Chapter C: F. Birdseye Believes They Bring Undergraduates More Under Influence (7)

“Birds! Yes, sir, no end of birds, all of the most beautiful plumage and all turned into stone. Even the nests in the trees and the eggs in them were petrified in the most wonderful manner you ever saw. I see some of you fellows doubt me. Waal, all I have to say is that what I am telling you is true, and I’ll bet any sum on it and take you there to prove it. I’ll tell you what I saw last time I was in the petrified forest. There was a hunter who must have been in the forest when the petrification took place, for he was petrified, too, and there he stood as straight as you please, with a petrified gun on his shoulder a-taking aim at a petrified bird. Why, the whole thing was so natural that you could see the shot and smoke coming out of the muzzle of the——”

“I’ve got you there!” interrupted the Englishman. “The law of gravitation would have brought down the smoke and the shot.”

“So it would,” said the Yankee, “but the funny thing about it was that the law of gravitation was petrified, too, and so the blamed thing could not work.”—_Tit-Bits._

A PEACH PUP.

“Speaking about dogs,” said Representative Beidler, of Ohio, “I suppose I have the most intelligent fox-terrier in the country, and he’s only a puppy yet.

“The other day he spilled his milk, and I cuffed his ears and chucked him out of the window. Next day he spilled his milk again, and I cuffed his ears again and chucked him out of the window. The next day, after he had spilled his milk again, he cuffed his ears and went and jumped out the window.”—_New York World._

THE EMERGENCY AND THE MAN.

“Some people deal with graft about the way a farmer in northern Pennsylvania dealt with an emergency,” said Mayor Weaver, of Philadelphia.

“This farmer called on a neighbor very early one morning. The latter, although much surprised at receiving such an early call, did not forget his hospitality.

“‘Come in, Jake, and set down,’ he said cordially.

“‘I don’t know’s I ought,’ said Jake, but after a little more persuasion he went. About fifteen minutes were consumed in miscellaneous discussion of crops, when breakfast was ready.

“‘Set by, Jake, and hev a bite ter eat,’ invited the still hospitable farmer.

“‘Now, act’ly, Silas, I don’t know’s I orter stay so long. Ye see, ’taint’s though I didn’t ’preciate yer kindness, but my roof’s afire, and I cum over ter borrer a ladder.’”—_New York Times._

WHERE TWO CLIMATES MEET.

A “digger” from California, eulogizing the climate, said:

“There’s a mountain there—the Sawyer Nevady, they call it—with a valley on each side of it, the one hot, the other cold. Well, get on the top of that mountain with a double-barreled gun, and you can, without moving, kill summer or winter game, just as you will.”

“What! Have you ever tried it?” asked one of his auditors.

“Tried! Often—and would have done pretty well but for one thing.”

“Well, what was that?”

“I wanted a dog that would stand both climates. The last dog I had froze his tail while huntin’ on the summer side. He didn’t get entirely out of the winter side, you know, sir.”—_Old scrap book._

STRETCHING IT.

An American visiting Dublin told some startling stories about the height of some of the New York buildings. An Irishman who was listening stood it as long as he could, and then queried:

“Ye haven’t seen our newest hotel, have ye?”

The American thought not.

“Well,” said the Irishman, “it’s so tall that we had to put the two top stories on hinges.”

“What for?” asked the American.

“So we could let ’em down till the moon went by,” said Pat.—_Exchange._

A piece ov satire, tew be beneficial, should be so rendered that every
man who reads it or hears it shall say to himself, “That iz just,
bekause it hits every boddy but me.”—=Josh Billings.=

? ? ? WHY ? ? ?

=WHY= was the sandwich so called?

=BECAUSE= the Earl of Sandwich (1718—1792) on one occasion, not wishing to leave his place at the gaming-table, called a waiter and ordered some slices of bread with ham between them to be brought to him, so that he could go on playing without interruption. To this combination his friends gave his name.

* * * * *

=WHY= is a certain kind of paper called “foolscap”?

=BECAUSE= Oliver Cromwell substituted a fool’s cap and bells in water-mark for the royal arms granted by Charles I with certain privileges in manufacturing paper. When the “Rump” Parliament was prorogued this water-mark was removed, but the paper of the size of the Parliamentary Journal, seventeen by fourteen inches, still bears the name.

* * * * *

=WHY= are elephants afraid of mice?

=BECAUSE= mice strongly resemble a little animal known as the chacana, which feeds on a small berry especially liked by the elephant. Chacanas live in the ground after the manner of prairie-dogs, under the bushes, and are often trampled upon by elephants. In their fright the little animals run up the tubes of the elephants’ trunks, their long, sharp claws catch in the flesh, and they cannot be ejected. An agonizing death is almost invariably the consequence to the elephant.

* * * * *

=WHY= is noon the traditional and fashionable hour for wedding ceremonies?

=BECAUSE= the hour became the customary one in England many years since, for the reason that the bridegroom could not be relied upon to be sober any later in the day than twelve o’clock. It was naturally desirable that he should be responsible for his promises, and unless he was in a state of perfect sobriety this could not be. Hence the precaution of a noonday wedding.

* * * * *

=WHY= is the first period of married life known as “the honeymoon”?

=BECAUSE= of an ancient custom in the northern nations of Europe. The bride and bridegroom, for a month after the wedding, drank a wine made from honey as their principal form of nourishment. It was called the honey-month or moon.

* * * * *

=WHY= is the fee given to a servant called a “tip”?

=BECAUSE= the letters which compose the word are the initials of “to insure promptness,” an inscription on the money boxes which used to be in every tavern. Into these the traveler dropped his coin, and the staff, as a whole, shared the benefit. This custom still prevails in some places, but in the United States we give the fee to the particular individual who serves us.

* * * * *

=WHY= do we say “Uncle Sam” when referring to the United States?

=BECAUSE= the initials “U. S.” were once believed by a few workmen to refer to “Uncle Sam” Wilson who was government inspector, at Troy, in 1812. When the war began, Elbert Anderson, a New York contractor, bought a large quantity of beef, pork, and pickles for the army. These were inspected by Wilson and marked E. A., U. S., meaning Elbert Anderson, for the United States. After discovering that the letters did not apply to Wilson, the men still kept up the “Uncle Sam” as a joke. These same men carried it into the army and from there it got into print. From that time the term has been used for the United States.

* * * * *

=WHY= do we speak of the “near” and “off” horse?

=BECAUSE= in the days when the driver walked beside the horses his position was always at the left, with his right arm next the team. Therefore, in driving a pair, the horse on the left was nearer than the one on the right. The “near” horse is always the one on the left.

* * * * *

=WHY= do the stars twinkle?

=BECAUSE= their light passes through variously heated and moving currents of air which act as a refractor. Much twinkling foretells bad weather, because it denotes that these aerial currents are more disturbed than usual.

DEATH THE LEVELER.

James Shirley (1596–1666), the author of this poem, of which the last
two lines are very famous, was a contemporary of Shakespeare, whom,
however, he survived by many years. Originally a schoolmaster, he
became a dramatic writer and composed both tragedies and comedies
which form a link between the Elizabethan plays and those which were
produced after the Restoration. He wrote few poems, yet these few are
characterized by forcible imagery and a vigorous, manly cast of
thought.

BY JAMES SHIRLEY.

The glories of our blood and state
Are shadows, not substantial things;
There is no armor against fate:
Death lays his icy hand on kings:
Scepter and crown
Must tumble down,
And in the dust be equal made
With the poor crooked scythe and spade.

Some men with swords may reap the field,
And plant fresh laurels where they kill:
But their strong nerves at last must yield;
They tame but one another still:
Early or late
They stoop to fate,
And must give up their murmuring breath
When they, pale captives, creep to death.

The garlands wither on your brow.
Then boast no more your mighty deeds:
Upon death’s purple altar now
See where the victor-victim bleeds;
Your heads must come
To the cold tomb:
Only the actions of the just
Smell sweet, and blossom in their dust.

ALL KINDS OF THINGS.

The Tomb of Eve—How Our Northern Boundaries Are Indicated—Big Fees
Kings and Queens Have to Pay to Physicians—Eating in Days When
Forks Were Unknown—Why We Call an Old Story a “Chestnut”—Queer
Mix-Ups of Twins—Shorthand in Use Two Thousand Years Ago—Great
Distances Walked by the Average Man in a Life-Time—Misnomers in
Common Use.

_Compiled and edited for_ THE SCRAP BOOK.

TRADITIONAL TOMB OF MOTHER OF HUMAN RACE.

MOHAMMEDANS ITS CUSTODIANS.

It is in Arabia, and Bedouins Are the Most Regular Visitors to the
Mosque Above It.

The tomb of Eve, the mother of the human race, is located, according to tradition, not far from the burial place of Mohammed, on the Arabian coast of the Red Sea.

Every year, as the sacred season of the Hejaz comes around, hundreds of thousands of devout Mohammedans disembark at the little harbor of Jiddah intent on a pilgrimage to Mecca. Journeying with these, a correspondent of the New York _Herald_ made the trip across the Red Sea from Suakim to the shrine venerated by Christian and Islamite alike—the legendary tomb of the first woman. He writes of it as follows:

The country presents a very sterile appearance, there being but little
vegetation. A few date palms are dotted about, and away to the west,
in the direction of Mecca, groups of stunted acacia-trees render the
prospect less barren. The approach to the tomb is up a sandy slope,
rising about two hundred feet above the town.

The grave itself is one hundred and sixty feet long and five feet
wide, and is surrounded by a stone wall four feet high, covered with
chunam. In the center of it rises a small dome-crowned mosque, wherein
pilgrims assemble to say their prayers. The mosque is in charge of
some dervishes, who have plenty to do in keeping it clear of the
crowds of beggars who assemble and clamor for backsheesh.

Inside the mosque is perfectly plain, except that in the center is
erected an altar. This stands about three feet high, and is covered
with curtains. The curtains being drawn aside, disclose a black stone
let into the floor.

This stone is supposed to lie directly over the tomb of Eve, and is
polished like marble by the kisses of the faithful. It is by no means
permitted to every pilgrim to place his lips on this sacred spot, but
by a liberal amount of backsheesh and the presence of the consular
kavasses I was permitted the honor, and, accordingly, the curtain was
drawn, and on hands and knees I paid homage to our legendary mother.

The stone which is treated with so much honor is a very curious one,
evidently meteoric, and is supposed, like the Kaaba at Mecca, to have
been specially sent down from heaven for its present use.

I had a long chat with the chief custodian of the tomb, who told me
that the office had been in the family for generations. He said that
the most regular visitors to the shrine are the Bedouins, who, in
their yearly wanderings through the Arabian desert, rarely fail to
visit Eve’s tomb. I asked him if there was any legend as to why Eve
was supposed to be buried there, but he knew none, and asked:

“Where else would she be buried except on this sacred soil?”

It is certainly curious that legendary lore should select spots so
distant from each other for the graves of our first parents. While Eve
rests on the shores of the Red Sea, Adam is popularly supposed to lie
buried under the forest-clad slopes of Adam’s Peak, in Ceylon.

On my way back to Jiddah I asked my companions if they supposed the
grave represented the stature of Eve, and they said, “Surely.”

HOW WE MARK OUR NORTHERN BOUNDARIES.

IRON PILLARS SET IN WILDERNESS.

Mounds of Earth, Granite Shafts, and Metal Tablets Also Indicate
Southern Limit of British Territory.

Nearly all the boundaries of the United States are formed by the easy, irregular lines of waterways. The artificial marking of a country the size of this would seem a gigantic task, and fortunately it was not necessary all the way around.

Along the northwestern border, however, there is a vast distance where something of the sort was required, although it is doubtful if many persons have ever heard of it.

A glance at the map of the United States shows that its boundary
adjoining Canada follows, the larger part of the distance, an
irregular water-line formed by the Great Lakes and their outlets.

Thence from the Lake of the Woods, on the north of Minnesota, a more
direct course is taken through the wilderness and over the mountains
of the wild West to the Pacific Coast.

This boundary between the countries is marked at regular intervals by
pillars of wood and iron, earth mounds, or stone cairns.

Beginning at the Lake of the Woods, cast iron pillars have been placed
alternately by the English and our government, one mile apart, until
reaching the Red Valley River.

Those set by our neighbor were brought from over the ocean, while ours
were made in Detroit. They are a hollow casting of a pyramidal form,
eight feet in height, having a base eight inches square and octagon
flange one inch in thickness, with a top four inches square,
surmounted by a solid cap.

Into these hollow posts are fitted well-seasoned cedar joists, with
spikes driven through apertures made for that purpose in the casting.
One-half of the length of the pillars are firmly imbedded in the
ground, so that the inscriptions on their sides, in raised letters two
inches high, face the north and south, the first reading, “Convention
of London,” the latter “October 20th, 1818.”

Beyond the Red River, earth mounds and stone cairns, seven feet by
eight, generally denote the boundary line. Whenever wooden posts are
used, they are of the same height as the iron pillars and painted red
above the ground.

Through forests a clearing has been made a rod wide, so that the
course is plainly indicated. Where bodies of water are crossed,
monuments of stone have been raised several feet above high tide.

Over the mountains, shafts of granite, like grim sentinels, guard the
way. Altogether the fixing of the boundary marks was expensive, but it
was well done.

WHAT IT COSTS FOR ROYALTY TO BE ILL.

PHYSICIANS CHARGE LARGE FEES.

More Than One Hundred Thousand Dollars Divided Among Medical Men Who
Attended King Edward.

That old bugbear, the doctor’s bill, is really something worth while—to the doctor—when the patient happens to be a king. Of all the things a man has to pay, there is probably nothing he really grudges quite as much as this.

Let the ordinary mortal take heart, however, after reading the fees which royalty pays—and presumably pays without a murmur.

For his four weeks’ attendance at Sandringham, prior to the recovery
of the king from typhoid fever, in 1871, Sir William Gull received
fifty thousand dollars. Twice this amount was paid to Sir Morell
Mackenzie for his treatment of the late Emperor Frederick.

The doctors who attended Queen Victoria in her last illness received
two thousand guineas each; while Dr. Lapponi’s skill in removing a
cyst from the Pope’s side a few years ago was recompensed with two
thousand five hundred dollars. Dr. Dinsdale, for his journey to Saint
Petersburg and vaccination of the Empress Catharine II, received fifty
thousand dollars as his fee, twenty-five thousand dollars for
traveling expenses, and a life pension of two thousand five hundred
dollars a year.

The fees of the physicians who attended King Edward during the illness
which preceded his coronation amounted to more than one hundred
thousand dollars.

BEFORE THE FORK WAS THOUGHT OF.

FINGERS DID WORK THOROUGHLY.

The Elegance of Dinner Parties and the
Daintiness of the Hands Must Have
Suffered Considerably, However.

Fingers were made before forks and used instead of forks until a comparatively recent period; indeed it is evident that forks have not even now superseded them altogether, though there is no doubt about there being a great improvement in the manner of eating since the days when the fork was unknown.

The Greeks and Romans, as well as other ancient nations, knew nothing of any such implement, and meat was commonly prepared in stews. Eating was hardly a dainty operation under such circumstances, and we should probably find ourselves overcome with disgust if we were obliged to take a meal in the company of our ancestors of even three hundred years ago.

Each man had his own knife, and at dinner seized the joint with his
hand and cut off what he wished. The dish was then passed on to the
next, who did the same. The knife then cut up the portions into small
pieces, which were put into the mouth by the fingers of the hand
unoccupied by the knife.

In many parts of Spain, at present, drinking-glasses, spoons, and
forks are rarities; and in taverns in many countries, particularly in
some towns in France, knives are not placed on the table, because it
is expected that each person has one of his own—a custom which the
French seem to have retained from the old Gauls; but, as no person
will any longer eat without forks, landlords are obliged to furnish
these together with plates and spoons.

None of the sovereigns of England had forks till the reign of Henry
VIII. All, high and low, used their fingers. Hence in the royal
household there was a dignitary called the ewery, who, with a set of
subordinates, attended at the meals with basins, water, and towels.
The office of the ewery survived after forks came partially into
fashion.

About the first royal personage who is known to have had a fork was
Queen Elizabeth; but, although several were presented to her, it is
doubtful whether she used them on ordinary occasions.

Forks were employed only by the higher classes in the middle of the
seventeenth century. About the period of the Revolution (1688) few
English noblemen had more than a dozen forks of silver, along with a
few of iron or steel. At length, for general use steel forks became an
article of manufacture at Sheffield. At first they had but two prongs;
and it was only in later times that the three-pronged kind were made.
As late as the early part of the eighteenth century table-forks were
kept on so small a scale by the country inns in Scotland (and perhaps
in some parts of England) that it was customary for gentlemen
traveling to carry with them a portable knife and fork in a shagreen
case. The general introduction of silver forks into Great Britain is
quite recent. It can be dated no further back than the termination of
the French War in 1814.

WHY AN OLD STORY IS CALLED A “CHESTNUT.”

PHRASE ORIGINATED ON STAGE.

According to Joseph Jefferson, It Was
First Used In the Old Melodrama,
“The Broken Sword.”

The reason why a hoary old joke should be a “chestnut,” instead of a butternut or a hickory nut, may have puzzled some persons who have used the word.

The late Joseph Jefferson gave the following account of the origin of the term, and this explanation may be relied upon, for the famous actor was an excellent authority on subjects on which he spoke and wrote:

In an old melodrama by William Dillon, called “The Broken Sword,” are
two parts—_Count Xavier_ and his servant _Pablo_. The Count is a sort
of Münchausen, fond of telling stories of his exploits. He tells one:

“Once I entered the forests of Colloway, when suddenly, from the
boughs of a cork-tree——’

“Chestnut, count,” interrupted Pablo.

“Cork-tree,” said the count.

“A chestnut,” reiterated Pablo. “I should know as well as you, for I
have heard you tell the story twenty-seven times.”

William Warren, who had played _Pablo_ often, was at a men’s dinner
once when a gentleman told a story whose age and originality were far
beyond any doubt.

“Chestnut,” murmured Warren. “I should know as well as you, for I have
heard you tell it twenty-seven times.”

The guests took up the expression, and from that I believe comes the
origin of the term.

HOW NATURE JOKES WITH HER CHILDREN.

MARVELOUS LIKENESS OF TWINS.

Some Cases of Mistaken Identity, Which
Involved Their Victims and Others
in Complications.

The cases of mistaken identity which occur in real life are only another proof of the old adage that “truth is stranger than fiction.” Even Shakespeare, in his “Comedy of Errors,” stretching the probabilities to the utmost limit with the twin brothers and their twin servants, did not equal the facts in a marriage celebrated not long since in Paris.

Two bridegrooms, so exactly alike as to be indistinguishable from each
other except by differences in attire, and two brides of whom exactly
the same was true, were attended by two “best men” who were modern
dromios.

Alphonse and Gabriel Chanteau, the bridegrooms, were distinguished
from each other in their twin babyhood by means of a pink ribbon tied
around the arm of Alphonse. Now that they have reached man’s estate
Alphonse wears a red waistcoat and Gabriel a white one.

Genevieve and Susanne Renaud, twin sisters who have become Mesdames
Chanteau, are living realizations of _Girofle-Girofla_ in the French
comic opera of that name. Their differentiation in the eyes of their
friends is accomplished by the aid of Genevieve’s red corsage and the
white one worn by Susanne.

As to the grooms’ “best men,” Gustave and Maurice Freunzer, also
twins, who are cousins of the Messrs. Chanteau, they are as much alike
as the proverbial two peas.

Knowing their marvelous resemblance, these twins will undoubtedly keep
themselves happily “sorted out”; but the case of a woman in Vienna who
was imposed upon to the extent of actually marrying the wrong man has
the element of tragedy rather than comedy.

This woman, who was of the lower middle class, married a man whom she
took to be Herr Weiss, her fiancé, returning from a year’s absence in
America to make her his wife. In less than a month he robbed her of
her savings and then suddenly disappeared.

A month later she received a letter from America regretting that the
writer had been too ill to return at the time agreed, but stating that
he was about to sail, and that immediately on his arrival would fulfil
his promise by leading her to the altar. The letter was signed
“Herrmann Weiss.”

The poor woman’s worst fears were realized when, on her
correspondent’s arrival, she recognized that she had been victimized
by an impostor. It subsequently transpired that the genuine Herrmann
Weiss had, while in America, foregathered with his double, who had
ascertained sufficient of the former’s history and prospects to enable
him to carry out with success his scheme of deception and robbery.

When Claude Bonnat, a baker of Marseilles, was in hiding from the
police, who held a warrant for his arrest on a serious charge, he
managed to communicate with an acquaintance, one Leriot, who in every
respect was his exact double, and conjured him, on the strength of
their old friendship, to promise that, should any misfortune befall
him, he would by impersonating him keep from the young woman to whom
he was engaged the knowledge of her lover’s shame. Leriot gave his
promise, which sat but lightly on his conscience, as one to be kept or
broken as whim might direct.

However, when Bonnat a day or two later fell into the hands of
justice, Leriot sought out the young woman, of whom he had no previous
knowledge, with the result that his susceptible heart was so touched
that he entered into the fulfilment of his promise with surprising
zeal. So well, indeed, did he enact the rôle of Bonnat that he in a
short while espoused the latter’s fiancée. The couple led a life of
complex happiness, which was in no wise dimmed when, some years later,
on the convict’s release, the wife first discovered the fraud of which
she had been the victim.

SHORTHAND IS MORE THAN 2,000 YEARS OLD.

USED AT THE TRIAL OF CATILINE.

Development of the System Was Due
Especially to Tiro, a Slave, in the
First Century B.C.

Shorthand is so closely associated with the hurry and rush of modern business that it is startling to think of it having been in use among the ancient Greeks and Romans. Yet there seems to be no doubt that the orations of Cicero were committed to paper with as much skill and rapidity as the modern stenographer can boast.

Just how old the system of abbreviated writing is which the ancient Greeks called tachygraphy, it is impossible to say. Xenophon is believed to have used it in taking notes of the lectures of Socrates, which would take it back to the fifth century before Christ. This is disputed by some authorities, but there seems to be no doubt about its use in the first century. A writer in the Chicago _Tribune_ gives some interesting facts about it.

The development of shorthand was due especially to Marcus Tullius
Tiro. Born in Latium in 103 B.C., Tiro, who was a slave, was brought
up with Cicero, who was some years his junior. Freed, he became
Cicero’s secretary, and in this capacity aided him greatly. In the
famous trial of Catiline (63 B.C.) the stenographic rapidity of Tiro
was at its height.

In the first century before Christ a discourse of Cato Uticensis,
according to Plutarch, was taken down by shorthand reporters.

Early in the third century Anno Domino is found the term semeiograph
(stenographic character), used by the Greek orator, Flavius
Philostratus.

Origen, of Alexandria (185–254 A.D.), noted his sermons down in
shorthand, and Socrates, the ecclesiastical historian of the fourth
century, said that parts of the sermons of St. John Chrysostom were
preserved by the same process.

The shorthand that they used was a form of writing in which each word
was represented by a special sign. The letters of the alphabet, with
modifications, connected so as to admit of great rapidity of
execution, formed the elements of these characters.

Manilius, who was a contemporary of Cicero, Vergil, and Horace, mentions it in verse. He says:

In shorthand skilled, where little marks comprise
Whole words, a sentence in a single letter lies,
And while the willing hand its aid affords,
Prevents the tongue to fix the falling words.

DISTANCE WALKED DURING A LIFETIME.

MAN MIGHT GIRDLE THE GLOBE.

Some Cover the Length of the Earth’s
Belt Several Times in the Ordinary
Span of Three Score Years.

The greatest things of the world reduced to the unit which, many times multiplied, goes to compose them, do not seem great at all.

The sum of all the money on earth would be made up of just so many pennies, and a penny is an insignificant coin. In just the same way the distance around the earth is very great, yet it is numbered in miles, and a mile is not much of a walk.

For instance, how far will a man walk in a lifetime? It is a little
difficult to fix the average mileage per day of the average man. Some
men are fond of walking. Others ride a bicycle or patronize the
trolley-cars. But it is safe to say that every man walks two miles a
day, if only in stirring about his room or office.

If a man lives to be thirty years old he will walk twenty-one thousand
nine hundred miles. The three-miles-a-day man will cover thirty-two
thousand eight hundred and fifty. The man who believes in a daily
constitutional of five miles will walk fifty-four thousand seven
hundred and fifty miles. The circumference of the earth is twenty-four
thousand eight hundred and ninety-nine miles. If a man walks two miles
a day he will find, after he has walked for thirty years, he would
still have some distance to walk in order to complete the circuit of
the globe.

Walking three miles a day he will go around the world once and have a
neat margin besides. The five-miles-a-day man will walk around twice
and have a few thousand-odd miles to his credit.

At forty this man will have made three trips, and at sixty his
pedometer will indicate one hundred and nine thousand five hundred
miles, which means that he will have walked around the earth four
times and he will still have about two thousand miles to the good on
the fifth trip.

MISNOMERS WHICH ARE COMMONLY USED.

WRONG IDEAS CONVEYED IN NAMES.

Some Are Unblushing Contradictions,
While Others Might be Classed With
the Milder White Lie.

Custom and usage have made the misapplication of some words so familiar that they have lost their original meaning and now signify quite the opposite. The word “slave,” for instance, is a striking example of this fact. The Slavi were a tribe which once dwelt on the banks of the Dneiper and derived their name from “slav,” which means noble or illustrious. In the later days of the Roman Empire vast numbers of them spread over Europe in the condition of captive servants, and the name of the tribe came to mean the lowest state of servitude—the very antithesis of its original sense.

Some of our commonest expressions are misnomers which seem to be absolutely unaccountable, yet we shall probably go on using them to the end of time.

Irish stew is a dish unknown in Ireland.

Kid gloves are not made of kid, but of lambskin or sheepskin.

German silver is not silver at all, nor of German origin, but has been
used in China for centuries.

Dutch clocks are of German manufacture.

Baffin’s Bay is not a bay.

Turkish baths are unknown to the Turks.

There are no leaves in Vallombrosa, Milton to the contrary
notwithstanding.

Turkey rhubarb should be called Russian rhubarb, as it is a Russian
monopoly.

Why are turkeys so called? They do not come from Turkey.

Titmouse is a bird.

Sealing-wax contains no wax.

Shrew-mouse is no mouse.

Rice-paper is not made of rice or the rice plant.

Catgut should be sheepgut.

Blind worms have eyes and can see.

Cleopatra’s needles should be named after Thothmes III.

* * * * *

And so, I say it most confidently, the first intellectual task of our age is rightly to order and make serviceable the vast realm of printed material which four centuries have swept across our path. To organize our knowledge, to systematize our reading, to save, out of the relentless cataract of ink, the immortal thoughts of the greatest—this is a necessity unless the productive ingenuity of man is to lead us at last to a measureless and pathless chaos. To know anything that turns up is in the infinity of knowledge to know nothing. To read the first book we come across in the wilderness of books is to learn nothing. To turn over the pages of ten thousand volumes is to be practically indifferent to all that is good.—=Frederic Harrison.= (1831– .) Essay on the “Choice of Books.” 1886.

Cooks’ Caps and Coronets.

True Stories of Members of the European Nobility Who Were Domestic
Servants Before or After Fortune Smiled Upon Them—Several Society
Leaders Came from the Kitchen.

Extremes often meet, and probably nothing better illustrates this than the many instances that exist of the elevation of persons of lowly birth to positions of great dignity and importance, while many others who have been delicately nurtured and enjoyed the highest culture have been forced to resort to the humblest forms of hard labor in order to earn the bread which they would eat.

Wicked little Cupid is responsible for many of the former cases, for he dearly loves a joke, and frequently has it at the expense of the rank and traditional glory of some ancient house and name. The world has always been rather democratic when love has stepped in, and some of the great personages of history have contracted alliances which might have been expected to turn things topsy-turvy, yet nothing has been seriously ruffled.

In Paris one of the most influential and popular leaders of society is
the Baroness de Waru, the wife of the only son and heir of the
multimillionaire president of the Orleans Railroad Company. Her blonde
beauty is of the most ethereal kind, and her dainty person is
distinguished by so much aristocratic elegance that no one to look at
her would ever dream that her father had begun his career as a mere
stable-boy, who, in the service of the last reigning Duke of Parma,
was promoted from one post to another until he blossomed forth as a
general, a baron, and as Prime Minister of the Duchy of Parma, besides
being decorated with the grand crosses of most of the orders of
chivalry of Europe.

Chambermaid Became Lady Mayoress.

Lady Evans, who, several years ago, as Lady Mayoress of London, was
dispensing magnificent hospitality at the Mansion House to crowned
heads and royal personages, foreign as well as English, was a
chambermaid at the Oak Hotel, at Sevenoaks, in Kent, when her husband
first met and married her. Her father was a village plumber, and her
mother, until the date of her own marriage, was a cook and general
servant.

On the Continent there is no more ancient or illustrious family than
that of Kinsky, the chief of which bears the title of Prince of the
Holy Roman Empire. Two of its most distinguished members—the Counts
Eugene and Octavius, both of them Privy Councilors of the Emperor and
Knights of the Golden Fleece—married domestic servants, Eugene taking
his wife from the laundry, while the Countess Octavius Kinsky was
formerly the chambermaid at a small inn.

The Countess Octavius has rendered herself very obnoxious to her
husband’s family by her grasping propensities. But the late Countess
Eugene, the ex-washerwoman of Ischal, was a singularly charming woman,
universally beloved at Vienna, and, although she never asked for a
presentation at court, the names of quite a number of members of the
imperial family figured on her visiting list.

Lady Hawkins Was a Cook.

The widowed Princess Alexander of Battenberg, whose husband at one
time ruled over Bulgaria, may likewise be said to have sprung from the
kitchen, her father having been the valet and her mother the cook of
the old Austrian General de Martini. Yet in spite of this parentage,
Princess Alexander is treated as a sister-in-law by the similarly
widowed Princess Henry of Battenberg, who is a daughter of Queen
Victoria. The late queen showed great kindness and consideration
toward Princess Alexander of Battenberg, acknowledging her as a
kinswoman.

The second wife of the late Lord Bramwell had originally been his
cook, while Lady Hawkins, who is the better half of the eminent
English judge of that name, and the aunt by marriage of “Anthony
Hope,” the novelist, was originally a housemaid, as was also the widow
of the “Grand Old Man” of Australia, Sir Henry Parkes.

King Joachim of Naples, from whom the entire princely house of Murat
is descended, began life at the close of the last century as a mere
stable-boy, while the first Prince Kutusoff, founder of the grand
Russian family of that name, achieved his greatness a hundred years
ago by the skill which he displayed as the valet and barber to Czar
Paul, a monarch whose own great-grandmother, Empress Catherine, was
the chambermaid of a village inn, where she first attracted the
attention of Peter the Great, who ultimately married her.

Earl Served as Porter.

That the prejudice which formerly existed in exalted circles against
menial occupation is rapidly disappearing is abundantly proved by the
number of titled personages who are content to take at meal-time their
place, not at the table of the master of the house, but at that of the
domestics in the servants’ hall.

Thus in the course of a civil suit against Sir Charles Nugent it came
out that he was earning his livelihood as a groom, while Lady Nugent
was taking in washing. Yet the Nugents are among the most ancient and
illustrious of all the grand houses of the nobility of Europe, some of
their members being princes of the Austrian Empire, while the head of
the family is the Earl of Westmeath.

Here in this country Lord Drummond, the grandson and heir of the
British Earl of Perth and the French Duke of Melfort, died several
years ago while occupying a menial position—that of door-porter in the
establishment of one of the proprietors of the great New York daily
newspapers; and the writer can remember having found, a few years ago,
Prince Benjamin Rohan, who by virtue of his birth is the titular
cousin of every crowned head in Europe, and is descended in a direct
line from Godfrey, Duke of Bouillon, leader of the First Crusade, and
the first Crusader King of Jerusalem, serving as a waiter in one of
the smaller restaurants in Second Avenue, New York City.

Sir Thomas Echlin, head of the ancient house of Echlins, which has
been settled in Ireland since the reign of King James I, and whose
baronetcy is nearly three hundred years old, recently was employed on
the Dublin police force in the humble capacity of an ordinary “bobby”
at six dollars a week, and was formerly footman in a London family.

One of the last things that Lord Beaconsfield did before his death was
to obtain from the queen a pension of five hundred dollars a year for
the widow of the late Lord Kingsland, whom, in spite of her rank as a
peeress of the realm, he had discovered earning a bare living as a
washerwoman in a large family at Kensington.

Lord Kingsland, prior to his accession to this ancient peerage, had
been a waiter in a Dublin hotel, but on becoming a lord, through the
death of his uncle, abandoned this calling and preferred to rely upon
his wife’s earnings at the washtub.

* * * * *

[Sidenote: Happiness.]

Happiness in this world, when it comes, comes incidentally. Make it the object of pursuit, and it leads us a wild goose chase, and is never attained. Follow some other object, and very possibly we may find that we have caught happiness without dreaming of it, but likely enough it is gone the moment we say to ourselves, “Here it is!” like the chest of gold that treasure-seekers find.... There is something more awful in happiness than in sorrow,—the latter being earthly and finite, the former composed of the substance and texture of eternity, so that spirits still embodied may well tremble at it.—Nathaniel Hawthorne.

IN STREET AND GRAND-STAND.

Familiar Sounds That Enter the Windows of City Flats and Put Sleep to Flight, or, on Baseball Fields, Cause the Voice of the Umpire to Seem Like a Penny Whistle in a Company of Fog-horns.

THE OLD HAND-ORGAN.

By W. D. Nesbit.

The old hand-organ in the street
Has not the gaudy gold and gilt
The new ones have—but, oh, the sweet
Old tunes it plays with limping lilt!
“The Harp That Once Through Tara’s Halls,”
“Jim Crow,” and “Annie Laurie,” too—
And, answering its bugle-calls,
The old times rise for me and you.

“Then You’ll Remember Me,” it plays—
And straight our memories go back
Through all the dead years’ mellow haze,
With frequent pause along the track.
And then we see the grass-grown streets,
The orchards gleaming in the sun,
Where crooning bees seek out the sweets
And shadows o’er the grasses run.

We see the flash of merry eyes;
We see the gleam of old-time smiles;
And, ere the old-time music dies.
We live again the old-time whiles.
We walk the pathway in the lane.
And day-dream as we used to then,
For on the rippling old refrain
The old times come to life again.

Play, old hand-organ, in the street!
Play every song we used to sing,
And let our hearts in cadence beat
With each glad memory they bring.
Play, in your halting, careless way,
The fine old tunes that softly tell
Of every God-made happy day
In those old times we love so well.
_Baltimore American._

✷ ✷ ✷ ✷

THE STREET MINSTREL.

By S. E. Kiser.

His hands are soiled, his throat is bare,
His face is streaked with dirt and thin,
And many a slip is in the air
He plays upon his violin;
A sadness dwells within his eyes,
The shoes are ragged on his feet,
And scoffers stop to criticise
The little minstrel in the street.

Thereby the curb he plays away,
Where flakes float past and winds blow chill,
And maybe, as the critics say,
He lacks the tutored artist’s skill;
But now and then a little strain,
Played faultlessly and soft and sweet,
Floats up from where he stands out there—
The little minstrel in the street.

Say, ragged little minstrel, why
Must people listen but to hear
The false note, ever passing by
The strain that rises soft and clear?
Oh, it were well with us if we
Might in our own ways sound the sweet
And faultless notes as oft as he—
The little minstrel in the street.
_Chicago Record-Herald._

✷ ✷ ✷ ✷

A CONFESSION.

I’ve been down to the city, an’ I’ve seen the ‘lectrlc lights,
The twenty-story bulldin’s an’ the other stunnin’ sights;
I’ve seen th’ trolley-cars a-rushin’ madly down the street,
An’ all the place a-lookin’ like a fairyland complete.
But I’d rather see the big trees that’s a-growin’ up to home,
An’ watch the stars a-twinklin’ in the blue an’ lofty dome;
An’ I’d rather hear the wind that goes a-singin’ past the door
Than the traffic of the city, with its bustle an’ its roar.

I reckon I’m peculiar, an’ my tastes is kind o’ low;
But what’s the use denyin’ things that certainly is so?
I went up to a concert, an’ I heard the music there;
It sounded like angelic harps a-floatin’ through the air.
Yet spite of all its glory an’ the gladness an’ acclaim,
If I stopped to think a minute, I was home-sick jes’ the same;
An’ I couldn’t help confessing though it seems a curious thing,
That I’d rather hear a robin sweetly pinin’ in the spring.
_Washington Star._

✷ ✷ ✷ ✷

THE ORGAN-GRINDER.

Beside the curb, out in the street,
The organ-grinder stands,
With stubbles on his swarthy face,
And very dirty hands,
And, while you curse him, plays away
Like twenty German bands.

The ragtime airs you gaily hummed
A year or two ago
Forth from the box he wheels around
In jangling torrents flow—
The waltzes always hard and fast,
The marches mild and slow.

I often think Pandora must
Have chanced along one day,
And opened up the box the first
Poor dago had to play,
And thus ungraciously let all
But discord get away.
_Chicago Times._

✷ ✷ ✷ ✷

PICKLES.

The rain and snow were falling fast,
As through a down-east village passed
A youth who chalked with great display,
Upon a barrel in his sleigh,
“Pickles to sell.”

His cheeks were blue, and red his nose,
His ears and feet were nearly froze,
And tears of cold bedimmed his sight.
But still he yelled with all his might,
“Pickles to sell.”

As on he went, a maiden bold
Came out and asked him what he sold;
The youth looked up with winning smile,
And said with voice as soft as ILE,
“Pickles.”

“Oh, tell me!” cried the maid divine;
“Say, tell me are they in the brine?”
“Nay,” said the youth, “that sort don’t pay,”
Quite vexed, he heard the maiden say,
“Such Pickles!”

That one so sweet should speak so tart
(The word went deep into his heart);
That she should crush his hopes so flat,
And scorn his smiles, or worse than that,
“His Pickles.”

Away he drove, through wind and rain;
They tried to stop his course in vain.
By asking what he had to sell;
He wouldn’t stop but only yelled,
“Pickles.”

“Don’t drive so fast,” an old man said;
“That worn-out nag is nearly dead.”
“His shoes are off,” another cried;
With shout of scorn the youth replied,
“Oh, Pickles!”

“For mercy’s sake don’t cross the creek!
That wooden bridge is awful weak!”
The youth dashed on his headlong way.
And only turned his head to say,
“Oh, Pickles!”

The night was dark, the wind was cold,
The pickle boy was brave and bold;
He never stopped or checked his flight,
And soon the sleigh was lost to sight,
Pickles and all.

Next morn, two little wandering Jews
Came into town and brought the news;
Down in the drift a corpse they found,
While far and near were scattered round,
The Pickles.
_Old scrap book._

✷ ✷ ✷ ✷

“FR-R-RAISH PEANUTS.”

Who is this man of mighty voice
Who bids all human kind rejoice—
Who visits bleacher and grand-stand
With roasted rapture in his hand?
“Peanuts! Fr-r-raish peanuts!”

Who, when the umpire shouts: “Play ball!”
Hears with disdain the feeble call.
And whose own stentor-modeled lungs
Drown out the noise of many tongues?
“Peanuts! Fr-r-raish peanuts!”

Who stirs the circumambient air
And moves his optics here and there
To find the man who cries: “Here, boy.
Give me one sack of roasted joy”?
“Peanuts! Fr-r-raish peanuts!”

Who hastens onward with his wares
While every individual glares
Who lacks the necessary price;
Who cuts a mighty slab of ice?
“Peanuts! Fr-r-raish peanuts!”

And when we seek our restless beds
With goober goblins in our heads,
What is the awful cry that seems
To be the burden of our dreams?
“Peanuts! Fr-r-raish peanuts!”
_Baltimore News._

Relative Power of the World’s Navies.

In the Matter of Tonnage the United States Occupies Fourth Place on the
List, Being More Than a Million and a Quarter Tons Behind Great
Britain—Ships Now Building Will Give Us Third Place.

The navies of the world represent a tremendous amount of money as well as power. It now seems to be generally admitted that being prepared for war is the best way of insuring peace. If this is true, there would seem to be very little likelihood of war among any of the great nations of the world. They are all pretty well prepared to back up any arguments which they may find themselves forced into by a display of force.

Our own latest appropriation includes thirteen and a quarter millions of dollars for a battle-ship and three torpedo-boat-destroyers, with a million’s worth of “subsurface, submersible or submarine boats.” The battle-ship is to be of the British Dreadnaught class—a monster of nineteen thousand tons displacement.

Japan is building one of thirteen thousand one hundred and fifty tons, and Germany has increased the tonnage of some of her ships heretofore authorized to eighteen thousand each.

Commenting upon this the New York _Sun_ says:

The Russian-Japanese War convinced the naval experts of the world that
the big battle-ship must be the principal weapon of marine combatants,
and the effects of the lesson may be seen wherever national ships are
building.

Leaving out of consideration all vessels more than twenty years old,
except such as have been rebuilt or rearmed, all vessels authorized
but not begun, all transports, colliers, repair ships, torpedo depot
ships, converted merchant vessels, yachts, vessels of less than one
thousand tons, except torpedo-boats, and all torpedo-boats of less
than fifty tons, the tables prepared at the office of naval
intelligence show the strength of the eight greatest marine powers
last fall:

GREAT BRITAIN.
Tons. Tons.
Built 1,673,338 Building 234,660
FRANCE.
Built 619,675 Building 181,283
GERMANY.
Built 466,084 Building 121,978
UNITED STATES.
Built 388,519 Building 313,278
JAPAN.
Built 321,131 Building 106,740
ITALY.
Built 266,728 Building 73,700
RUSSIA.
Built 244,601 Building 131,094
AUSTRIA.
Built 122,756 Building 21,200

Were the vessels now in course of construction all completed, the
order in which the powers stand in this table would be changed by the
transposition of the positions of Germany and the United States and of
those occupied by Russia and Italy.

Comparing the personnel of these navies, it is shown that the United
States, with one thousand three hundred and seventy commissioned
officers of all ranks in the sea-going corps, has actually fewer than
any power except Austria, which has eight hundred and fifty-one, and
in proportion to tonnage stands at the bottom of the list, having only
1.95 commissioned officers to each one thousand tons of her war-ship
tonnage built and building.

Great Britain has 2.52 officers to every one thousand tons, France
3.58, Germany 3.48, Italy 4.60, and Austria 5.91. It is not
practicable to give the proportions for Russia and Japan, owing to the
conditions created by their recent struggle.

In midshipmen and cadets the United States leads all the nations save
Great Britain, both absolutely and relatively, with one thousand and
fifty-four in the service, or 1.49 to each one thousand tons.

In nothing is the tremendous size of the British navy shown more
impressively than the figures of her enlisted men. Of these, exclusive
of marines, she has ninety-five thousand two hundred and sixty-three,
but there are only 49.93 men to each one thousand tons, while the
United States with thirty-seven thousand men has 52.70, Germany with
thirty-five thousand one hundred and thirteen has 59.71, and France
with fifty-two thousand one hundred and fifty-three has 65.10.

Great Britain and the United States are the only powers that maintain
aboard ship enlisted men other than bluejackets, and it is the
intention of Great Britain to replace all her marine officers
gradually by naval officers. No navy has a grade corresponding exactly
to the British and American warrant officer, the nearest approximation
of it being the chief petty officers of the other navies.

The United States has no engineer corps, and Great Britain is
amalgamating her engineer corps with the line. The other nations all
maintain the distinction which existed in our navy until the adoption
of the Roosevelt personnel law.

Neither Japan nor Italy maintains chaplains, and many British
chaplains are naval instructors.

NIX’S MATE LIGHT IN BOSTON HARBOR.

The Story of an Island Which Disappeared and the Curious Old Legend of
the Spot Now Marked by This Interesting Beacon.

As a person enters Boston Harbor by the main ship channel, having threaded his way between Lovell’s Island and Gallup’s Island, and just before passing between Long Island and Deer Island, he sees at his left a unique monument marking a dangerous ledge and shoal. So peculiar is its appearance that every stranger is sure to ask, “What is that?” To this some local wiseacre promptly responds, “Nix’s Mate”; but usually he cannot explain its meaning or even spell the name correctly.

The “Mate” is a massive piece of copper-riveted masonry, forty feet
square and twelve feet high (with stairs on one side), upon whose top
rises a black wooden pyramid, twenty feet high. Two hundred years ago,
where this weird pyramid now stands, there was a fertile island of
twelve acres, furnishing excellent grazing, and called, in
consequence, Green Island. So much is history. A curious old book,
long out of print,[4] has woven the legend of the name into a pleasing
romance, which in brief is as follows:

Footnote 4:

Nix’s Mate: an Historical Romance of America, by the author of
“Athenia of Damascus,” etc. In two volumes. Published by Samuel
Colman, No. VIII Astor House, Broadway, 1839.

When Sir William Phips made his celebrated expedition to the Spanish
Main in 1687, under the auspices of the Duke of Albemarle, in which he
recovered some millions of sunken gold and enriched himself for life,
he was accompanied by one Captain Nix and his first mate, Edward
Fitzvassal. As the first expedition was so wonderfully successful,
Captain Nix went out on another search and raised another precious
cargo from the bottom of the deep. But on his return the crew of his
vessel, the Dolphin, mutinied, under the leadership of the mate, and
turned pirates.