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NUMBER 1508.

Che Independent,



THAT’s a curious old legend, (Doesn’t everybody know it ?)

The story of Saint Cedmon, The Anglo-Saxon poet.

Among the Benedictines In Whitby Convent holy, Of Abbess Hilda’s household, He was the lowliest lowly.

For, the monastery’s servaut, He waited on his betters,

And notoing knew of singing And nothing knew of letters.

So, whenever the harp at meal-time From hand to hand was flying, Czdmon alone sat songless Or else departed, sighing.

Now, once when he so had risen And shamefaced left their number, Into the stable stole he And laid him down to slumber.

Where presently an angel Appeared before him sleeping, Who cried: ‘‘A song, my Credmon.”’ ‘* Nay,’’ he made answer, weeping,

“Thou knowest, alas ! I cannot, Alone, among so many !”’ ** Henceforth,” the angel promised, “Shalt thou sing best of any.’’

‘« What shall [ sing ?”’ he faltered. ‘* Repeat creation’s story.” Then in a rapture Cedmon

Sang out the Father’s glory.

And, waking, to his fellows

His dream-hymn he rehearses, Joyfully adding to it

Other melodious verses.

They took him from the stable To join the cloister brothers,

So that all his life-time onward He studied among the others.

He wove the Sacred Writings Into many a simple poem,

And as Cedmon, the early singer, Do after-ages know him.

O generous angel of Cedmon To us, too, draw near!

Songless we wait and unhappy Till our helper appear.

Yea, locked are the lips of our spirits, In a dream grope we,

Till thou, sweet angel, take pity And bring us the key.

None guesseth the music within us ; We are cold ; we are dumb;

The soul of our souls is in prison. Deliverer, come !

When once thou art here we shall waken And sing with the best.

Glad angel of utterance, bless us And we shall be blest.


A PLAIN, Coafsely-clad man, from the north country of Galilee, is seated in the treasury-court of the Temple at Jerusalem. A portion of the crowd who have come up to the Feast of Tabernacles are gathered around him.’ Among them leer out several malicious pharisaic faces and contemptu- ous scowls of the Rabbis. Beside the company stand two colossal candelabra,

fitty cubits high and overlaid with flashing gold. These, when lighted, throw a bril- liant illumination over the whole Temple rea. Pointing, probably, to these gigantic lamps, the plain peasant from Nazareth says, with modest dignity: ‘‘I am the light of the world.” <A look of pity or contempt steals over the countenances of the Jewish auditors as they listen to such an astound- ing assertion. Yet he, the derided Naz- arene, who had led up a band of fisher- men to the capital, knew that he was to be the illuminator of the whole globe and bathe all its continents in spiritual glory. Other teachers were but torches, soon to burn out. He was the divine sun that should yet ‘‘light every man that cometh into the world.” The ferocious bigots at Jerusalem fancied that they had put out the light when they slew him on the cross; but in millions of hearts and homes his warm radiance is felt to-day. No word describes our beloved Lord more perfectly than this one—the light-giver to humanity.

I. It is the office of light to reveal; and Jesus reveals God to us. The conception of an infinite, omnipresent spirit is too vast for us to grasp. But a child can look at God when personated and condensed, as it were, in the form of Jesus Christ. The words of Christ alone can explain God to us, to the humblest of us. The sacrificial déath of Christ explains God’s justice, and his ineffable love wedded unto that justice. Without the flood of discovery which Jesus pours upon the divine attributes we never could have “‘found out God.” He has revealed to us man’s guilt as it could not otherwise be known. In the broad glare of Calvary’s cross sin becomes excced- ing sinful and deserving of perdition. Jesus has revealed the pathway to Heaven, and poured upon that straight and narrow road the noontide of guidance and bright encouragement. Take out of this sin- cursed world to-day the light which has beamed into it from that plain, persecuted man of Nazareth, and all its multitudinous peoples would be shrouded in a spiritual midnight.

II. Coming down from this broad gen- eralization to a personal view, we discover that Jesus is the light of life to me and to every other immortal soul that consents to accept and follow him. When I am per- plexed about any question of duty I have but to inquire what has Jesus said? What would he have me do? Whither does his own example point? Here is every Christian’s infallible guide. Here is an unerring rule of duty. When any professing Christian is afraid or ashamed to bring his conduct into the searching light of Christ’s direct teachings, that Christian may feel perfectly sure that he is in the wrong. It is not necessary that a man should shirk the light in order to convict himself. If when he brings his decisions and his doings close up to the revealing light of Christ’s example ‘‘ his deeds are reproved,” then the sooner he condemns himself the better. If he does not find the light of Christ’s approval over the doorway of any resort for pleasure, let him turn back straightway. If, when he subjects his ledgers and day-books to Christ’s rules of right, he discovers that they will not stand the test, let him rest assured that his business is dishonestly conducted: He does not need any other auditor of his accounts than his Holy Master. Not a single one of the dis-

flowed with radiance.

graceful defalcations that have been traced back to dishonored churchmembers could ever have occurred if these church- members had first subjected their transac- tions to the ordeal of Christ’s injunctions. Not a single Christian ever stumbles or falls until he has put out the light which Christ has given bim. For our Lord has distinctly assured us that whoso ‘‘followeth me shall never walk in darkness.” Oh! what a friend we have in Jesus. How many a pang of remorse, how many a blush of shame, how many a bitter cup of contrition we should spare ourselves, if we would simply lay our every thought and plan and purpose open to our loving Master! **Oh! what peace we often forfeit,

Oh! what needless pain we bear,

All because we do not carry

Everything to Him in prayer.”

III. It is also the office of light to quick- en. The ivy that is placed in the depths of a dark cellar turns pale and dies. But let a ray of sunlight stream in uponit, and the ivy will at once feel a new life shoot through its fiber and will clamber toward the open window. Sunlight is as essential to vegetation as warmth or water. And the manifest reason why so many Chris- tians are stunted is that they attempt to live in the dark cellar of unbelief. They grope away from his bright, warm countenance into the damp darkness of their own gloomy thoughts and fears, and into their own self-reliances, instead of dwelling under Christ’s ‘‘open face.” He is the light of life. His spirit imparts life, his fellowship kindles joy, his promises bestow comfort, his approving smile could make John Bun- yan sing in a prison-cell. And even when we have sinned, if we would but bring our hearts, with honest contrition, into the light of Christ’s countenance, we might receive the welcome assurance: ‘‘Go thy way. Thy sins are forgiven thee.” Many a sermon has been preached and many a treatise has been written to in- struct God’s people how to grow in grace. But the gist of every sound sermon or essay might be condensed into the single short injunction to live in the quickening sunshine of Christ’s countenance. Cheer- ful old Paul gives the secret of his growth, his strength, and his joy when he says: ‘‘Tt is not I, it is Christ that liveth in me.” He exhorts his brethren, who sometime were darkness and now were light in the Lord, to walk as children of the light. Not one of them could grow while in the dungeon of unbelief and estrangement from Christ.

IV. I need not protract this paper to set forth the palpable and precious truth that Jesus is the only light-giver for dark hours of affliction. A rainbow, with all its poly- chromatic splendors, is nothing but sunlight playing upon a background of storm. A Christian’s joy in sorrow is simply the re- flection of Christ’s smile of love upon the cloud. If no sun, ther no rainbow. If Jesus be hidden, then hope disappears. If Tesus depart, how great is that darkness!

The most Heaven-like spots I have ever visited have been certain rooms in which Cbrist’s disciples were awaiting the sum- monsof death. So far from being a ‘‘house of mourning,” I have often found such a house to be a vestibule of glory. At this moment I recall a gifted young woman, whose dying-bed seemed to be spread in the very land of Beulah. Her whole soul over-

words she uttered were: ‘‘ My road through

Almost the last’

the valley has been long; but it is bright all the way.” Jesus shone through the gloom, and Death’s vain shadows fled before him. Heaven’s morning broke ere life’s sun had set. Jesus had been to her the light of life in this world. And when her emancipated spirit entered the realms of glory, her first discovery must have been—as it was re- vealed to the seer of Patmos—that ‘‘ the Lams is the light thereof.”



WILL it seem strange to you if I say that it seems an offense against this perfect day that Congress should be here? The steam- heated air of the Capitol in the coldest weather is something most depleting to en- counter. But, with the atmosphere outside soaring amid the eighties, you may fancy the suffocation in these marble halls as the great engines in the cellars send up their breath of heated steam. Men mop their streaming foreheads with immense hand- kerchnefs; the delicate ruches encircling a thousand fair throats in the gallery melt and fade into wilted shreds; fans flap in heated agitation; soft faces seem to scorch into irritation. There is no refresh- ment in the calling of the roll, albeit it is to decide who is to be the Speaker. Life for the moment is unbearable. Yet. we must go to the opening of Congress, you know; though precious few of us know what we go for, unless it is to be in a tor- ment of heat and of repelling human con- tiguity. I have a suspicion that I have told you before that I am never so cer- tain that, on the whole, humanity is not ‘‘nice” as when I am jammed into one of its promiscuous ‘‘crushes.” Leaving the heat, the suffocation, the smells, and my little bag of bad temper (with which you are familiar) behind, coming out once more face to face with the day, oh! carrissama, is it not divine? Is it not sacrilege—that heat and hooting within; that shouting of Jones’s and Smith’s names, as if they were of the smallest account! Why does such a day enfold the earth, unless it be to im- part to earth’s weary creatures somewhat of its own heavenly serenity; somewhat of that elixir of life that seems ever distilling from elements in equipoise somewhat of that rare bounty of health born anew from every perfect day. The ideal October is ever covered with cloth of gold. Her skies are dim in distant nebule; her lanes are laced with frost; her scarlet leaves flame with the fever of death; her drop- ping nuts, her smuggling squirrels sound the ‘‘tocsin of decay.” The dawn of this October I was sure I saw on the mountain- tops weeks ago. In the parlors below are the trophies I took from her crown. Vases filled with emerald leaves, just streaked with vermilion, leaves of ruby, leaves of amber, plumes of ferns, great clusters of bitter-sweet berries burst- ing through their yellow vests in fresh jackets of royal scarlet. I made my rooms brave with this autumn splendor; for who may be sure of that second summer, late as it is rare, dearas it is fleeting, when great Nature and the greater Heart gather in together the mocking sweetness of their aftermath? From that October that was I look forth into the summer that is, into airs exhaling the subtlest of sweet odors, into skies profoundly blue. Beneath my


~o ot at AN EOE SIRE

windows great masses of flowers run riot in a perfect carnival of color. The rose- bushes I planted in May droop beneath their new-blown burdens, into whose g6lden and crimson hearts will fall at last the December snows. Cypress vines, planted in June, crowd my second-story window with their tender starlings of white and crimson blossoms. The deli- cate tracery of their leaves has all the freshness and fullness of June.

There is no chill in the air, Doors and windows open wide on vast spaces, through which drift sunshine and fra- grance, but not the heat of summer. Thus, you see, this midland latitude gives compensation late and long for the in- tense fervor of its early solstice. I am sure you agree with me by this time that Congress has no business here in such weather. In the one hundred and one years of life of the Republic this is but the fourth time that Congress has ven- tured to Washington in October. George Washington issued the first call, for Octo- ber 24th, 1791, and John Adams presided over the deliberations of the body. The next call for Congress in October was twelve years later, when Thomas Jefferson summoned Congress to meet October 17th, 1808, and Aaron Burr presiced over the Senate. The third call for Congress in October was also from Thomas Jefferson, when George Clinton, of New York, was Vice-President. The fourth, from Ruther- ford B. Hayes, on account of the unpre- cedented political conditions from which it springs, is thus far the most memorable instance in American history ‘of an Octo- ber meeting of the United States Congress.

The most terrible contrast that I saw in the meeting of Congress with the day I saw in the corridors. The opening and closing days of the sessions always brings there a motley throng; but in all the crowds of eleven years I never saw the par- allel of to-day. To the very morning that Congress meets Washington presents the aspect of a great, serene village. Every- where you hear complaints of its ‘*du)l- ness.” The quiet, to me delightful, to most people seems to be a great bore. I connt as precious the silence that reigns throuch the wide, embowered thorough- fares. Congress comes, and lo! all is changed. At once the e¢osmopolite is abroad. The Commune mounts the marble steps of the Capitol and crowds its corri- dors. IT never saw in the same space of time and piace so many dreadful-lookiog people as I saw to-day inside the walls of the Capitol. The great army of tramps, the great army of ‘‘strikers” seemed on march to besiege the doors of legislation. From what caves and crannies of earth they were mustered in so brief a space Heaven only can tell. Their presence, to me, had a sad significance. It was not in accord with my normal idea of my nativé land that such people should dwell in it at all. The sight of them seemed in- trinsically wn-American. Out of war and want, out of inflation and false life, out of the great inequality of labor and profit, they have come, this great army of incapa- bles, sworn to want, to crime, to ignominy. Is there no monition in their presence, no protest against the past, no menace for the future? This vast army of the cor- ridors surged afresh before me as I listened to these words in Speaker Randall’s open- ing speech: ‘‘If you would have an honest administration, it must be frugal. Never before was it more urgent than now. With general financial distress and labor de- pressed, when the iron rule of hard neces- sity darkens every house in the land, extravagance on the part of the people’s servants would be an unpardonable crime.”

Inside of the legisiative sanctuary the scene was fair, if the air was stifling. Con- gress was at its best. The members wore new clothes and the House a new carpet. The dust had been wiped from the his- orical paintings and from the state coat- tof-arms on the ceiling. The brightness of home bad not faded out from the faces of the members, nor had the effects of boarding-house fare yet become visible on their countenances. They looked as if tripping about on the grassy sward, so mossy green was the new carpet, starred all over with yellow dandelions. They

were in an effusive state of mind. They



{October 25, 1877,



always are on beginning day. They **gush” a little, if they are not school-girls, and slap and hug each other, like the big boys that they are. Their affections cool down as the session goes on, and men who hug each other on the first day sometimes fight like street-gamins before the last. On Saturday night it was perfectly certain that Randall was to be the next Speaker of the House. Nevertheless, the Republicans held a caucus and nominated General Gar- field as their candidate, and he received the respectable number of 132 votes, against Randall's 149. Randall is not the supreme favorite of his party. I doubt if he has as many personal admirers as Milton Sayler, or even ‘‘Sammy Cox.” Moreover, he is accused by some of his brethren of being too good to the Republican side in the contest last spring—an accusation that one year ago no one would have believed possible. Nevertheless, all the factors of final triumph centered in him. On Friday Say- ler yielded his claims to candidacy; late Saturday night, Cox. The latter gentle- man ‘‘held on” tilla committee of New Yorkers visited him and told him that his name would not be presented. It was a bitter blow—twice as bitter as last year, when he believed his triumph was only de- ferred to the beginning of the Forty-fifth Congress. Each of the three principal candidates has occupied pro tem. the Speaker’s chair, and the sweet little taste they had of it then made them long to see their photographs hang in the Speakers’ Room in the regular succession of execu- tive officers of the House. Milton Sayler is-a bon vivant from Cincinnati; a man whose personal qualities bind his friends to him with ‘hooks of steel”; a man of fine scholarship, of high gifts of mind, many graces of person, and an infinite charm of manner, who has never made the best or the most of himself. He is full of good impulses, of kind feeling, even of high aspiration; but his will is weak, his passions powerful, his principles in reverse ratio ‘‘ shaky” or non assertive. He is too idle, too good-natured, perhaps too philosophic to take any political disap- pointment very keenly to heart, while he can still eat, drink, and be merry with his comrades.

**Sammy Cox eats and drinks over bis disappointment, but is not merry. He is far from it, if one may judge by the aspect of his countenance as he leaned his head against the back of his seat and gazed at Randall being sworn in Speaker—a small- ish man, with a fine head, a dark, expressive face, and a figure indicative of verve and of intense nervous action. Mr. Cox made a good Speaker during the time he presided, when no immense emergency came to the

surface. He has plenty of ability to be Speaker. He has great ability in certain directions. He is a man of wit, of endless

repartee. His lack is that of temperament, of characteristics of dignity, of mental, perhaps moral balance.

Randall is a prince of partisans by nat- ural instinct. But with his powerful prejudice mingles an innate sense of keen justice, an instinctive desire for fair play— to give “‘ the other fellow,” no matter how much his antagonist, an honest chance. This quality, one of the deepest roots of his character, has made him, in spite of natural partisanship and prejudice, in the main, a fair Speaker. On the floor he would fight a Republican to the last breath. In the chair he would not take away the Re- publican’s chance, even if be could. He does not want the Republican to beat; but he will not abuse him. Mr, Randall’s presence in the chair is extremely winning. Cast in Roman mold, tal] and powerful, he sits high and looksthe man he is. He is just fifty years old, but does not look forty five. Those traces of wear and tear so pal pable on the faces of many public men, telling sometimes of too little sleep, some- times of too much drink, of eating ambi- tion, or of nameless dissipation, are in no- wise visible here. The face tells somehow another sweeter and rarer story—of a happy home and of household loves. I doubt if any man could carry that expression who has a home and is not happy in it, Mr. Randall has a fine head, covered with closely-curling black hair, clearly cut, strong features, with a square, solid, but not heavy, jaw; a mouth that could hardly

fail to have its own way, if it set about it. The very strong will of the man is perfect- ly apparent in his countenance; but, com- bined with the head and brow, gives the impression of large power, rather than of mere willfulness, Itis said that Mr. Ran- dall’s favorite pastime is the study of as- tronomy; that, when he wants to forget the broils of House committees, he lifts his eyes to the heavenly bodies. This must explain the cherubie expression which steals over his uplifted countenance occa- sionally, even amid the turmoil of the House. The most practical of men, when nothing important is going on I bave seen him look as if he were star gazing. What arestit must be toturn from the bedlam below to the imaginary contemplation of Saturn’s rings and Jupiter's ridiculous little moons.

Alexander Stephens, in the front seat, and Benjamin F. Butler, in the back seat, claimed the usual amount of attention be- stowed upon them the first day of the session. They look at Alexander to see why he isnot dead: and at Benjamin to see why he looks so wicked, or if he is developing any new capacities in that direction. The Baltimore ‘‘ malaria” is as biga humbug asthe Washington demon called by that name. Neither ever touched Benjamin. He Jooks as if he was never sick a minute in his life and never would be. Alexander Stephens looks as if he had been sick ever since he was born, and you wonder where a great soul finds room to stay in such an attenuated little body. What little there is of it is almost lost to mortal sight in the voluminous folds of a great cloak, under a high stove-pipe hat. But, as this unique image passed me to-day, in a chair borne on the shoulders of two men, I caught the gleam of two dark eyes, all aflame with light and intelligence, and I said: ‘‘ The great soul lives there!”’

The Forty-fifth Congress opened in the House to-day without the slightest excite- ment, bevond a little mild cheering over Speaker Randall’s speech; and the Senate glided still more serenely into existence. There was room for all the people that were in the galleries. Space and comfort, flowers and greatness there met and mingled. The two senators who fill perhaps the largest space in the public thought and seem to fill also the largest space of any two men in the Senate Chamber (though both together are not so big as Senator David Davis)—viz., Conkling and Blaine—had upon their desks the biggest baskets of flowers visible. These lovely

some man, at his desk, devoted to letter- writing, has dropped the slow fever that beset him Jast winter and begun anew for another senatorial term. He is a genuine Republican and the ablest man. New Hampshire has presented the Senate with for a long time. Unless it has a finer specimen in reserve—which its past con- tributions would lead one to doubt—it had better keep him here, provided he can weather the ‘‘ malaria.” Senator Morrill, of Vermont, looks more and more like Sumner; but his colleague, Senator Ed. munds, resembles Moses considerably less than he did last winter and looks nearly a century younger.



Ir was only the tyranny df custom that sent us to Paris last summer. Why it should be necessary for any one who aspires to a social standing of the least firmness to submit to this annual disturbance of *' go- ing away” I capnot pretend to explain; but, as my friend Tabby said, ‘‘it is always less trouble to yield, my dear, unless an in- vasion of the moral law is in question.” So we yielded.

We chose Paris because it is so near, though our male acquaintance laughed at us, and declared it was impossible that two demure, timid ladies like ourselves, veritable tabbies (so they called us), could find anything to do in that gay and danger- ous city. But we had heard there were shops in Paris; and even if one bas no money, there is no charge for looking in. ‘*Be sure you visit the Morgue’’ was the parting injunction we received,

A ten hours’ journey is not a sufficient reason for the radical difference between London and Paris. All resemblance is at an end beyond the white twin cliffs that rise on either side of the Channel, and so we found when the morning gave us a French greeting. For we had chosen a night transit, to save time, having nothing to lose in the way of scenery.

Once arrived on the Dover platform of the Charing Cross Station, we half fancied ourselves on the Continent already, being surrounded by trunks labeled for every familiar point there and hearing French and German on every side. How little we realize the many distinct currents that make up the grand stream of daily life, unless, perchance, we get out of ourown. We did

not suffer for our inexperience here, for porters and people knew we could want

spirits never speak to each otber. They never see cach other, though they often stand not more than an inch apart. Conkling still looks handsome, though the golden glory of his hair has gone, even from the famous forelock. Blaine has lost much of his good looks. His eyes, which were once like a seal’s and quite as fine, have receded within swollen circles above and below, which tell of weary wakeful- ness and of mary battles fought that were not all won. He is still one of the most powerful looking men intheSenate. Vice- President Wheeler looks thinner and sad- der than he used to look. Thus also looks Senator Ferry, who shows plainly the traces of his recent severe illness. The handsome bouquet on this gentleman’s desk bore this inscription: ‘‘ From Mother and Son to their Best Friend.” Notwithstanding threatened paralysis, Senator Anthony seems scarcely more aged than he has for several years. Senator Burnside, less peacock-like in bis attire, shows no traces of illness, unless in a slightly-subdued aspect, which is decidedly becoming. Last year, in-his chinchilla cap and bright India Cashmere waistcoat, he was decidedly startling in his senatoria] aspect. Senator Spencer has curled up bis hair, or else his pretty new wife has curled it for him. Senator Booth looks as much the fine gentleman as ever, though he now leaves the contemplation of finger-nails ex- clusively to Roscoe Conkling. Senator Hamlin looks younger than ever and no senator’s black eyes are sharper. Senator Thurman has dropped his muffler, shaker off his foé, the neuralgia, and started on a Presidential race, provided the nation ean swallow any more of Ohio at the end of four years. Enough is enough, even of a good thing. Senator Wadleigh, a hand-

but one thing on that precise spot, and hur- ried us toward obtaining it, without a word. In a few moments we were rushing on toward Dover, in immediate proximity to 2 big German, and a female whose whole ap- pearance bespoke her a lady, in her own eyes, but questionably so in any one else’s. She and the German talked French inces- santly during the ride, and were so absorbed in each other that I was surprised, on arriv- ing at Dover, to see the woman carrying her own bundles and looking after her own affairs, while the German had disappeared . In answer to some companionable remark from us, she vociferated, in loud English

with an unmistakable Cockney accent

‘Oh! we’re going the same way for a bit, are we? But I’m going straight on to Italy, without stopping.” And without stopping, indeed, she strode to the boat, and took possession, and banged the door of the only stateroom it contained, and we saw no more of her.

The other denizen of our carriage had been a young man, Coarse, fat, and horri- bly sleek, who slept heavily all the time, and kept » pudgy hand in view, on whose little finger flashed a magnificent diamond ring. It seemed to scintillate and pant with indignation at every breath he drew, as if to say: ‘‘How came I here?” And they were, indeed, an ill-matched pair.

The Channel was wonderfully smooth that night, and we were very comfort- able on a sofa, half-dozing half-watch- ing the other people, and carefully turning away our eyes from @ ghastly pile of basins, partially covered, in, the center

-of the cabin, from which ‘an: occasional

contribution was taken to the upper regions. Two young woman near us arranged them- selves with every convenience, and tben

kept congratulating each other ov their

October 25. 1877.)



immunity from sickness, and exploding with weak screams and giggles whenever a young man, probably the husband of one of them, put in his head, and remarked, with hackneyed humorousness, *‘that he was sure they were looking very pale. Wus the basin within their reach?” A fat and comfortable lady came in with a tall and spare one, who had a hired smile on her face and ‘‘lady’s companion” stamped upon every fold of her well-worn and studi- ously genteel garments. They made ar- rangements enough for a voyage to the An- tipodes, so that I doubted their getiing unrolled and in walking trim in time for the train at Calais. Much obsequious patting and tucking was administered by the Shad ow to the Substance; and then she swung herself up on a high shelf, above the seats, and lay rigidly straight, prepared for the worst. 4

Steward!” she called loudly, with that intonation that means basin even to the amateur. ‘* Not,” confided she to the Sub- stance beneath her, ‘‘that I suppose we shall need it, you know; but one feels easier to have it near, in case—”

In the gentlemen’s cabin, across the way, corks popped at short intervals, and voices grew uproarious, and all began to wear for us the strangeness and unreality of a dream, as the drowsiness we kept at bay persisted in wooing us to itself. And in a half- dream we landed; and were borne along to the train and into a carriage somehow, and were very uncomfortable there. For my friend had the generosity of a novice in traveling, and refused to put up her feet and occupy all the room she could; so I had to follow her example, and lost my temper entirely when three Frenchmen, who suffered from no such delicacy, came in and stretched themselves on the remain- ing seats and enjoyed a charming night. Gladly would I have laid aside my frame- work of aching bones and changed places

with the most shapeless jelly-fish; but it.

might not be, and in the gray light of morning I shook off the uneasy dozes that had hovered about me, and felt that every- thing on me was out of place, and that no water or brushes would ever renovate me, and that I was too demoralized to care.

The most comely of the Frenchmen had also slept the best, and sprang up with ag- gravating briskness, and, producing small combs and mirrors, he gave himself a dry

polish, as is the custom of Frenchmen. I am inclined to think that, even with better opportunities, tbis ‘‘cat-wash,” as the Germans Call it, is all a Frenchman honest- ly desires. Opposite me was an older and a sadder man, with skin like rhinoceros hide, and those enormous, heavy eyelids common among Frenchmen, lying like a half shut portcullis over the dull eyes, which had let the soul out at window long ago and retained but a galvanic life.

It was barely eight o’clock when we reached Paris; but the sun shone so brightly, the people were so busy and wide- awake, that one felt convinced night was not here an unmitigable fact. A French- man would, probably, shrug his shoulders at the mention of darkness, and say: It is true, we cannot always have daylight. Let us, then, be thankful for gas!”

One may reckon up reasons innumerable to account for the stamp of foreigners in a foreign land, and yet an indescribable sometbing, which is surely the essential reason, eludes and mocks us, after all. Perhaps it is the tall and many-windowed houses, or the gay colors of stucco and plaster, or these racking pavements that have no mercy on our bones and are in league with the springless omnibus that carries us. This may be called a comet among omnibuses—not the usual planet re- volving unchangeably io its orbit—and we are taken a circuit, with other passengers, before reaching our own boarding-house. We go down very narrow streets, turning sharp cornéts’at such a rapid rate that it is doubtful if our skins are not left behind as porous plasters on the house-side.

A handsome part of the city surrounds our boarding house, and we begin to appre- ciate its fine spaces and vistas. There is the harmony about Paris as of a well-con- sidered thought instantaneously fulfilled. No effects are lost, and they so enhance each other, so tax the mind to do them just- ice, that one shivers at last as before a

witch-like creation—a magnificent tead- stool. There are some moods—and those, perhaps, the highest and purest—in which Paris must grate upon one like an untimely laugh; for, though joy is a divine attribute and a holy gift, joyousness has here run to seed and become harshly flippant. Undoubtedly, in our attitude toward Paris, we did resemble two respectable tabby cats endeavoring to cross a pool of water dry-shod—first advancing one timor- ous paw, then trying another, and finally walking demurely back to the warm and dry ingle nook, with less accomplished than any one would venture to suppose, from their wise faces.

We went forth bravely in the broad, strong morning sunshine, when things looked aafe, having agreed to explore on foot, as by far the more interesting and thorough method. But very soon we were lost, beyond a joke, and realized vividly what it is to be strangers and aliens upon earth. The boulevards looked hopelessly alike, with streets straying and slanting across them in anirresponsible manner, too broad even to attempt crossing by ordinary means. Omnibuses passed and repassed us, numbered and lettered in what the guide- books say is a very lucid system; but we feared to trust ourselves in one, for we should not even have known when its whole circuit was made. Ouronly resource was to hail one of the lazily-creeping fiacres, and sink into it with a blessed sense of rest and safety, giving the driver pretty nearly his head. These drivers were very polite in pointing out all the buildings that would interest us.

The Champs Elysées does not seem inter- minable in a fiacre; but when on foot the more we walked toward the Arch de Tri- omphe the nearer we found ourselves to the Place de la Concorde. Then, too, it was difficult to dodge the street-waterers, who on all sides were running their rubber pipes on uncanny little wheels to the grass- hidden water plugs, and then showering all dry parts of the street and grass, and woe betide that individual who formed part of adry spot. But, when oneis safe out of the watery serpent’s range, it is delightful to watch the constant refreshing of the parched earth. Even the sunshine becomes less oppressive, and the glistening rainbows on grass or tree are very beautiful. The white French dust needs to be curbed, as we realized in our drives beyond the city,

where it flung itself abroad like a riderless steed.

Part way up the Champs Elysées we turned aside to see the panorama of the Siege of Paris. Ascending some dark stairs in the tent like crection, we found ourselves on an earth-covered mound, encircled by a deep fosse, separating us from the panor- ama, This is cunningly arranged with a few real bags of powder and a small can- non, to make the illusion of the pictured part more complete. There was something awful in the contrast between this vivid representation of the smoke of cannon, the death-struggle of men, the blaze of build- ings, and the utter silence in which we stood. It made us speak in whispers, and come away with a keener consciousness of human suffering, which holds before so many unseeing eyes its silent panorama.

Some vestige or ruin of the war rises here and there throughout the laughing streets of Puris, like a sigh. The rapidity of restoration has been wonderful, and ‘these few remains are fenced away from sight as much as possible; but they are felt to be still an important reality, and one is almost choked by the constant diet of “* Liberté, Egalité, Fraternité” stamped upon houses, churches, and gateways, It raises a suspicion that in the people’s hearts there must be a scarcity of these provis- ions. The French do not seem to digest freedom well—perhaps because they bolt it so hastily; and they look more natural when they are advocating despotism, as did many of the guides and cabmen with whom we had to do.

Notre Dame stands steadfast and un- touched in its massive beauty, with no ob- noxious sentence on ,its front; but little birds, instead, twittering in and out of their nests behind the old saints’ heads—a fitter exposition of peace and love than written words. ~We found a party on their way to

see the relics of the cathedral; andas we


stood before the gold and silver cups and

flagons, and the richly-embroidered silken

and velvet vestments, which the guide un-

locked for our inspection and volubly ex-

plained in French, I noticed a small weasel

of a man, scrupulously dressed, who was

studying each face by turn with a piercing

earnestness. The surface «xpressions on

his face were many, while the underlying one was the same, as if he were mentally

addressing each person in the style he’ thought suited them best; and [ judged

him to be a one ideaed man, with plenty of tact—the kind that is sure to get on in the world. At length his survey was done,

and he sprang up fiom a sitting posture in front of us, with a suddenness that startled everybody. ‘‘ Ladies and gentlemen,” he exclaimed, ‘‘if any of you understand the English language, listen to me.”

An involuntary expression of relief, that was very comical, appeared on almost everybody’s face; and the French guide drew back, with a deprecating smile, and confined himself to opening and shutting drawers and presses, while from the lips of our new leader a stream of history, anec- dote, and apt