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1.4' 1 W *4 •L4 !fi ,"i?r I* fc. A WrW% |lbfe:. •:. mB sf'TBE EYIL OMEN. "It has happened again!" So all the Idlers said at the "Golden Dragon." Vlt has happened again!" So the old kelner the Schwartzberg said, and the Mrvants repeated it and that was how they had the news at the "Gold en Dragon" and all over the village More night. How it happened was a mystery, *ot there wua no denying it. II any •ot the noble iolks at the Schwartsberg were going to die somethingin the cas tle was sure to fall with no human hand near—no loophole for explaining •why the crash should come before the "death, and notat any other time. The omon had begun again in these days, a lapse of a century. The old kelner's father, had kept the keys long ago, had told strange tales about it. He had only heard them in his youth, hot they were very strange tales, and the "Golden Dragon" and the village in general decided that they were not to be explained away. But it was S much more satisfactory when at the present time the evil omen began to |i£! show itself again. It was no grand mother's story now, but a reality. The gossip and excitement went on, with shudders and whispers it was so pleasant to have something to shudder about. Why, if nobody had died after the great stag's head fell in the hall the "Golden Dragon" would have been downright sorry. But as it happened, the little boy— the old baron's grandson and heir— fell on the Black Mountain the very day after and broke his neck. That was only three months ago. And now the great mirror in the tapestried drawing r6om had fallen. It was cer tainly the old baron that was to go off this time. The village waited breathless to know. Home went Fritz Hartmaan with the news Saturday night. He was in a worse humor than usual that is saying a great deal for Fritz Hart mann, for he was the blackest man in the village and who he was or what he was thinking of was all a mystery. "Flowers, father!" said the little bright haired child, wanting to be noticed. "Go to bed!" said Hartmann, and dropped the flowers and kicked them away. "Any news?" his buxom, good hu floored wife asked. The blackest mood Fritz sould be in was never too black to stop her smile many a gathering thunder-storm was laughed off by V-l Hartha. "Why should there be news?" he said savagely, flinging his coat aside jind throwing liinisei! on a seat with his hat still on. Love in a cottage has many drawbacks, and the absence of manners is one of them. Si The brisk and buxom Martha popped the child into bed and began to make Fritz's supper hot. There V, was no fear in her nature, and a great deal of curiosity. "I wanted to heiar about the poor dear old baron," said Martha. "He is dying, they say," growled Fritz. "Oh! Poor old man!" "Why?" said the husband. "He paid us for my bit of carving. What need we care?" '•Yes, we should care, my wicked old Fritz"—hhaking him by the shoulder. "If a poor man died," said Fritz, "they would shovel him into the ground and forget him. Why should not the lich die too? He has thegout it would be a comfort to the old fellow to die." Martha had prayed that he might not die for many a year, gout or "no gout— he nad been so good to her long ago, when her parent* died and she was taken to the castle to feed the chickens and ducks in the yard. Fritz did a bit of wook-carving as well as his daily work. Tourists femighthis carving in summer it was bought at the castle too. He had car ried his brackets and frames to the Schwartzberg Castle so often that he •was free of the servants' hall any day, and when he took the carved chair on Thursday the baron had made him bring it into the library with his own hands. It was ungrateful of Fritz to be glad that the poor old baron was dying but then Fritz was always growling at the castle folks, and grumbling at his own poverty. After supper he went out to the I'Golden Dragon" and lolled with the idlers on the benches outside the inn. He was not a man for speaking to the others he had the name of being as proud as Satan, but he listened with his arms folded and the corners of his dark eyes watched svercthing. There was no reason that thoi aron should die because the mir K» Ml, be said. It was all nonsense. Hewastheoi.lv man in the village that disbelieved in the omen of the Schwartzberg Castle. When the notary passed—the old •Mtn with long white hair—he bowed to Hartmann, the workingman some times Hartmann even went to supper with him—which was a queer thing still, n. Up at the mountain castle the long saipestried drawing room was dim ly lighted, and the great, round, broken mirror lay untouched up on the floor. The granddaugh ter of the baron was there with a friend from Geneva, the young lawyer, Ludwig Schmidt—a friend,and more than a friend. Bertha was in Ihe first blush and beauty ofgirlhood, (air and pink, with soft, blue German ana curls too rich to be flaxen eyes, She was letting Ludwig cut one little curl, with her pretty head bent low for the robbery. Tbe shadow of death loomed over her home again while she was still wearing a mourning gown for her boy trother so, though they were lovers,even to tbe sweet folly of giving a love-lock, they could not be very light-hearted to-night. And why not have the broken mir cor taken away?" the young lawyer of Leipsic asked. There is no room for sujperstition in the lqgal and logical mind. "It is ill-luck for whoever touches It," said Bertha, with a blush but she could not get him to believe such fool ishness. He put the love lock in the innermost recess of his pocketbook, •lid then, with his own hands, gathered the ruins of the mirror on to a table |nd rang for a servant to take them IfFWay out of everybody's sight. "You picked them up, sir?" said the servant nervously. "I did," said Ludwig, with a laugh. "There's no fear of ill-luck for you, my good fellow, you are so cautious." "It would have been wise, sir, to have left it as it fell until after the change of the moon." Ludwig gave a growl of contempt. "My good man, I would not be such a moonstruck lunatic. Take the pieces away." Bertha admired him more than ever, as every girl admires a brave man. It seemed such a daringdeed to be the one to pick up that mirror she mistook his common sense for brav ery. "Your grandfather is dying of sheer fright," the young man went on, stepping out on the terrace, and lead ing the girl with him. "The omen will come true if the fear of it kills him." "But, dear Ludwig," said the girl, leaning on the balustrade, and feeling helplessly ignorant as she looked up at her wise lover, and loved him the more for a man's superior wisdom, "we should all not like to believe in the omen but what could have knock ed the mirror down?" It was indeed puzzling. The nails that had held that mirror were as long as a man's hand. They had been buried in tbe wall like shafts of iron, and out of the wall they had dragged themselves, after being for fifty years safe and firm. Bertha her sell had been in the drawing room singing Gounod's "Serenade, with her fiance leaning against the piano watching the light from the candles making a halo about her fair hair, and the old baron was dozing in his chair with the dog at his feet, when all at once, with no hand near it, the great mirror had dragged its nails out ot the opposite wall and crashed down upon the floor. The dog had howled and barked, the servants had rushed in, and in the midst of the confusion the old man's voice had said with a tremble: "My hour has come!" His strength had failed he had been confined to his room he was dying. When Ludwig and Bertha walked along the terrace they hushed their steps near those open windows farther on than the old drawing-room. "He is awake again," said Ludwig, looking into thecurtainedgloom. "Go to him, Bertha, if you like, and I can have a smoke in the garden. Youmight ask him about the will." "But I don't wan't him to die, Lud wig." "My poor little Bertha, what strange things they have taught you! He won't die a moment sooner because he makes a will. It is the right thing to do." Whatever Ludwig said was right always to the lonely, half-taught girl so as she sat beside thedeath-hed th.at evening she tenderly and gently coax ed the old man to nave his last wishes written down. Ludwig was called in from the garden, where his cigar had been glimmering under the lindens,and they sent for the village notary, and the butler was the witness. It was well the will was made that night. The old baron was dead before morning. Then how the idlers at the "Golden Dragon" talked, and how all the vil-. lage whispered and shuddered! Well, a few months after Ludwig Schmidt owned the castle and Bertha was his wife, and it was to be hoped nothing more would jump down from the walls1 to give mortals a warning. m. The gloomy Fritz Hartmann was more gloomy than ever. Martha swept the cottage and played with the child but he grumbled at his poverty, and the child shrank from his black looks. He was at the old notary's house every night now. "Are you selling him carving, Fritz?" said Martha. "Why, we shall be rich!" Fritz Hartmann was going out to the notary's before he had even tasted a bit after his work. "I am doing some carving there—at the house, of a night. We may be rich—if we are it is only just right, and thanks to nobody." This was a strange wav of talking of wood carving, ftfartha wondered and puzzled while she was taking off bright haired Gretchen's strong little shoes and putting her to bed. Well, after all, it was the just right of a workman to get the value of his work perhaps that was what Fritz meant. But Fritz must be mak ing a great deal of money now. Why, he had gone up to the castle in the middle of the day to mend a broken part of the swigs clock case. When Fritz Hartmann reached the notary's house he forgot that there was any such thing as carving in the world, unlsss it be carving out a for tune. Yet there was some carving to be done, and he might be rich. The old notary and Hartmann walked in the garden by the colored spires of hoi hollyhock flowers. They smoked and talked of the time of Hartmann's fa ther, and how the old notary knew him well, and how there had been a quarrel. "No one in the village knows?" ask ed the old lawyer keenly. "No one—I am a good gaoler to keep secrets fast." "But it is time," said the notary. "Your case is safe. The old baron was almost dead. 1 was called in to make tbe will by the man to whom the property was willed. His defence would not have a leg to stand on." It was a very strange thing that while those two men were talking by the hollyhocks, considering the future lawsuit which was to make the Schwartzberg Castle change owners,at the castle itself the evil omen came again. In the old tapistried draw ing room .young Schmidt was telling his t#a, leaning over the back of his little wife's chair, after a day's shooting. On the wall opposite to the windows there was only the softly-shaded tapestry but at one end of the room there was the portrait of Bertha, in white and pearls, as a bride it had been hung there instead of the broken mirror. All at once tbe portrait dragged the long nails from the wall, and fell face downward on the polished floor. Even Ludwig Scnmidt, man as he was, turned pale, and stood unable to stir in the dead silence after thecrash. Then, seeing his young wife's head sink forwara he turned to her in panic. Was she already dead? No, it was only a taint. The faint passed off and the servants were gathering round her where she lay in the cool air on the terrace. Her eyes Bought her husband's face, and the only words she spoke were, "I am to die!" Now, to a dead certainty—and a very dead certainty indeed—Bertha would die if she sank as she was sink ing during the month or two that fol lowed the falling of tbe mat picture. All the neighborhood hadf the tale the A "Golden Dragon" had sent it round tbe bride at the castle was wasting away and dying.' The doctors-found no dis ease butshe was fading asaflowerfades whose life is done. The Schwartsberg case began to fill the papers of Geneva. Two brothers had quarreled long ago and the young er of the two had incurred his father's anger, and gone away an exile from his homeand country. He ran through his portion in a wild Ufe, and never came back like the prodigal. But his son came back, as a stranger and a peasant, to live gloomy and discon tented under the shadow of the castle where his father had lived as a boy. His father's brother was there, grown old now, and the heir was the grandson—a boy with an eld er sister just in the flower of girlhood. The young heir had been killed by a fall on the the rocks. The old baron had died and a man with no name but Schmidt was in the place of the bar ons of Schwartzberg. The great case dragged on as a nine days wonder. There were two wills one produced from the safe of an old notary of Schwartzberg it was written after the boy's untimely death and gave the property to the next heir of the Schwartzberg barons,the maledescend •ant of the absent brother the other will was written on the night of the baron's death. It was disputed be cause it had been drawn up when the testator was week in mini, on the brink of death and it had been done at the instigation of Schmidt himself. Well, all the village had been amazed to discover who Fritz Hartmann was there was no doubt how the case would go. "But the poor lady—it is sad for her," said one of the idlers outside the inn. "She is dying anyhow, so it does not matter, answered another. "It does not make any d'fference to the dead whether they owned a castle or a hovel." "But is she dying?" with a shudder. "Yes," in a whisper "the portiait fell—it was the omen. She sickened at once. It will be a great funeral My lord will go back to his law books his time at the castle was a short life and a merry one." But Ludwig Schmidt sped home from Geneva to his young wife. "Victory! —the decision is for tis." She raised herself from her couch to lean the fair head against his shoul der. "I am gUd to think you will be here—you will not be poor—when I am gone." "But you are not dying, darling—or if you were dying, it was of fear, and you shall fear no more." "Do not blame me—I can't help be ing afraid,"Bertha's weak voice said. "I have heard of the Schwartzberg omen all my life." "Poor child! You have heard too much." "And oh, Ludwig!" she went on, "I am alniogt afraid to tell you—the night you went away the stone eagle over the gate fell down and the night was so still there was not a leaf stir ring." NoW, the. fall of the eagle over the sate was anew form of the omen, and it set Ludwig thinging for dear life— yes, and for a dearerlife that his own. That very night again the eagle fall. For the second time it was put up and mortar6d,ancl cemented into its place. "Bertha ls 'sheerly dying' of su perstition—dying of an old woman's tale," thought Ludwig, exasperated "and yet I cannot explain this evil thing awav. If the poor child dies it. will not have befen fopet'old, it will have been caused by the fall of that picture in the tapestried room and this eagle over the gate." The so-called-Fritz Hartmann was leaving the village he was taking Mar tha and their child across the ocean to make an emigrant's home in the far West. He had refused a goodly sum of money from the castle.- He would have all or none.- He was to go to-morrow, but it was a to-morrow that never came. 'The eagle is down again/' whispered the kelner to his inastar, "and the ivy is all broken and tore from the wall and there is a man lying dead." Ludwig hurried aero SB the coun tyard, and found Hartmann dead on his face with an ivy tangle beside him and the broken eagle. Only then the kelner remembered that each time the omen had come it had shown itself after the visit of Hartmann with his carving. As for the fall of the antlers and the accidental death of the boy—that no doubt sug gested to Hartmann an easy method of cleaning the old baron out of the way for certainly when the mirror fell and the portrait, Hartmann, the carver, had_found an opportunity to help the nails out of the wall and leave them loose. If the young bride had died of superstition and fear there would have been no beir but the man who had tried by legal means, and lost his chance. The lady of the castle bloomed into health she comforted the peasant widow, and sent little Gretchen a mar riage portion in time to come. But the evil omen of the Schwartzberg never happened again and the folks of the "Golden Dragon" refused the explanation, as credulous folks always do. "The outcast died by the omen it self at the castle gate," they said. "The stone eagle killed him." "The wound was made by a fall," said the surgeon positively. And yet at the "Golden Dragon," I the tale was told for many a year as the fittest and most "creepy" instance of the Schwartzberg omen. For if men will enjoy a shudder, they won't have an explanation.—Cassells Maga zine. Joke on a Preacher. At the dinner of the New England society a few days ago there were a number of brilliant speeches, but none moreeloquent, patriotic or humorous than the one made by Mr. Grady o' the Atlanta Constitution. In the course of his remarks he related thiB story: There was an old preacher once who toldsome boys of the bible lesson he was to read in the morning. The boys, finding the place, glued together the connecting pages. [Laughter^] The next morning he read on tne bottom of one page: When Noah was 120 years old he took unto himself a wife, who was"—then turning the page:— "140 cubits long [laughter], forty cu bits wide, built of gopher wood [laugh ter], and covered with pitch inside ana out." [Loud ana laughter.] He was naturally puzzled at this. He read it again, verified it and then said: "My friends, this is the first time I ever met this in the bible, but I accept it as evidence oi ths as sertion that we are fearfully and won derfully made." Immense laughter.] .H i. 3r v" THE RISER'S REFORM. Yes, I came pretty nigh wrecking body and sou! both, and I'll tell you how. Losing wife and child while I was still a young man brokemedown. For a time I did not care whether I lived or died, but I still kept on with my business, and presently I found myself beginning to love money. It became the greatest pleasure of my ex istence to count up gains, and to add dollar to dollar. The house I had furnished so pretti ly for Marie, and which she had taken such pride in, left to itself began to show signs ot neglect. For a time I retained the old housekeeper to bright en things up and keep them tidy, but that luxury cost too much, and I dis missed her. Then, not liking to see the pretty things which had been so dear to Ma rie go to decay through dust and neg lect, I had them carried up to the great garret that extended the whole length of the house. For a time I did feel very unhappy when they were all banished, and I was left with the bare boards and two or three chairs, but I consoled myself by the reflection that some day I would have them all back again. I turned the once cheerful room in which I had spent so many pleasant hours with my wife and little one in to a sort of second office, and there I slept, ate my scanty meals and did much of my work. It was a sordid, sorry life. I denied myself every com fort, almost, but that of fire, in the dead of winter. That I would have, and of the best hickory, no matter what it cost. Meats and delicacies I could do without, books and comforts of many sorts, but a fire—that was the one link that bound me to the in stincts of my kind. I grew shabby, lean and ugly. My hair began to stand up on my head through lack of moisture, my eyes grew hollow, my cheeks were sunken, and I looked like what I was, a miser. To gather gold, to count it, to gloat over its accumulation, and that for its own worshiped sake, became the ruling passion of my life. Not houses and lands and friends that might have been bought, but gold, cola, gold! For this I slaved, neglected my kind, and denied my God. I shall never forget Tuesday, the thirteenth day of January, Anno Domini eighteen hundred and sixty seven. That is the way I have writ ten it down in my daybook. Imagine me coming to my solitary house, in the lower part of the great city of New York, hemmed in by ware houses. I say, imagine me in my thin coat buttoned over a pocket-book as plethoric as I was lean, entering the unpainted and cobwebbed front door and walking through the large hall, solacing myself with the thought that I should soon be comfortable in front of a blazing fire, and finding as I opened the door to my own den, a great red flame upon the hearth, and cowering ovpr it the thin, almost skeleton form of a child. Shall I ever forget the unearthly .look of the great, dark eyes as she turned toward me? Eyes that see If the child had not been pretty, I am sorry to say pretty in spite of the grime and rags, and marks of hard living, and perhaps brutal treatment, or if she had come there in any other fashion, at the door as a mendicant, or had she ever been sent by a friend, I should have expelled her on the in stant but she had thrown hercelf up on my bounty—the fire lit up thedark eyes that made me think of my own little pet—she had prepared an agree able surprise by making the fire, for I was very cold, and she did not seem in the least afraid of me. "Where do you belong?" I asked. "I don't belong anywhere." "Well, who talces care of you? Who do you like with?" "I don't live with anybody. I havn't got any home. Mother and father died long ago, and I'm all alone." Her words and manner touched me, but avarice was tuning at my heart. I grudged this poor mite the little food sne would require. "Well, you've got warmnow Ican't keep you here any longer—there is the way to the door, I said. She rose up, holding the rags of her shawl together, and then I saw that her arms and chest were bare, for her dress was a summer one, probably some gossamer thing which had been given her. She looked at me pleading ly, and for the life of me I could think of nothing but the eyes of ray dead child. "Fancy if this was your own little Kitty!" The thought rushed over me as I followed her to the door, and my heart began to beat furiously. As I opened the door a cold wind blew in that chilled me to the core, and the child looked pitifully up to me again. I couldn't stand it. I took her by the shoulder and led her back to the fire, and, although I did not know it, the tears were rolling down my cheeks. I. who hadn't wept since I laid my darlings together in their last cold bed. The child stayed that night, and was quite ready the next morning to go out and beg but the good angel who stood at my side the night belore prompted me again. "Do you think you could do any thing to pay for your keep?" I asked. "Oh!" and her bands came together, "I'll clean up everything and do just what you tell me. I'm so tired of be ing cold and hungry." "Then stay," I said, my eyes su spiciously full again. That day I had something to think of besides gain. I shuc up my office mMmvmwfm Ti ed to light up the very corners of the room to my frightened, excited fancy. I came forward slowly she never stir red, only continued to gaze at me with a strained, pitiful expression, until Bhe spoke, seeing I came to a pause. "Oh, the fire is so good!" "What do you mean? Who are you? How did you get here?" task ed sternly. "I crawled in through the bars,down into the cellar. I guess I staid there all night. Oh, it was so dark and cold! But I'm used to that, now. Then I found the cellar door and it was open, and so I came here and there were coals on the hearth and I made a fire." 4 veS'^-vi-\ earner, puuea my nac over my eye*, and went across the city to the shop of a German Jew, and there I bought what I thought the child needed, ready made. It cost a good many twinges —the soul of the miser was almost rent in twain. By the time I reached my own door I had called myself a fool at. least twenty times, and fully expected to find the child gone with everything she could lay her hands on. But no there was the fire blazing, the hearth swept up, the floor washed, and the room even with its scant furniture, sq homelike and attractive that my heart began to throb with human pulses again. The girl had washed and made herself as tidy as possible with her scant opportunities, and looked really beautiful in the glow of the evening fire. That night she sat beside me, dress ed in the warm and comfortable gar ments, and I quite forgot to look over my accounts. I could do nothing but look at her. One night I came home, and was surprised at the appearance of my room. A handsome rug lay before the fire, and four faded crimson chairs and a rocker brought back the old time sense of comfort. A little table decked with a white cloth held the old fashioned chinaware which my wife had prized. At first I looked around, almost expecting to see her. But no, there stood Allie, as she called herself, smiling and blushing, yet half afraid at my hasty exclamation. "You won be angry with me, will you? But all the things were upstairs, and they looked so sad and lonesome, just as I used to feel, that I thought I'd bring some ot them downstairs. And, oh! I found this, but I didn't dare to play with it." As she spoke she brought from an ther part of the room a lit i, faded-faced doll. ittle, brok- other part of the room en That was too much for me my lit tie child with its brown tresses and blue eyes came to me in the pereon of the waif who had brought order and symmetry and love into my desolate home, and from that moment I said "She shall be mine, and I will never part from her, but will be to her a father indeed." Then I awoke from the lethargy that had bound my soul so long, became a new man. Together we sang and worked and prattled, like two children. I ceased to think that she ever had been a stranger, and her thougtful, womanly little ways were a constant delight to me. By degrees my home brightened more and more. The cobwebs disappeared from doors and windows in their stead same fresh, new paint and house plants. All the books were brought down from the garret, with their old racks, and nailed to the wall where my wife herself had planned for them to be placed. Every night after my work I came home to a well ordered dinner, for. the child seemed to take naturally to all the mysteries of cooking, and after that I spent two happy hours in teaching her with books and Blate and pencil. I was myself again. I had something to live for, something to look forward to. The flesh came again upon my bones, my old friends recognized me, and the world took on new beauty, for I saw it out of fresh young eyes, and felt it throb in a grateful heart. Now, in place of the rusty lock, the spent candle, and the greed for count ing money in a den thick with dirt, through whose windows the glaring sun itself looks dim—in place of the discomforts of cold and niggard meals, I sit in my pleasant, gas-light room, filled with tne perfume of flowers. Am I weary? My Alice reads to me. Am I sorrowful? She Bit down to the piano and plays the sweet melodieB 1 love, the songs of long ago. The gray hairs are shining on my temples, but, thank God, the rust and the canker have faded out of my heart. Church Fashions in Washington. Tho fashionable church on Sunday in Washington affords ago od deal ol interesting material for reflection. A correspondent writing from the na tional capital says, somewhat flip pantly: The congregation of a fashionable Washington church look aS if there was a sort of pious afternoon tea go ing on and family prayers were sud' denly in order. It is difficult to im agine, much less realize, that the peo ple one has seen rushing around all the week to teas, dinners, balls and receptions can be any more in earnest fa tne perfunctory performance of the services than they are when worship^ ing at the shrine of Mammon and BO'? ciety. The church is turned into a booth for the display of millinery. To have a pew in it is supposed to be a guarantee of social exclusiveness no less than an evidence of recherche piety. The church you attend seems to have as much weight is giving you tone as your visiting list. Tho strug. gle tor seats in the height of the seai son is quite as great as the scuffle for cards to very select affairs. An earn est seeker of salvation of the extreme ly fashionable type would perish sooner than be seen coming out of a church her set did not attend. It is a common thing for the church the President attends to becrammed, not with sinners who are writhing under the intolerable burden of sin, and are anxious to lead a new life, but that they may stare Mrs. Cleveland out ol countenance, and thereby gratify their snobbish curiosity. A Pertinent Inquiry, From the Boston Record. Grace and Teddy had a grand fight a few evenings ago. Grace took Ted's canton flannel elephant away from him and wouldn't give it back. Ted ran at his sister like a tow-headed fury, and Grace gave him a sounding slap on the face. Ted's cries brought their mother to the scene of action, and she carried him oil to bed, leav ing the ageressor Grace in possession of the field. Tjd explained mattevsto the ear of maternal sympathy as he was being put to bed. "Well,Grace was naughty," said the mother, as she put on Ted's night gown. "I'll have to talk to her about it. But you must forgive her Teddy. And you must pray for her, too," sne added, as Ted bumped down on his knees in his usual devotional attitude. "Just let me go down and give hei one good slap first like she gave me," said Ted wrathfully. "Oh, no, darling go on with youi prayers," said the mother softly, smoothing his hair with her hand. "The Bible says we must pray for those who despitefully use us. "Mamma," asked Ted, earnestly lifting his face, "Mamma did you evei try it?" WBAKNBSSEBOFOBEATHEN I •toMllar VmIUm uilmtkdk Btto rflp. New York Herald.—Nothing is more interesting than the weakness of the strong. Men gaze with awe and ad miration at persons who have reared themselves above the surrounding level but the gazers are always pleas ed by the indications of a common humanity. It is probably true that great men are esteemed for their faults quite as much as for their virtues. Alcibiades attracts more affection than Draco. Washington is revered as is no other American, but other Americans have been more loved. The reason is plain. It is instantly suggested in the excuse given by the Athenian for his prejudice against Aristides. He was tired of hearing him called "The Just." Others were tired, too, and hence the famous os tracism. The Scotch phrase about the "unco gude" finds justfication in all the ages. In a narrow acceptation it in culcates the wisdom of pleasing man kind by conformity with the average level. The majority hate to hear ot a man being much better than his fel lows. He who is his own worst ene my, as the facile saying puts it, has likewise usually plenty of friends. But all this is aside from our present purpose. The special form of weakness with which we are now dealing is self-con ceit, or, as Mr. Justin Morrill, the author,calls it,self-consciousness. It is plain, of course, that there arediverse forms of weakness, and as clear that self-consciousness is betrayed in numerous manifestations. There is the weakness that we call amiable^ and the weakness that we find odious. Men may be popular not only in spite of, but, as we have seen, because of, the first they are in variably made unpopular by the last. With this tact in view, Mr. Morrill's queer book may at first evoke inmost readers a kind of despair. They will naturally say thot if the greatest of the earth can not avoid the expression of self-love, how is it to be with com mon mortals? The case is, however, not so desper ate as it seems for, apart from the discrimination to be justly noted as between the mental and moral quan tities, and the circumstance, illustrat ed in everyday life that a man may be distinguished and modest or obscure and arrogant, the patent facts of his tories rise like monuments to remind and reassure us. It there have been Napoleons there have been Grants. But let us put together some of the most remarkable bits of egotism re corded in Mr. Morrill's pages of some of the most remarliable persons. To this end we have selected the following group: Napoleon the Great—One of Napo leon's marshals handed to the emper or a book from an upper shelf with the remark: "I am higher than you, sire." "Longer, not higher," respond ed Napoleon. "In my council," he said, another time, "there were men possessed of much more eloquence than I was, but I always defeated them by this simple argument—two and two make four." "After all, what have I done?" he asked. On a third occasion: "Is it anything compared with what Christ has done?" "They call me lucky." Metternich reports him to have often said: "Because I am able it is weak men who accuse the strong of good fortune." When his sisters sought honors as due to their relationship Napoleon curtly said to them, "One would think from your pretensions, ladies, that we had inherited the crown from our father." Napoleon the Little—Louis Napole on fancied himself a great General. He was with great difficulty dissuaded from taking the command of the French army in the Crimean war. At Plombieres he said to Count Cavour: "Do you know there are but three men in all Europe? One is myself, the second is you, and the third is one whose name [Bismarck, no doubt,] 1 will not mention." Daniel Webster—The great expound er of the American Constitution, was, in general, too well poised to show vanity, whatever he might feel. He, however, wrote early to his father, saying: "I feel a prompting within me that tells me there is something better for me than to be a Clerk of Court. My mind is made up." On another occasion, being in Court, he was reminded that he was assailing a dictum of Lord Camden's. He turn ed to the Judge and owned it, but added: "But, may it please your Hon or, I differ from Lord Camden." Thomas Jefferson calmly observed (of persons interested in the study of legislation and the like)—"They will find that the leading and most impor tant laws of that day were prepared by myself and carried chiefly by my efforts supported, indeed, by able and faithful coadjutors, very ef fective as seconds, but who would not have taken the field as leaders." Lord Byron—According to Leigh Hunt the poet angrily returned a box of pills to an apothecary because the packet was directed to Mr. Byron in stead of Lord Byron. He said: "I awoke one morning and found myself famous." "I am like the tiger," he declared |'if I miss the first spring I go grumbling back to my jungle again but if I do it, it is crushing." On an other occasion he wrote to Moore (18171, and, after saying that he did not think literature his vocatjM,* added: "But you will see that CRili do something or other—the times and fortune permitting—that, like tbe cosmogony or creation of the world, will puzzle the philosophers of all ages." It is believed that he thought to achieve military success and to De- come King ot Greece. Margaret Fuller—This remarka ble woman is reported to have said (when quite young, happily): "I have now met all the intellects of this coun try, and find none comparable to my own." It should be a consolation that an Englishwoman, Frances Anna Kemble, has said things almost as vain. Nathaniel Hawthorne—This eminent man had his share of pride, but it was sometimes the pride that apes humility, as when he says in the pref ace to "Twice Told Tales": "The author has a claim to one distinction which, as none of his literary brethren will care about disputing it with him^ he must not be afraid to mention. He was for a good many years the obscur est man of letters in America." Dr. Samuel Johnson—The great lexicographer, said innumerable ego tistical things. One of them was about "The Rambler." "My other ti1' W :V be said, "are wine and water, hoc my 'Rambler' is pure wine." world, as Mr. Morrill observes, baa thought differently. Once Johnson called oat at a dnb with lofty exultation: "0,1 must tall you, gentlemen, a very gnat thing! The Empress of Russia has ordered tho 'Rambler* to be translated into the Russian language, so I ahall be read on the banks of the Wolga. Hor ace boasts that his fame would extend as far as the banks of the Rhone now the Wolga is further from me than the Rhone was from Horace/' Ac. Oliver Goldsmith—This admirable writer is said to have been jealons of beauty even in the other sex. When the people of Amsterdam gathered round a balcony to look at the William Charles Macready—Actors are of course, although no more than singers, among the vainest of men. Macready actually wrote of his own playing of Macbeth that it was a noble piece of art. Edwin Forrest—The American tragfr* dian was more wary of self-praise. Here, however, is un anecdote not given by Mr. Morrill, and which we have never seen in print. Some syco phant said to him, "Why, Forrest, you're not an actor—you're an insti tution." Forrest liked at times to re peat the pleasant saying. The Great Leland Stanford Uni versity. Washington Letter. The senator had Francis A. Walker and Frederick Law Olmstead with him in California this summer, looking over the ground, and is now engaged with them in the preparation of plans for the buildings that are to be erected for the accommodation of the univer sity. Everything will ba as fine as money and experience can make it, and the institution will be the most liberally endowed of any in the world. It is the intention of Mr. Stanford to gather under the title ot the Leland Stanford university a group of thir teen or more colleges, where all the liberal as well as the useful arts and sciences will be taught to both young men and young women, and where the most ample opportunities will be af forded advanced students for re search and investigation. The chairs oi instruction will be filled with ear nest, ambitious, and progressive young men who will have all the fa cilties for study and investigation at their command, and who wul not be embarrassed by too many duties or weighed down by the necessity o! teaching for their sustenance. They will be liberally paid and encouraged to win reputation for themselves as well as for the institution that fosters them. According to the plan submitted and now under consideration the univer sity is to be divided into twelve col leges, as follows: 1, administration 2, chemistry 3, mechanical engineering 4, the mechanic arts 5, civil engineer ing 6, physics and electricity 7, lan guage and literature 8, geology and mineralogy 9, history and political science 10, biology 11, industrial de sign 12, architecture. Each department is to have its own building and its own working collec tions of books and apparatus, and there are to be in addition a library, museum, laboratory, reading room, art gallery, and gymnasium in sepa rate buildings. There is to be a chapel for devotional exercises and religious instruction. As then is plenty of ground, the plan is to make each of the fifteen or sixteen buildings that aie contemplated only one story in height, lighted by roofs of glass tiles. The buildings will be of massive rough stone, of picturesque designs, and con nected by arcades, some being 110, some 90, and the rest 70 feet iong. All will have a width of 50 feet, and will be of different heights, according to the purpose for which they are in tended and the taste of the architect. They are to be laid out orignally for the accommodation of 500 students, but will be so arranged that they can be extended to accommodate 1,500. The cottage system of dormitories is proposed, each cottage being arranged for the occupancy of twenty or twenty five students, and they are to be scat tered through the park like a village. Mr. Stanford takes the most absorb ing interest in all the plans and prep arations. and his endeavor is to secure the greatest good to the greatest num^ ber possible. What a Man Wants a Wife For. Pittsburg Dispacth: Let me join with "Mabel" in giving society women a hint of their usefulness. No wonder that men who go in these women's company do not want to marry. They are disgusted with them. Not all, of course, but too many are. Now, let me tell you what a man wants a wife for. In the first place to love her, and in return be loved. In the next place he wants her for a help mate. In the case of sickness whocan do more than a loving wife? When you are sick, Mr. Bachelor, a wife comes in mighty handy. In health all are your friends, but in sickness none are to be depended on except your wife and mother. Tell "Bertha" to keep on learning housekeeping. It isn't a burdensome knowledge to carry, even if she hasn't to do the cooking. It makes you so independent that you don't have to take impudenco from a cook, and in case she should leave you suddenly as she may do, you will know how to get your hubby a decent bite to eat. If he doesn't think more of you for knowing that much he hasn't any heart. Remember that some are rich to day and poor to-morrow. When for tune has taken wings such a wife as "Bertha" will make would be a God send to any man. I could tell you some very interesting things about the way I started in married lite, and how I have had to struggle along. Maybe I will take the notion to jot them down some day. I am very proud of the part I have taken in helping icy husband along. There are 30,000 brass bands in this country and 200,000 men who either play in bands or make band in* struments. 1 Misses Horaecks h« grew impatient and said peevishly: "There an places when I also am admired." Dr. Johnson, who, like most monologists, hated to hear other people converse, said of Gold smith, it will be remembered that he wrote like an angel and talked like poor Poll. It ia one of the oddest among our odd anecdotes of egotism in high places that a man so uncom monly ugly as Goldsmith should have piqued himself as described on his per sonal appearance. -fm IS Jf & '. ."..v 9 |9"•r% 4 v- «r jj 1.