, of Lindos: “The golden mean,” or “Avoid extremes.” Pittacos, of Mitylene: “Seize time by the forelock.” And Periander, of Corinth: “Nothing is impossible to industry.”

How the Old Alchemists Relied on Seven.

There are seven bodies in alchemy, each having its planet. They are: gold, the sun; silver, the moon; iron, Mars; quicksilver, Mercury; lead, Saturn; tin, Jupiter; and copper, Venus.

The Seven Deadly Sins are pride, wrath, envy, lust, gluttony, avarice, and sloth; while the Seven Virtues are faith, hope, charity, prudence, justice, fortitude, and temperance.

Ancient teaching had it that the soul of a man was composed of seven properties, each under the influence of a planet, thus: fire animates, earth gives the sense of feeling, speech is gained from water, air gives taste, sight comes from mist, flowers give hearing, and the south wind gives smelling. Here are the seven senses, and then, too, as the boys at school are fond of saying, there are seven holes in one’s head: two ears, two eyes, two nostrils, and the mouth.

The Seven Sleepers were seven youths of Ephesus who fled from persecution to a cave and slept therein for many years. Their names were Constantine, Dionysius, John, Maximian, Malchus, Martinian, and Serapion.

There are two groups of Seven Wonders of the World. The antique group consisted of the Pyramids, Babylon’s Hanging Gardens, Mausolus’s Tomb, the Temple of Diana at Ephesus, the Colossus of Rhodes, Jupiter’s Statue by Phidias, the Pharos of Egypt, and the Palace of Cyrus (which was cemented with gold).

The seven wonders of the Middle Ages were the Colosseum, the Catacombs at Alexandria, the Great Wall of China, Stonehenge, the Leaning Tower of Pisa, the Porcelain Tower of Nankin, and the Mosque of St. Sophia at Constantinople.

The Origin of “Unlucky Thirteen.”

Thirteen is regarded as unlucky by a great many people who claim that they are not superstitious about other things, and there are thousands of tales of unfortunate occurrences supposedly due to that number.

The origin of the superstition is very generally supposed to be the “Last Supper,” at which the Lord and His Twelve Apostles were present. As a matter of history, the belief in the “hoodoo” antedates Christianity by centuries. Norse mythology deemed it unlucky to sit down thirteen at a banquet table, because at such a feast in the Valhalla, Loki, the spirit of evil and the god of strife, once intruded. Balder, the god of peace, was killed by the blind war-god Hoder, at the instigation of Loki.

The Turks so dislike the number that the word indicating it has become almost expurged from their vocabulary. The Italians never use it in making up their lotteries, and in Paris no house bears the number; and there is in existence there a profession the members of which make their living attending dinner parties in order to make the fourteenth at table.

At a discussion of superstitions recently one young man ventured the remark that he knew of hundreds of buildings in New York that had no thirteenth story.

“How is that?” he was asked.

“They are only twelve stories high,” was the reply.

Nevertheless, there are several skyscrapers in the metropolis in which the number thirteen is skipped both in numbering the floors and in numbering the rooms. The Kuhn-Loeb Building, at the corner of Pine and William Streets, is an example, and the building at the corner of William and Wall Streets has a twelfth floor and a fourteenth floor, but no floor in between.

THE STORY OF THE KILKENNY CATS.

Hessian Soldiers, Stationed in Ireland, Were Responsible for One of the
Most Desperate Battles in History.

For more than a century the Kilkenny cats, which “fought until there was nothing left of them but their tails,” have been regarded as the most quarrelsome creatures of which there is any record.

Various accounts of their memorable encounter have appeared from time to time, but the version which is given the most credence is that offered by a writer in the _Irish Nation_. This story is as follows:

The story has been so long current that it has become a proverb—“as
quarrelsome as the Kilkenny cats”; two of the cats in which city are
asserted to have fought so long and so ferociously that naught was
found of them but their tails.

The facts are these: During the rebellion which occurred in Ireland in
1798, Kilkenny was garrisoned by a regiment of Hessian soldiers, whose
custom it was to tie together, in one of their barrack-rooms, two cats
by their respective tails, and then throw them face to face across a
line generally used for drying clothes. The cats naturally became
infuriated, and scratched each other in the abdomen until death ensued
to one or both of them.

The officers were made acquainted with the barbarous acts of cruelty,
and resolved to put an end to them. For this purpose an officer was
ordered to inspect each barrack-room daily and report its state. The
soldiers, determined not to lose the daily torture of the cats,
generally employed one of their comrades to watch the approach of
their officer.

On one occasion he neglected his duty, and the officer was heard
ascending the stairs while the cats were undergoing their customary
torture. One of the troopers seized a sword from the armrack and with
a single blow divided the tails of the cats.

The cats escaped through the open windows of the room, which was
entered instantly afterward by the officer, who inquired what was the
cause of the two bleeding cat’s tails being suspended on the line, and
was told in reply that “two cats had been fighting in the room; that
it was found impossible to separate them, and they fought so
desperately that they had devoured each other up, with the exception
of their two tails.”

DEAR HANDS.

Of the gems reprinted in THE SCRAP BOOK, our readers have received none more gladly than Mrs. Susan Marr Spalding’s “Fate,” which appeared in our first issue. Her name was then given as “Spaulding,” an error which we take this occasion to correct.

Few who read the poem in the March SCRAP BOOK were aware that Mrs. Spalding was still living. It is many years since “Fate” first appeared. The author’s fame, while amply justified by many other poems, has been permitted to rest upon that single earlier product, and the author herself has been lost sight of. Since “Fate” appeared, however, she has written much that is worthy of long remembrance.

Mrs. Spalding has been living with a friend, Mrs. Louise P. Sargent, of West Medford, Massachusetts, who writes of her, saying: “She is a helpless invalid, but so sweet and helpful that her influence radiates through a large circle.” Many friends sent her the March SCRAP BOOK, and she said:

“I am growing tired of ‘Fate.’ Why don’t they copy some of the sonnets, which are surely as deserving?”

Mrs. Spalding’s later poems, while perhaps no one of them strikes so vital a tone as “Fate,” are of high merit. We reprint from “The Wings of Icarus,” published by Roberts Brothers in 1892, the following fine sonnet:

BY SUSAN MARR SPALDING.

Roughened and worn with ceaseless toil and care,
No perfumed grace, no dainty skill had these;
They earned for whiter hands a jeweled ease,
And kept the scars unlovely for their share.
Patient and slow, they had the will to bear
The whole world’s burdens, but no power to seize
The flying joys of life, the gifts that please,
The gold and gems that others find so fair.
Dear hands, where bridal jewel never shone,
Whereon no lover’s kiss was ever pressed,
Crossed in unwonted quiet on the breast—
I see, through tears, your glory newly won;
The golden circlet of life’s work well done,
Set with the shining pearl of perfect rest.

FROM THE COUNTRY PRESS.

Joys and Sorrows That Flit With the Flies Into Rural Editorial
Sanctums—A Denial of Matrimonial Intent, the Tale of a Dog, and a Little
Gossip That May be Useful at Quilting Parties.

AN ANNOUNCEMENT.

Miss May Tybell says she ain’t engaged to anybody, and that she won’t be, there being too much foolishness in Link already.—_Henderson (Nebraska) Tribune._

ROUGH ON THE COLT.

While Elwood Gardner was caring for a colt in the stable Thursday he reared and kicked him in the stomach, hurting him so badly that he is not able to do anything.—_Coldwater (Michigan) Courier._

THEIR EQUIPMENT.

The correspondent, as well as the entire town and county, extend the best wishes and success to this happy pair. There is not the least doubt in any mind that they will succeed socially as well as financially, as each has an unequivocal sense of ubiquity.—_Wapello (Iowa) Republican._

LOST AND WON AD.

Lost—By Miss Susie Holbert, Saturday night, among the Sir Knights and the Daughters of St. Marace Tabernacle, No. 10, money tied in a handkerchief. Failure to return the money has caused some feelings. Miss Holbert won first prize in the U. M. P. J. J. M. Whist Club.—_Lawrence (Kansas) Gazette._

A REMARKABLE COINCIDENCE.

They tell of a North Atchison woman who was preserving cherries when the preacher called. She couldn’t leave her work, so he was called to the kitchen, and she watched her preserves while he talked, and stirred them in a quiet, religious way while he offered a prayer. The prayer and the preserves were done at the same time.—_Atchison Globe._

A SEQUATCHIE MYSTERY.

Wonder what George Marson is doing over here riding muleback. He passed by here Sunday with his two-story collar on and with both hands in his pocket up to his elbows, with his feet lying between the mule’s ears. He had his shoes shined and he did not want to get them soiled. His mule was so small that his feet would drag.—_Sequatchie (Tennessee) News._

MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING.

Don’t sneak in at a ball game. Up at Salina last week a fellow borrowed a boat, crossed the river, got his feet wet and muddy, climbed up the bank, tore a five-dollar pair of pants on the underbrush, got poison-ivy all over his face, slipped up to the game in the park from the rear—all this but to find out that no admission was charged to the game.—_Marquette (Kansas) Tribune._

THE WORM TURNS.

The lady (?) who yesterday called the attention of another to our patched breeches, whereat they both laughed so heartily, is informed that a new pair will be purchased when her husband’s bill is settled. It has been due nearly a year. Don’t criticise a printer’s dress too closely while you are wearing silks with money due him. Tell your husband to send us twenty dollars and seventy-three cents, and save the cost of an entire suit.—_Swainsboro Forest._

THE KIND OF DOG IT WAS.

The following notice has been published in a northern Peninsula paper by a French-Canadian:

“Loosed. One dawg. Been loose him bout three weeks. Him white dawg almost white with him tail cut off close next to her body. Anybody find her bring him to me. I belong to him and shall give good rewards for the same. Black spot on him nose about size fifty cents or dollar piece, Canada money or United States all the same. For yours truly with anxious, Felix Carno, hind side of Methody Church about three blocks in the house up-stairs with green painting.”—_Exchange._

Van Nesten and the Burglar.

BY W. S. ROGERS.

The wind blew and blew. It flapped across the river and disported itself up through the town, shaking and tearing at things—gates, chimneys, and wire-hung smokestacks. It shrieked and roared through alleys and around corners, and at last it careened up Main Street, on the very stroke of midnight. There it contended with an uncertain-minded person, whom it found trying to navigate.

This was Mr. Chester Van Nesten, and he was supposed (by himself only, for no one else on earth knew anything at all about it) to be going somewhere. Not home, however, for Mr. Van Nesten was opposed to going home in dark and windy weather at twelve o’clock at night. “M’ dear,” he had said impressively when he thought of home, “lodge meet’n—in-itiation—unfit s’ciety la’ies!” And that, several times repeated, seemed to clinch the argument.

Having formed a resolution not to go to his home until such time as the streets and buildings, which whirled about him so erratically, should find themselves once more in their proper positions, he decided to go to his office and there spend the night.

At length, after a series of wonderful tacks, he succeeded in steering up to the darkened building in which were situated the offices of the firm of Hidgepit & Van Nesten.

Pausing before the stairway entrance of the old building, Mr. Van Nesten rattled at the door-knob.

“Locked!” he muttered as he fumbled uncertainly in his pockets.

The keys were forthcoming in due time, and then, in a spasmodic manner, he applied himself to the task of opening the door. He succeeded. Then, closing the door after him, he slouched and stumbled along till he encountered a staircase. Mr. Van Nesten paused to rest and consider this staircase, and then, breathing very hard, he clutched an invisible bannister and began by painful degrees to ascend.

Hidgepit & Van Nesten’s office was on the second floor, near the center of the building. Hidgepit & Van Nesten’s composing-room being in front and Hidgepit & Van Nesten’s bindery in the rear. Mr. Van Nesten arrived at last at the office. He stumbled in and endeavored to light the gas. But he had no matches—none—and after solemnly expressing appreciation of this mystery, he groped about in the dark for a time, thumping himself uncertainly against things, till he found a certain small leather-covered couch or lounge that reposed in a corner of the room with its head against a big iron safe. Mr. Van Nesten, breathing audible relief, sat down to rest.

His father-in-law and senior partner, Mr. Hidgepit, owned this lounge, and was in the habit of reclining on it daily (Sundays excepted) after lunch, while he meditated and encouraged digestion.

Van Nesten was very well satisfied, then, and sat quite still for a few moments while he contemplated the equity of things. He removed his coat and hat, but, finding no place to put them, he held them for a moment and then flung them from him. He endeavored to consider the iniquity of his coat and hat—and it ended by his head falling forward again, and then he dropped completely over and went sound asleep on the couch.

Some hours later Mr. Van Nesten awoke—a little gradually—in confusion and with reluctance. But a blinding stream of light was in his eyes and a figure—a grotesque and crouching figure, with a strip of black cloth across its face—was before him. This he became more or less vaguely aware of, and then came the pressure of something cold and hard against his right temple. He flashed wide awake in an instant—and perfectly, perfectly sober.

“Don’t move,” said the burglar. And Mr. Van Nesten didn’t. The burglar ran a deft hand over him to detect the presence of possible fire-arms, and then he stepped back.

“Get up!” he said sharply.

Van Nesten stood up. He was a young man, of good physique, and now that the first shock was over, did not feel greatly afraid. He looked steadfastly at the eyes which showed through the holes in the black mask. The burglar regarded him steadily, his pistol in his hand. He was taking stock of the situation.

“You belong here?” he demanded at last.

“I do,” said Van Nesten.

“Then”—the pistol was raised to a level with the young man’s head—“you open that safe!”

Van Nesten winced. It is no light matter to look into the muzzle of a big revolver. He experienced a quick impulse to duck—to fend his face—to dodge and run, but he controlled himself and remained perfectly quiet.

“Don’t say you can’t!”

The burglar’s tone was threatening.

“I won’t, though!” said Van Nesten. He was surprised at his own quiet, firm tones. “I won’t, though!” he repeated.

The silence then was electrical. The two men, tense as steel, stood glaring at each other.

“You won’t!” The burglar’s attitude seemed to be more tense. “You won’t!”

“I would—to save my life,” said Van Nesten, “but it’s not necessary. If you kill me you’ll have murder as well as house-breaking to answer for—besides being no nearer to getting the safe open. And it might make a noise,” he added.

The burglar stood for an unpleasant, concentrated moment, and then he seemed to grow a little less intense. He relaxed and uttered a curse.

“Throw up your hands!” he snapped.

“I’ll do that,” said Van Nesten, and he did.

The burglar put down his lantern and produced from his pocket a piece of stout cord. He leaped into a chair. “Come here!” he said, with vicious curtness. “Backwards!”

Van Nesten, turning about, endeavored to comply.

“Hands together!” said the burglar, when he had him satisfactorily stationed. Van Nesten’s hands came together; and the burglar rapidly wound round and round them at the wrists with an end of his cord. The cold nozzle of his revolver pressed lightly against Van Nesten’s neck.

“No monkey business!” the intruder cautioned by way of general admonition, as he drew it away. And then he tied Van Nesten’s hands.

He stepped down from the chair then and directed Van Nesten to climb up in his place. Then he bound the young man’s ankles together. He was a strong burglar and he bound them exceedingly well.

This done, he backed off and regarded his work. Van Nesten stood with his back to him, in a perfectly helpless position. He could not even get to the floor without severe risk of injury. The burglar walked round and faced him.

“I ain’t going to gag you,” he growled. “You understand if you make a noise what it will be—a personal risk to me? You understand that?”

“I understand,” said Van Nesten. “That’s the reason I’m tied. It won’t be necessary to gag me.”

The burglar grunted.

“It’s also unnecessary to keep me standing up here,” went on Van Nesten boldly. “Take hold of my elbow,” he said, “and steady me so I can jump down.”

The burglar glared at him an instant in amazement, and then suddenly jerked himself forward and seized him by the arm.

“Jump!” he said roughly.

When Van Nesten came down to the floor again the burglar gave him a whirl about, and pushed him over into the chair. They regarded one another steadily, then the burglar turned away.

“Keep your face shut now, will you?” he said, and went to pick up his lantern again.

He approached the big iron safe as a man approaches his chosen work. Van Nesten watched him making his arrangements—inspecting, tapping, and fingering about—as deftly, accurately, and readily as a skilful artisan.

He never paused for an instant and his tools seemed ready to his hand. Finally he prepared something with a few sharp clicks, and then he dropped down to his knees and began to work—drilling.

Van Nesten did not at all enjoy his situation, but the pain from his thongs soon gave way to a numbness, and then he did not suffer so much. The only sound for several moments was the dull grind of the burglar’s drill.

Suddenly the burglar stopped his work and began to snuff at the air. He laid down his tools and raised his face toward the ceiling.

“By God!” he cried excitedly, and sprang to his feet. “What’s this smoke?”

Van Nesten not only smelled it, but saw that it was pouring into the room through the open door.

“This place is afire!” said the burglar.

Like a flash Van Nesten’s mind went back and he remembered himself drunkenly ascending those stairs and lighting matches to try and find the way. He remembered now that when he had entered the office there had been no match left in his pocket. He gave a great wrench at his thongs—but they held him fast. Van Nesten groaned.

The burglar was down on the floor again, gathering up his implements. He was defter and quicker now than ever, and Van Nesten, in a cold sweat, sat watching him.

The burglar’s tools clinked and jingled together as he stowed them away. Then he suddenly leaped to his feet and faced Van Nesten.

“Shoot me—strangle me—do something!” cried Van Nesten. “For God’s sake don’t leave me here like this!”

But the burglar had not hesitated an instant. His hand had been in his pocket even as he rose from the floor, and a knife gleamed as he advanced with a rush.

“Stab me, then!” said Van Nesten wildly. “Stab me, then! Don’t leave me here to roast!”

“What!” cried the burglar. He recoiled from those words as suddenly as if he had been hit. An upward motion tore the mask from his face, and aghast he glared at Van Nesten.

“My God, man!” he said “what you think I am?”

The rising smoke eddied between them.

But the burglar recovered himself almost instantly.

“You’re scart,” he said, “and I don’t blame you.”

With two deft strokes of his knife he severed the cords that bound Van Nesten’s hands and feet. Then he stepped back and thrust the knife in his pocket.

“It’s up to you,” he said. “How are we going to get out of here?”

Van Nesten passed a hand across his forehead and staggered to his feet. He stepped to the door and the burglar quickly followed.

“Wait!” said Van Nesten. He flashed the burglar’s lantern up and down the hall. It was thoroughly full of smoke. His quickening mind took in the whole situation.

“Come on!” he said.

He took the burglar by the hand and led him swiftly through the hall.

“Up?” asked the burglar.

Van Nesten opened a door and they passed out into the bindery among stitching-machines and great stacks of unfolded paper.

“Good thing you brought this lantern!” remarked Van Nesten, leading swiftly on. They encountered another hallway and more smoke, then a flight of stairs, which they mounted two steps at a time.

“Can you open a door?” asked Van Nesten, when a locked one barred their way. The burglar grunted and applied himself, while Van Nesten held the light. Neither spoke, but hot clouds of smoke were coming up faster and faster, and the sound of a crackling roar was beneath them. The fire was coming on with a rush.

The door opened, and they burst into Greddin’s paper-box factory, full of combustibles.

“This way!” cried Van Nesten, taking the burglar’s hand again. They ran through tangled aisles of machinery, tables, and benches, the thick smoke all about them. Then Van Nesten reached a window and he and the burglar seized it together and threw it up. Shouts and the sounds of confusion in the street came up to them now, and in the distance clanged the gong of an approaching fire-engine. But there was no time to lose.

“Go ahead!” said Van Nesten. “It’s one at a time now.”

Then the burglar, with his head and shoulders through the window, drew back, white and shaking.

“My God!” he exclaimed, “have we got to jump across there?”

It was a perfectly easy leap of five feet to the roof of the next building, with a twenty-four inch drop to make it certain. “I can’t do it!” the burglar groaned.

Van Nesten stared at him, appalled at his sudden fright. “You’re crazy!” he cried. “It’s perfectly easy. Go on, man! Be quick!”

The burglar clutched the window-sill, looking out with wild eyes.

“I can’t!” he muttered despairingly. “I was always this way. I can’t do it!”

“You’ve got to!” said Van Nesten. “By God! I’ll throw you over!”

But the burglar shrank away. His nerve was utterly gone.

“Save yourself,” he said. “It’s no use. I’ll never make it!”

Van Nesten glared about him. Then he cried:

“Quick, man, your knife! Some belting!” He leaped to the top of an embossing-machine which stood near the window and seized hold of the two-inch leather belt which connected with its overhead shafting. The burglar had his knife ready and thrust it up to him. Van Nesten slashed at the belt, and it fell in twain. He leaped to the floor, bearing an end of it with him.

“Fasten it here—quick!” Van Nesten said, circling a projecting piece of the heavy machine. “When I jump across throw me the other end of it. You can cross on that.”

Van Nesten clambered to the window-frame and made his leap. His feet crunched on the gravel roof of the next building.

“Come on! That belt!” he cried, rushing back to the edge of the roof. “Come on!”

The burglar had already thrown it. It curled in a twisted mass at Van Nesten’s feet, and he seized it up and retreated back on the roof with the end of it. In vain he looked for a place to fasten it—hither and thither he darted, and the burglar, his white face showing through the smoke, his crouching body pressed down upon the window-frame, watched him.

Van Nesten wrapped the belt around his body and stretched it taut. There were twenty feet or more of it, and though the leverage would be against him, he could, by keeping to the far end of it, easily sustain the burglar’s weight for a distance of five feet from the window-frame on which it rested.

“I’ve got you!” cried Van Nesten. “Come on!”

The burglar crept up on the window-sill, his feet curled beneath him. Slowly, slowly his hand led out along the piece of belting—he reached to the center and part of the space that lay between him and safety, but still, distrusting, despairing, he clung to the window-ledge. Then he lurched suddenly forward, and swung by his hands over the abyss.

Van Nesten, braced as he was, took a step forward under the quick strain. The belt sagged, and the burglar sunk to a level with the roof. Its cornice was almost in his face. Terror was upon him as he hung, and he could not move. Then the belt slipped: Van Nesten could not hold it. The burglar gasped and clutched at the edge of the roof. Van Nesten, tangled in the belting, thought that he had fallen, and he hurried forward. The white face was beneath him and his own wild eyes stared into it.

Van Nesten, breathing heavily, bent over and took the burglar by the wrists. Terror now was upon them both. Slowly Van Nesten drew up the burglar who hung inert. It was not till his waist had passed the point of safety that the burglar exerted himself. Then he made a sudden frantic effort, and, wrenching himself free from Van Nesten, he crawled out upon the roof.

He lay flat for a moment from sheer exhaustion, then he sat up.

“By God!” said the burglar, passing his hands over his face, “I don’t want nothing more like that.”

Van Nesten, feeling suddenly weak, had sat down also. Now he turned toward the burglar and burst out laughing.

The burglar gave Van Nesten a quick look.

“What’s to do with you and me?” he asked.

Van Nesten remained cheerful.

“Don’t know,” he said. “Say,” he immediately added, “got anything you want to burn up? The firemen’ll be here in about a minute, you know.”

The burglar took the hint. He stood up and cast certain things through the window to the room they had just left.

“Chuck that gun over there, too,” said Van Nesten, with just an authoritative twang to his voice. The burglar, giving him another quick look, complied.

The burglar stood a little awkwardly.

“Well, let’s get out of here,” said Van Nesten, springing up. “It’s getting hot.”

Together they traveled over the roof toward the fire-escape.

ORIGIN OF “THE MARSEILLAISE.”

The Romantic Circumstances Attending the Writing of France’s National
Anthem By a Young Artillery Officer.

Probably no national hymn has ever roused the frenzy of patriotic enthusiasm which always attends the singing of “The Marseillaise.” The bloody deeds of the French Revolution were all accompanied to the music of this inspiring song, and curiously enough, it seems to fire the hearts of the people when they are actuated by widely different motives.

The origin of the song is interesting and would seem to indicate that it was indeed an inspiration in the true sense of the word. Lamartine gives the story in his “Histoire des Girondins.”

In the garrison of Strasburg was quartered a young artillery officer,
named Rouget de Lisle, a native of Louis de Salnier, in the Jura. He
had a great taste for music and poetry, and often entertained his
comrades during their long and tedious hours in the garrison. Sought
after for his musical and poetical talent, he was a frequent and
familiar guest at the house of one Dietrich, an Alsatian patriot,
Mayor of Strasburg.

The winter of 1792 was a period of great scarcity at Strasburg. The
house of Dietrich was poor, his table was frugal, but a seat was
always open to Rouget de Lisle.

One day there was nothing but bread and some slices of smoked ham on
the table. Dietrich, regarding the young officer, said to him, with
sad serenity:

“Abundance fails at our boards; but what matters that, if enthusiasm
fails not at our civic _fêtes_, nor courage in the hearts of our
soldiers? I have still a last bottle of wine in my cellar. Bring it,”
said he to one of his daughters, “and let us drink France and Liberty!
Strasburg should have its patriotic solemnity. De Lisle must draw from
these last drops one of those hymns which raise the soul of the
people.”

The wine was brought and drank, after which the officer departed. The
night was cold. De Lisle was thoughtful. His heart was moved, his head
heated. He returned staggering to his solitary room and slowly sought
inspiration—sometimes in the fervor of his citizen soul, and anon on
the keys of his instrument, composing now the air before the words,
and then the words before the air. He sung all, and wrote nothing, and
at last, exhausted, fell asleep with his head resting on his
instrument, and awoke not till daybreak.

The music of the night returned to his mind like the impression of a
dream. He wrote it, and ran to Dietrich, whom he found in the garden
digging winter lettuces. The wife and daughters of the old man were
not up. Dietrich awoke them, and called in some friends, all as
passionate as himself for music, and able to execute the composition
of De Lisle. At the first stanza, cheeks grew pale; at the second,
tears flowed; and at the last the delirium of enthusiasm burst forth.
The wife of Dietrich, his daughters, himself, and the young officer,
threw themselves, crying, into each other’s arms.

The hymn of the country was found. Executed some days afterward in
Strasburg, the new song flew from city to city, and was played by all
the popular orchestras. Marseilles adopted it to be sung at the
commencement of the sittings of the clubs, and the Marseillaise spread
it through France, singing it along the public roads. From this came
the name of “Marseillaise.”

THE LAKE OF THE DISMAL SWAMP.

While Thomas Moore held a minor appointment in Bermuda, early in the last century, he visited the United States, and there found material for several well-known poems. His imagination was greatly struck by what he heard of the Dismal Swamp, which at that time was a vast morass more than forty miles in length and twenty-five miles in width, extending from Virginia into North Carolina, and having in the midst of it a stagnant lake to which few had ever penetrated. Many strange stories were told of this gloomy swamp, with its dark recesses in which savage animals and loathsome serpents lurked, and where, according to the legends of the country-people, unearthly sights had at times been seen.

Moore’s genius gave to one of these legends a poetical form in the lines which are here reprinted and which were long extremely popular. It may be mentioned as a matter of interest that the Dismal Swamp has in recent years been in part reclaimed by drainage, and that a canal now crosses it, thus destroying its old-time mystery and romance.

BY THOMAS MOORE.

“They made her grave too cold and damp
For a soul so warm and true;
And she’s gone to the Lake of the Dismal Swamp,
Where all night long, by a firefly lamp,
She paddles her white canoe.

“And her firefly lamp I soon shall see,
And her paddle I soon shall hear;
Long and loving our life shall be,
And I’ll hide the maid in a cypress-tree
When the footstep of death is near!”

Away to the Dismal Swamp he speeds—
His path was rugged and sore,
Through tangled juniper, beds of reeds,
Through many a fen, where the serpent feeds.
And man never trod before!

And when on earth he sunk to sleep,
If slumber his eyelids knew,
He lay where the deadly vine doth weep
Its venomous tear, and nightly steep
The flesh with blistering dew!

And near him the she-wolf stirred the brake,
And the copper-snake breathed in his ear,
Till he starting cried, from his dream awake,
“O when shall I see the dusky Lake,
And the white canoe of my dear?”

He saw the Lake, and a meteor bright
Quick over its surface played—
“Welcome,” he said, “my dear one’s light!”
And the dim shore echoed for many a night
The name of the death-cold maid!

Till he hollowed a boat of the birchen bark,
Which carried him off from the shore;
Far he followed the meteor spark,
The wind was high and the clouds were dark,
And the boat returned no more.

But oft, from the Indian hunter’s camp,
This lover and maid so true
Are seen, at the hour of midnight damp,
To cross the Lake by a firefly lamp,
And paddle their white canoe!

OLD-TIME LIVING EXPENSES.

Figures Which Must Convince the $10-a-Week Clerk That He Came Too
Late—Had He Flourished in England Several Centuries Ago He Might Have
Cut as Wide a Swath as a Present-Day Millionaire.

It makes the ordinary, hard-working householder envious to see the luxurious display of fortune’s favorites. He finds it hard enough struggle to get the necessaries of life without any of its delicacies, and to keep the cost within his income. Nor can he look back into the days of long ago for consolation. It only increases his discomfiture to compare his expense account with those of his ancestors.

If a man had a quarter in his pocket in the days of the Plantagenets, for instance, he could keep his family well supplied for a week. With that amount of money he could smile at the butcher, bow openly to the grocer, and look the rest of the world as squarely in the face as did the village blacksmith.

If he lived in England seven hundred years ago and wished to regale
his family on mutton, he could buy the finest of fat sheep for
twenty-four cents, which would almost allow him to give a banquet on a
pennyworth of mutton. A cow was more expensive, but one dollar and a
half would buy the best he could find in the market, while for a fat
hog he need only part with eighty cents.

In the fourteenth century, two cents would buy a pair of chickens, and
a nickel for a goose fit to grace any Christmas dinner-table, and a
penny would purchase a dozen new-laid eggs; while for two cents the
brewer was compelled by law to sell three gallons of beer, the
equivalent of forty-eight glasses.

Wheat sometimes fell as low as forty cents a quarter, though after a
great storm, or In a time of “grievous famine,” it would rise as high
as four and five dollars a quarter. Still, at these prices a good many
pounds of bread could be bought for a penny.

Pasture and arable lands were ridiculously cheap—two cents an acre for
the former and twelve cents an acre for the latter being considered a
fair annual rental. Draft-horses were a drug on the market at
seventy-two cents each, and oxen at one dollar and twenty cents. In
the days of the second Henry fifty dollars would have equipped a farm
with three draft-horses, half a dozen oxen, twenty cows, and two
hundred sheep, leaving a balance of two dollars toward the payment of
the rent—about five dollars a year.

As for labor, three cents a day was deemed good wages for an ordinary
laborer, and even at harvest-time four cents a day was the highest sum
expected.

House rent was so absurdly small that the Lord Mayor of London paid
only four dollars and eighty cents a year to his landlord; and the
Chancellor, with an annual salary of one hundred and ninety-two
dollars, seemed poorer than many a cook of our own time. When a father
sent his son to a university six centuries ago, four cents a day was
considered a comfortable allowance, with a margin for such luxuries as
wine at eight or twelve cents a gallon.

Twenty-four dollars a year was a munificent salary in those days. It
was the exact sum paid to the assistant clerk of Parliament, and more
than the average priest, with cure of souls, received; while the
pension allowed by Edward III to his apothecary was only twelve cents
a day, and King Edward IV’s allowance to his daughter was but four
dollars and eighty cents a week, with an additional two hundred and
forty-seven dollars and sixty cents a year for the maintenance of her
eight servants.

In the reign of Queen Elizabeth prices were still exceedingly modest,
and, it is only fair to add, wages low in proportion. From a household
book of 1589 we take the following typical prices: Beef, two and a
half cents a pound; a neck of mutton, twelve cents; twenty-eight
pounds of veal and a shoulder of mutton, fifty-six cents; cheese, four
cents a pound; wheat, three dollars and eighty-four cents a quarter
ton.

The Story of Anthracite.

Though a Company Was Organized in 1792 to Market “Stone Coal,” As Late
as 1817 a Man Who Sold Some was Charged With Swindling by
Philadelphians, Who Where Unable to Make it Burn.

_An original article written for_ THE SCRAP BOOK.

Coal is such a commonplace article that few people take the trouble to find out what it is and how it came into use. The average householder’s thoughts about coal are mainly confined to questions of price.

One picks up, of course, such interesting facts as that the United States burns three hundred and fifty million tons a year, at a cost to consumers of about seven hundred million dollars. In this estimate all grades of anthracite and bituminous coal are included. One wonders how long the visible supply will last, and whether the men who in future generations are to take up the work begun by Edison and other experimenters will find a new source of practical heat-supply in time to prevent a protracted “cold spell” when the coal gives out.

One is troubled, too, by the relations between miner and operator, and is worried when he learns that the great strike of 1902, for example, involved a total loss to workers, operators, railroads, and business men of about one hundred and fifty million dollars.