Evening Star Newspaper, November 11, 1893, Page 20

i THE PAR IS POUND. THE DOGS IN PARIS. Fondness of the French for Their Canine Friends. THREE KINDS 10 BE SEEN.) The Parisian Pound and What It Contains. HOW DOGS ARE EXECUTED. Gpecial Correspondence of The Evening Star. PARIS, October 24, 1893. ITH THE AP- proach of winter W== in Paris, its immense population of dogs of all descrip- tions may breathe freely again. The a muzzles which have troubled them SS. through all the sum- $ mer months are be- ing quietly removed. ‘The law makes no distinction of months oS in this respect; but as it can hardly be enforced in summer, when dogs in Paris are known by actual Statistics to be a serious danger, it Is ut- terly impossible for the police to make way against the astounding weakness of the people for their toutous in the season when they seem to have some right on their side. There are more dogs in Paris than in Constantinople, famed for dogs; and the affection and interest of Parisians for them is a thing past all belief. It ts not the same with country people. I have never | seen a French peasant caress his dog other than with a stick or a wooden shoe; and | the provincial bourgeois, especially those of small cities and large villages—a class of people intensely disagreeable, hard, tricky, pretentious, loud and beneath the Peasant as a pleasing type of manhood— treat their hunting dogs and watch dogs with the greatest harshness, feeding them badly or allowing them to forage for them- selves along the streets. The Parisian is a} different man from other Frenchmen—and | the petted dogs which so abound in Paris, dogs with owners and dogs who are city tramps, meet with nothing but tenderness from the great mass of the people. M. Loze, late prefect of police, who was “pro- verybody Loves Them. moted”—promoveatur ut removeatur—after the popular verdict against his handling of last spring’s students’ riots, suffered much im that matter because of an anterior ani- mus Parisians had kept nursed against him. M. Loze is a grave and conscientious man. Alarmed at the continuous spread of hydrophobia in Paris (it is said to be “en- demic” in the department of the Seine), he put out his famous edict of the summer of 1982, insisting that the police should enforce the law against unmuzzled dogs. There was an immediate uproar. Loze and his police were called 3 ins. They were declared to take a fiendish satisfaction They were said to have no “en- $s our King James’ version has it in old English, “bowels of mercy.” Sympathy for Canines. That summer every class of people in Paris worked themselves into fury against the police and into an extraordinary sym- pathy for dogs. In railway carriages ladies, who did not know each other, would join to hide some sorry pup, the property of some third party, behind their skirts in order to evade the eyes of the conductor. I have seen a restaurant in an uproar be- cause the gerant notified a young woman that she might not unmuzzle her poodle and feed him from a plate upon the table. This was in a y when statistics showed be- tween eight and nine hundred actual cases | of mad dog bites in all France. | i | The Three Kind: Dogs in Paris are of three kinds: those led by strings, those who simply follow their | masters and those who have no masters, but search diligently to find a patron, smell- ig at the heels of every passer-by. ‘The dogs led by strings may be subdivided in two ways. dogs. Secondly, led by rieties of little dogs w and tan) and tiny poodle nd « lap-dogs nameless the writer. They are very small, washed, combed, curled a beribboned. No one seems to care to lead a all | bea * | boys’ capacity middle-sized dog. The big dogs are always mastiffs, very large greyhounds—I believe they cail them Irish greyhounds, they are very fashionable—and Danish dogs, the lat- ter a fierce and unreliable race. They have monstrous, misshapen heads and terrible jaws. They are as large as well grown calves. They are the descendants of the war dogs of the northern ancients. The Popular Black Poodle. Dogs who waik beside their masters, free from leashes, are almost always of the big black poodle breed. These animals, which are supposed to be the most intelligent of their species, are the true dogs of Paris. Peace. They outnumber all except the curs and nondescripts. You cannot walk a square without you meet a full half dozen of them bearing their masters’ hats, canes, news- papers and even baskets in their mouths. The more absurdly such a dog is clipped the more attenuon he attracts, and the bet- ter pleased his master is, therefore. The prevailing style is to leave the head and shoulders woolly, shaving the face, how- ever, to give a bristling mustache and goatee in the style of the third empire. The forelegs are shaved to give furry cuffs around the poodle’s wrists. The hind quarters are shaved to make a graceful ceinture running round the loins in a beast- ly irregular curve so as to have the a| pearance of a sash awry and almost wrig- sled off. These poodles must be black and r ribbons of blue or red. Though really ry large clumsy animals they have a y of climbing into ladies’ laps, in pub- seen walking without leashes are a few various hounds and bird dogs, bassing through the city only. There are, also, a few pugs, relics of eight or ten years a: now aged, obese and puffing along ill-naturediy, for all the world like their stout, waddling, old-maid mistresses — all old maids in France are fat. You sel- dom see a St. Bernard dog; there are a few Scotch terriers, though Skyes are Dop- chshunds are coming slowly into favor and now and then you come across a fine fox terrier. Nevertheless there is a wonderful uniformity in dogs along the streets: 1. Tiny lap dogs, led by 2, big hulking brutes in leather thongs and chains; 3, the inevitable native black poodle, and 4, the Paris cur. The Ordinary Paris Car. This last is a queer, lank, bristling fel- low of any shape and size you please, as cosmopolitan in his ancestry as the li- cense of the Paris streets permits. It is also he who goes forever nosing along, searching for a patron and a place. He finds the place most often these late years to be the Fourriere. This is the Paris pound, not only the fu- nereal hotel of umredeemed or culpable dogs, but also the sheltering arms of all the more valuable wandering animals found masteriess upon the streets. Steers and cows, jackasses, sheep, rabbits, chickens, little birds and cats there find a safe asy- Al This is Proper. lum. Sometimes even a swan, a monkey or a pig will stray into the family. All that are salable, though they should re- main unclaimed, are certain to be allowed to take up the thread of life again outside. | Dogs only are excepted. In the Pound. Legally the animals may not remain longer than eight days in the pound await- ing recognition. The exceptions are in cases where animals are connected with some case awaiting tria before the courts, when they are held as witnesses or as pieces a conviction. All others unclaimed after eight days ar# so Owners of ani- mals may have them back on payment of the et costs of food and attendance, plus the fee to the loafer, commissionaire or policeman who has effected their capture and transport to the pound. This is reg- ularly between 30 and 40 cents apiece—a et Under the regime of M. Loze, when money was paid out willingly and never a question was asked, they even that Paris loafers used to steal vai- wable dogs from out their very silver chains and collar: The F¢ of dogs, rriere is called the Little Roquette atory prison, liing center that all its ans exists. loaf and linger beside t f the Seine find few stops more ful. of curious interest for them than those banks and bridges which hedge in the two old islands of La Cite and the lle The sunny walks beside t the book stalls in and the dealers washing place is the little steamers blouses. Notre Palais de Justice, the curiously enough, almost be- ck where happier dogs are hs—the Fourriere. In the Fourriere. ntrance is along the river, directly the bridge that takes you to the not a stone’s throw distant. An vy archway of stone, with a grating of iron, leads you past a smart re < sh tor ts in The be n work there he to the taken » of dogs, so easy | real Petite Roquette being aj} And it is in its | municipal guard, with cherry-colored breeches, into a lugubrious court yard, lit- tered up with animais and broken vehicles. Coachmen who have lost their turn-outs beg, accuse, rave, plead, explain, defend. A serious punishment awaits the negligent coachman who allows his horse to wander while he is drinking in a wine shop. He must aiways come to search it at the pound. There he is judged and takes his sentence. Stray baby carriages mix here with con- fiscated unlicensed hand organs; tubs and barrels that have fallen out of drays mix up with abandoned arm chairs, rusty sew- ing machines, ladders and benches—all the bulky flotsam and jetsam of the street. Around the edges of this great court the dogs are stored in double rows of cages. And a very singular impression may be re- ceived in passing before those double rows of cells. Cooped up together you see the culpable and the innocent, the sick and the lively, poor piaintive beasts and irritated, snapping ones, that make you glad to see them safely housed. They are all there, wandering bow-wows, suspected poodle: deserted she-greyhounds, pathetic old point- ers abandoned in old age and playful roly- poly pups not worth the raising. Mixed up with them aristocratic dogs, with collars of silver or stamped leather, sit mildly wondering. The Fourriere exists for the just and the uajust alike—a deplorable and affecting bench show. It is said that Mario, the tenor, in the days of his great success, would go into the bird market of Venice and bargain for five hundred birds at a time. Then he would let them all fly free, crying out to them—for he was a trifle unbalanced in his head— that, being singers, they were his little cousins. Some such motive, or perhaps mere pity, moves hundreds of Parisians to em . Entrance to the Pound. make pilgrimages to the Paris pound. They claim dogs they never saw before, to pay the fine for them and let them free again. Then they can yelp aiong the streets again, smelling at the heeis of every stranger for master. In the summer of 1892, when the massacres” were going on, the severest proofs were found pecessary ‘to be de- manded, to class out from the genuine re- deemers of their property pretended be- reaved owners, who never owned a dog nor would own one because of the expense and trouble. The Execution. ‘Two times a day the condemned are haul- ed in a rolling cage to execution, a little car run on a track. It holds fifteen or twenty little dogs; but often some big poin- ter or greyhound will have to make his last unwilling trip alone. The little cage rolls on its track into a hermetically closable box of boiler iron which it is made to fit exactly. The opera- tor turns a stop-cock, and the poison—or- dinary illuminating gas from the city pipes— pours in upon the inmates until they all Wash Day. are suffocated. In less than two minutes the poor beasts sleep, before which time, however, they have made the wildest strug- gies. In less than five minutes the rolling cage is pulled out full of dead dogs. The Fourriere delivers over these cadavers to an industrial concern at Choisy, at a regulation price of 12 cents each, for big and little. This company utilizes every part and portion. The skins of these dead dogs are tanned for gloves, for rugs, for ‘shoes |and for slippers; their carcasses boiled down give grease for wagon wheels, and the resi- due fs transformed into a species of highly prized fertilizer. Such is the last end of the Paris dog, a faithful beast deserving of a better finale. Not stray dogs only—for they have a way here, when a beast, long time a pet, grows old and troublesome, to turn him loose upon the street, to take him out and treacherously lose him past recovery. This is in spite of Parisian love for dogs or be- cause, perhaps, they love their dogs too well to watch the weakness of their declin- ing years with comfort. STERLING HEILIG. ——~—+e+ —- Disrespectful to the Controller. From the Chicago Post. An cid banker walked into Controller Eckels’ office the other morning and took a vacant chair by the desk at which Mr. Eckels sat writing. He pulled out a paper, but Eckels kept on writing. Finally the man, tired of waiting, jammed the paper into his pocket, ejaculating as he did so: “That Serate beats h— Mr. Eckels Icoked up. “I say,” the man repeated, “that that Senate beats h—-. Here I thought it would | have passed the Voorhees bill long ago.” “So did I," Mr. Eckels replied. “What did the controller think?’ the man asked. Mr. Eckels sighed. “The controller ts of the same opinion,” he replied. “I am glad to hear it,” the man said. “Shows him a man of sense. pretty gcod man, I hear. Is that so?’ “Oh, he'll pass in a crowd, I guess," Eck- els replied. The man wes astonished. “Not very respectful, my boy,” he said. Then he pulled out his paper and began to read again. jfor an hour or so, during which time he pulled out his watch every few minutes, looked at it, grunted, and then resumed his reading. At last, having read even the ad- vertisements, he threw his paper down and exclaimed: “Well, this is a nice how d'ye do. Say, my boy, what time does the controller get down? About 9 o'clock,” Eckels replied. ell, it’s now’ after 11,” the man said. Where is he today?” “I am the controller,” Eckels replied. The man looked at him for a moment, | turned red in the face and gasped: | “Well, I'm ——-. Say, don't say a word of this to any one and the dinner’s on me. I am Mr. . president of the tional Bank of’ Boston.” ee No Anachronism, After All. | From Truth. Art Juror—“Your picture of Ferdinand represents him as holding a snuff box, and | tobacco was then unknown.” D’Auber—“But, good heavens, man! there |isn’t any snuff in the box coo Different. From Truth. He—"I have your mother’s consent, and now—" She—“It can never be, sir. I highly re- | spect you and will be a sister to you, but— He—“Hold on; you will be a daughter to me. I'm gving to marry your mother.” i Controller's ; It was a dull morning, and | no cne chanced to come in. The man read THE NEW UTOPIA. From Dreams. HAD SPENT AN extremely interesting evening. I had dined with some very “ad- vanced” friends of i mine at the “Nation- Socialist Club.” :We had had an ex- cellent dinner — the pheasant, stuffed with truffies, was a poem; and when I say that the ‘49 Chat- eau Lafitte was worth the price we had to pay for it, I do not see what more T can add in its favor. After dinner and over the cigars (I must say they do know how to stock good cigars at the National Socialist Club) we had a very instructive discussion about the com- ing equality of man ana the nationaliza- ton of capital. I was not able to take much part in the argument myself, because having been left when a boy in a position which rendered it necessary for me to earn my own living I have never enjoyed the time and oppor- tunity to study these questions, But I Ustened very attentively while my friends explained how for the thousands of centuries during which it had existed be- fore they came the world had been going on all wrong, and how in the course of the next few years or so they meant to put it right. quality of all mankind was their watch- word—perfect equality in all things—equal- ity in possessions and equality in position and influence and equality in duties, result- mee equality in happiness and content- ‘The world belonged to all alike, and must be equally divided. Each man’s labor was the property, not of himself, but of the state which fed and clothed him, and must be applied, not to his own aggrandizement, but to the enrichment of the Tace. Individual weaith—the social chain with which the few had bound the many, the bandit’s pistol by which a small gang of robbers had thieved from the whole com- munity the fruits of its labors—must be taken from the han held it, ids that too long had Social distinct! the rising tide been fretted an ever swept aside. The human race must press onward to its destiny (whatever shat might be), not as at present, a scattered horde, scrambling, each man for himself, over the broken ground of unequal birth soft sward reserved for the feet of the pampered, the cruel stones left for the feet of the cursed—but an or- dered army, marching side by side over the level plain of equity and equality. The great bosom of our Mother Earth should nourish all her children, lke and like; none should be hungry, none should have too much. The strong man should orvtlges os weak; the clever @ to seize more than simple. Seppe ‘Was man’s, and the tulle reof; and among al should be portioned : en anareasean of nature, and laws of man, sery, crime, vin, hypocrisy. In a were equal there n to evil, and our assert itself. men were equal the world ven—freed fi iam of : rom the degrading We raised our glasses Equality, sacred Equality; ed the Waiter to bring us and more cigars, T went home 8 made equal by the 1: With inequality comes mi: selfishness, arroga: world in which all men would exist no temptatio and drank to and then order- green chartreuse very thoughtful. 1 ai » to sleep for a long while; L lay Sean thinking over this vision of a new Woetl that had been presented How delightful lite would ee) if only the scheme of my socialistic friends could be carried out. There would be no more of and striving against each no more jealousy, no more disap- pointment, no more fear of poverty! ‘The state would take charge of us from the to the coffin, both inclusive, and we should need to give no thought even to the matter. There Would be no more hard work (three labor a day would be the limit, ac- cording to our calculations, that the state would require from each adult citizen, and nobody would be allowed to do more—I should not be allowed to do ™more)—no poor to pity, no rich to envy—no one to look down upon us, no one for us to look down upon (not quite so pleasant, this latter re- flection)—all our life ordered and arranged for us—nothing to think about except the glorious destiny (whatever that might be) of humanity! Then thought crept away to Sport in chaos, and I slept. When I awoke I found myself lying under e, in a high, cheerless room. AS) a “PERIOD—19TH CENTURY. “This man was found asleep in a house in London, after the great social revolution of 1899. From the account given by the landlady of the house, it would appear that he had already, when discovered, been asleep for over ten years (she having for- gctten to call him). It was decided for scientific purposes, not to awake him, but to just see how long he could sleep on, and he was accordingly brought and de- posited in the ‘Museum of Curiosities,’ on February 11, 1900.” “Visitors are reque: through the air hole: An intelligent-looking old gentleman, who had been arranging some stuffed lizards in an adjoining case, came over and took the cover off me. “What's the matter?” he asked; “any- h isturbed you?” I said, always wake up like this, when I feel I've had enough sleep. What century is this?” “This,” he said, “is the twenty-ninth cen- tury. You have been asleep just one thou- sand years. “Ah! well, I feel all the better for it,” I replied, getting down off the table. ‘‘There’s nothing like having one’s sleep out.” “TI take it you are going to do the usual thirg,” said the old gentleman to me, as I proceeded to put on my clothes, which had been lying beside me in the case. ‘You'll want me to walk round the city with you and explain all the changes to you, while you ask questions and make silly re- marks?” “Yes,” I repli I ought to do. “I suppose so,” he muttered. “Come on and let's get it over,” and he led the way from the room. we went down stairs I said: ‘Well, is it all right, now? “Is what all right?" he replied. “Why, the world," I answered. “A few friends of mine were arranging just be- fore I went to bed to take it to pieces and fix it up again properly. Have they got it | all right by this time? Is everybody equal now, and sin and sorrow and all that sort of thing done away with?” vf “Oh, yes," replied my guide; “you'll find everything all right now. We've been work- ing away pretty hard at things while you've been asleep. We've just got this ‘earth about perfect now, I should say. No- body is allowed to do anything wrong or silly; and as for equality, toadpoles ain’t in it with us.” (He talked in rather a vulgar manner, I thought; but I did not like to reprove him.) We walked out into the city. It was very clean and very quiet. The streets, which were designated by numbers, ran out from each other at right angles, and all presented exactly the same appearance. There were no horses or carriages about; all the traffic was conducted by electric ears. All the people that we met wore a quiet, grave expression, and were so much | like each other as to give one the idea | that they were all members of the same | family. Every one was dressed, as was also my guide, in a pair of gray trousers and a gray tunic buttoning tight round the ; neck and fastened round the waist by a belt. Each man was clean shaven, and each man had black hatr. i said: “Are all these men twin: “Twins! Good gracious, no!” ai |my guide. “Whatever made you fancy to not squirt water ied, “I suppose that’s what they all look so much alike,” I 3 “and they've all got black hair!” that’s the the regulation color for explained my companion; ‘we've all got black hair. If a man’s hair is not black | naturally, he has to have it dyed black.” “Why?” I asked. “Wh: retorted the old gentleman,some- what irritably. ‘Why, I thought you under- stood that all men were now equal. What would become of our equality if one man or woman were allowed to swagger about in golden hair, while another had to put | up with carrots? Men have not only got | to be equal in these happy days, but to ‘look it, as far as can be. By causing men to be clean shaven, and all men and | women to have black hair cut the same |length, we obviate, to a certain extent, the errors of nature.” EVENING STAR: WASHINGTON. D. C, SATURDAY. NOVEMBER 11, 1893—TWENTY PAGES, eee He said he did not know, but that was the color which had been decided upon. “Whom by?” I asked. “By the majority,” he replied, raising his hat and lowering his eyes, as if in prayer. : We oa further, and passed more men. said: “Are there no women in this city?” “Women! exclaimed my guide. “Of a. there are. We've passed hundreds of them!" ‘I thought I knew a woman when I saw ’ I observed; “but I can’t remember noticing any.” “Why, there go two, now,” he said, draw- ing my attention to a couple of persons near to us, both dressed in the regulation gray trousers and tunics. “How do you know they are women?” I asked. “Why, you see the metal number that everybody wears on his collar?” “Yes; I was just thinking what a number of policemen you had, and wondering where the other people were!” “Well, the even numbers are women; the odd numbers are men.” “How very simple,” I remarked. “I sup- pose after a little practice you can tell one Sex from the other almost at a glance?” “Oh, yes,” he replied, “if you want to.” We walked on in silence for a while. And then I said: “Why does everybody have a number?” “To distinguish him by,” answered my companion. Sees People have names, then?” “No.” “Why?” “Oh! there was so much inequality in names. Some people were called Montmo- rency, and they looked down on the Smit and the Smythes did not like mix- ing with the Joneses; so, to save further bother, it was decided to abolish names al- together, and to give everybody a number.” “Did not the Montmorencys and the Smythes object?” “Yes; but the Smiths and Joneses were in the majority.” “And did not the Ones and Twos look down upon the Threes and Fours, and so on? “At first, yes. But, with the abolition of wealth, numbers lost their value, ex- cept for industrial purposes and for double acrostics, and now No. 100 does not consider himself in anyway superior to No. 1,000,000."" I had not washed when I got up, there being no conveniences for doing so in the museum, and I was beginning to feel some- what hot and dirty. I said: “Can I wash myself anywhere?” He said: “No; we are not allowed to wash our- selves. You must wait until 4:20, and then you will be washed for tea.” “Be washed “The state. He said that they had found they could not maintain their equality when people Were allowed to wash themselves. Some People washed three or four times a day, while others never touched soap and water from one year’s end to the other, and in censequence there got to be two distinct classes, the clean and the dirty. All the old class prejudices began to be revived. The clean despised the dirty and the dirty hated the clean. So, to end dissension, the. state decided to do the washing itself, and each — vn now Re sper twice a day by overnment appointed of and private washing was prohibited x9 I noticed that we passed no houses as we went along only block after block of huge, barrack-like buildings, all of the same size and shape. Occasionally, at a corner, we came across a small building labeled “Muse “Hospital, ‘Debating Hall,” “Bath, ‘ymnasium, “Academy of Sci- ences,” “Exhibition of Industries,” “School of Talk.” &c., but never a house. I said: “Doesn't anybody live in this town?” He said: “You do ask silly questions; upon ead Word, you do. Where do you think they ver" I sald: “That’s just what I’ve been trying to think. I don’t see any houses any- where!” He said: “We don’t need houses—not houses such as you are thinking of. We are socialistic now; we live together in fra- ternity and equality. We live in these blocks that you see. Each block accommo- dates 1,000 citizens. It contains 1,000 beds— 100 in each room—and bath rooms and dressing rooms in proportion, a dining hail and kitchens. At 7 o’clack every morning a bell is rung, and every one rises and u- dies up his bed. At 7:30 they go into the dressing rooms and are washed and shaved and have their hair done. At 8 o'clock breakfast is served in the dining hall, It comprises a pint of oat meal porridge and half a pint of warm milk for each adult citizen. We are all strict vegetarians now. ‘The vegetarian vote increased enormously during the last century, and, their organi- zation being very perfect, they have been able to dictate every election for the past fifty years. At 1 o'clock another bell is rung, and the people return to dinner, which consists of beans and stewed fruits, with roly-poly pudding twice a week and plum duff.on Saturdays. At 5 o'clock there is tea and at 10 the lights are put out and everybody goes to bed. We are all equal, and we all live alike—clerk and scavenger, unker and apothecary—all together in fra- ternity and liberty. The men live in blocks on this side of the town and the women are at the other end of the city.” Z “Where are the married people kept?” I asked. “Oh, there are no married couples,” he replied; “we abolished marriage 200 years ago. You see married life did not work at all well with our system. Domestic life, we found, was thoroughly anti-socialistic in its tendencies. Men thought more of their wives and families than they did of the state. They wished to labor for the’ benefit of their little circle of beloved ones rather than for the good of the community. They cared more for the future of their children than for the destiny of humanity. The ties of love and blood bound men to- gether fast in little groups instead of in one great whole. Before considering the advancement of the human race, men con- sidered the advancement of their kith and kin. Before striving for the greatest hap- piness of the greatest number, men strove for the happiness of the few who were near and dear to them. In secret men and women hoarded up and labored and denied themselves, so as, in secret, to give some little extra gift of joy to their beloved. Love stirred the vice of ambition in men’s hearts To win the smiles of the women they loved, to leave a name behind them that their children might be proud to bear men sought to raise themselves above the general level, to do some deed that should make the world look up to them and honor them above their fellow-men, to press a deeper foot print than another's upon the dusty high- way of the age. The fundamental princi- ples of socialism were being daily thwarted and contemned. Each house was a revo- lutionary center for the propagation of in- dividualism and personality. From the warmth of each domestic hearth grew up the vipers, comradeship and independence, to sting the state and poison the minds of men. “The doctrines of equality were openly disputed. Men, when they loved a woman, thought her superior to every other woman. and hardly took any pains to disguise their opinion. Loving wives believed their hus- bands wiser and braver and better than oth- er men. Mothers laughed at the idea of their children being in no way superior to other children. Children imbibed the hideous her- esy that their father and mother were the best father and mother in the world. “From whatever point you looked at it the family stood forth as our foe. One man had a charming wife and two sweet-tem- pered children; his neighbor was married to a shrew and was the father of eleven noisy, ill-dispositioned brats—where was the equality? “Again, wherever the family existed there hovered, ever contending, the angles of joy and sorrow, and in a world where joy and sorrow are known equality cannot live. One man and woman in the night stand weep. ing beside a little cot. On the other side of the lath and plaster a fair young couple, hand in hand, are laughing at the silly an- tics of a grave-faced, gurgling baby. What is poor equality doing? “Such things could not be allowed. Love, we saw, Was our enemy at every turn. He made equality impossible. He brought joy and pain and peace and suffering in his train. He disturbed men's beliefs and im- periled the destiny of humanity, so we abolished him and all his works. “Now there are no marriages and, there- fore, no domestic troubles; no wooing, therefore no heart aching; no loving, there- fore no sorrowing; no kisses and no tears. “We all live together in equality, free from the troubling of joy or pain.” I said: “It must be very peaceful, but, tell me—I ask the question merely from a scientific standpoint—how do you keep up the supply of men and women?" He said:“‘Oh, that’s simple enough. How did you in your daykeep up the supply of horses and cows? In the spring so many children, according as the state requires,are arranged for and carefully bred, under medical supervision. When they are born, they are taken away from their mothers (who, else, might grow to love them), and brought up in the public nurseries and schools until they are fourteen. They are then examined by state-appointed inspectors, who decide what calling they shall be brought up to, and to such calling they are thereupon ap- prenticed. At twenty they take their rank as citizens, and are entitled to a vote. No difference whatever is made between men and women. Both sexes enjoy equal priv- ileges."” I sai “What are the privileges?” “Why, all that I've been telling you.” We wandered on for a few more miles, but passed nothing but street after street of these huge blocks. ry | I said: “Are there no shops nor stores in this town?” “No,” he replied. “What do we want with shops and stores? The state feeds us, clothes us, houses us, doctors us, washes and dresses us, cuts our corns and buries us. What could we do with shops?” 4 — to feel tired with our walk. = wi in have Ge e go in anywhere and He said: “A ‘drink!’ Wha‘ We have half a pint of cocoa wi! ner. Do you mean that?’ I did not feel equal to explaining the mat- ter to him, and he evidently would not have understood me if I had; so I said: “Yes; I meant that.” We passed a very fine-looking man a little further on, one arm. I had noticed two or three rath- er big-looking men with only one arm in the course of the morning, and it struck me a I remarked about it to my guide. He said: “Yes; when a man is much above the average size and strength, we cut one of his legs or arms off, so as to make things more equal; we lop him down a bit, as it were. Nature, you see, is somewhat behind the times; but we do what we can to put her straigh I said: “I suppose you can’t abolish her?” “Well, not altogether,” he replied. “We only wish we could. “But,” he added after- ward, with pardonable pride, “we've done a good deal.” “How about an exceptionally clever man. What do you do with him?” “Well, we are not much troubled in that way now,” he answered. “We have not come across anything dangerous in the shape of brain power for some very con- siderable time now. When we do we per- form a surgical operation upon the head, which softens the brain down to the aver- age level.” “I have sometimes thought,” mused the old gentleman, “that it was a pity we could not level up some times, instead of always a‘drink? ith our din- leveling down; but, of course, that is im- possible. T sai ‘Do you think it right of you to cut these people up and tone them down in this manner?” He sai “Of course It is right.” “You seem very cock-sure about the mat- ter,” I retorted. “Why is it ‘of course’ right?” “Because it is done by the majority.’ ‘How does that make it right?” I asked. “A majority can do no wrong,” he an- swered, “Oh! is that what the people who are lopped think?” “The; he replied, evidently astonished at the question. “Oh, they are in the minor- ity, vou know. “Yes; but even the minority has a right to its arms and legs and heads, hasn't it?” “A minority has no rights, he answered. I said: “It’s just as well to belong to the septs if you're thinking of living here, isn’t it?” He said: “Yes; most of our people do. They seem to think it more convenient.” I was finding the town somewhat unin- teresting, and I asked if we could not go out into the country for a change. My guide said: “Oh, yes, certainly;” but did not think I should care much for it. “Oh! but it used to be so beautiful in the country,” I urged, “before I went to bed. There were great green trees, and grassy, wind-waved meadows, and little rose-decked cottages, and——" “Oh, we've changed all that,” interrupted the old gentleman; “it is all one huge market garden now, divided by roads and canals cut at right angles to each other. There is no beauty in the country now whatever. We have abolished beauty; It in- terfered with our equality. It was not fair that some people should lve among lovely scenery and others upon barren moors. So we have made it all pretty much alike ev- erywhere now, and no place can lord it over another. “Can a an emigrate into any other country?" I asked; “it doesn’t matter what country—any other country would do.” “Oh, yes, if he likes.” replied my compan- ion; “but why should he? All lands are exactly the same. The whole world is all one people now—one language, one law, one life.” “Is there no variety, no change any- where?” I asked. “What do you do for for recreation? Are there any mded my guide. “We had to rs. The histronic temperament seemed utterly unabie to accept the princt- ples of equality. Each actor thought him- self the best actor in the world, and super- jor, in fact, to most other people altogether. I don’t know whether it was the same in your day?" “Exactly the same,” I answered, “but we did not take any notice of it.” “Ah! we did,” he replied, “and, in conse- quence, shut the theaters up. Besides, our White Ribbon Vigilance Society said that all places of amusement were vicious and degrading; and being an energetic and stout-winded band they soon won the ma- jority over to their views; and so all amuse- ments are prohibited now.” I said: “Are you allowed to read books?” “Well,” he answered, “there are not many written. You see, owing to our all living such perfect lives, and there being no wrong, or sorrow, or joy, or hope, or love, or grief in the world, and everything being so regu- lar and so proper, there is really nothing much to write about—except, of course, the Destiny of Humanity. “True!” I said, “I see that. But what of the old works, the classics? You had Shake- speare, and Scott, and Thackeray, and there were one or two little things of my own that were not half bad. What have you done with all those?” “Oh, we have burned all those old works,” he said. “They were full of the old, wrong notions of the old, wrong, wicked times, when men were merely slaves and beasts of burden.” te said all the old paintings and sculptures had been likewise destroyed, partly for that same reason and partly because they were considered improper by the White Ribbon Vigilance Society, which was a great power now; while all new art and literature were forbidden, as such things tended to under- mine the principles of equality. They made men think, and the men that thought grew cleverer than those that did not want to think; and those that did not want to think naturally objected to this, and being in the majority, objected to some purpose. He said that, from like considerations, there were no sports or games permitted. Sports and games caused competition, and competition led to inequality. I said: “How long do your citizens work each day?” ‘after that “Three hours,” he answered; = the remainder of the day belongs to our- selves.” “Ah! that is just what I was coming to,” I remarked. “Now, what do you do with yourselves during those other twenty-one hours?” “Oh, We rest.” ‘What! for the whole twenty-one hours?” “Well, rest and think and talk. “What do you think and talk about?” “Oh! Oh, about how wretched life must have been in the old times, and about how happy we are now, and—and—oh, and the Destiny of Humanity!” “Don't you ever get sick of the Destiny of Humanity 'No, not much.” And what do you understand by it? teeaeat is the Destiny of Humanity, do you thini “Oh!—why to—to go on being like we are now, only more so—everybody more equal, and more things done by electricity, and pont ar al to have two votes instead of one, a “Thank you. That will do. Is there any- thing else that you think of? Have you got a religion?’ “Oh, y' ‘And you worship a god?” ‘Oh, y “What do you call him?” “The majority.” “One question more—you don’t mind my sking you all these questions, by-the-by, lo you?” “Oh, no. This is all part of my three hours’ labor for the state.” “Oh, I’m glad of that. I should not like to feel that I was encroaching on your time for r but what I wanted to ask was do many of the people here commit suicide?” “No; such a thing never occurs to them.” I looked at the faces of the men and women that were passing. There was a pa- tient, almost pathetic, expression upon them all, I wondered where I had seen that look before; it seemed familiar to me. All at once I remembered. It was just the quiet, troubled, wondering expression that I had always noticed upon the faces of the horses and oxen that we used to breed and keep in the old world. og These people would not think of sui- cide. Strange! how very dim and indistinct all the faces are growing around me! And where is my guide? and why am I sitting on the pavement? and—hark! surely that {s the voice of Mrs. Biggles, my old landlady. Has she been asleep a thousand years, too? She says it is 12 o'clock—only 12? and I'm not to be washed till 4:30, and I do feel so stuffy and hot, and my head is aching. Hulloa! why I’m in bed! Has it all beea a dream? And am I back in the nineteenth century? Through the open window I hear the rush and roar of old life’s battle. Men are fighting, striving, working, carving out each man his own life with the sword of strength and will. Men are laughing, grieving, lov- ing, doing wrong deeds, doing great deeds— falling, struggling, helping one another—liv- ing! And I have a good deal more than three hours’ work to do today, and I meant to be up at 7; and, oh, dear! I do wish I had not smoked so many strong cigars last night! and I noticed that he only had | i RAILROADS. CHESAPEAKE AND OHIO RAILWAY. Schedule in effect November 6, 188 ‘Trains leave daily from Union station B. ona ), 6th and B sts. a, the grandest sccnery in America with and most complete solid traim secvice west from Washington, 0 200 P.M. DAILY——““Washington and Cincinnati Special”—Solid Vestibuled, Newly Equipped. Elec- tric-lighted Train. Pullman's finest sleeping cas Washington to Cincinnati. I ing car from Wasb- ‘on. Arrives Cincinnati, 7:55 a.m.: Indianapolis, and Chicago, 5:45 p.m.; St. Louis, 7:30 i1:t0 P.M. DAILY—The famous “F. F. V. Lim- ited.” A solid vestibuled train with dining ca = et Pullman sleepers for Cinciunati, Lexington Louisville, without change; arriving at Cinch 6:25 p.m.; Lexington, 6:15 p.m.; Louisville, 9: p.m.; Indi 11:10 p.m.; Chicago, 6:55 a.m., and 7:43 a.., connecting in Union points. Pullman sleeper Wy through to Hot Springs, Va., without pwnage 8:00 a.m. 2:0) P.M. DAILY—Express for Gordonsville, Charlottesville, Waynesboro’, Staunton and princi- Bae points; daily, except Sunday, for Pullman locations and tickets at company's 13 421 Pennsylvania avenue. offices, 513 and 1 fivanie ave Passenger for all RICHMOND AND DANVILLE RAILROAD. _ SAMUEL SPENCER, F. W. HUIDEKOPEK AND All trains arrive and leave at Pennsylvania Pas- Senger Station, Washi DC. Semon eats 5 Bee . c Woval ane. Strasburg daily, c_- =u. and mation at Lynchburg with estera Westward gaily. Danvitte n. : . Riel ‘and, fast mail.— Daily for Lynchburg. Denville and for. principal Points seuth on Richmond and Danville system, uding Anniston and Birmingham, also Opelika, Columbus, Montgomery, Mobile and New orleans. Rullman "Sleeper New’ York and Washington to Aulanta, unitlog at Greepsboro”’ with sleeper for aie P.™.—Daily mediit jone, for Charlottesville and inter- ON WASHINGTON AND OHIO DIVTA IN leave: Washingion at 9.10 a.m., 4.25 p.m. datly . and O25 ans eatent Buadas, fer intermediate ‘Stations. Hill ana “53 fermdon ctly. Through trains 6.43 am. 255 m. vision, x @aily ‘trom Tickets, turning, ar- am. 2.45 p.m. daily from a.m. daily except Tfom the south arrive Washington Bm. and S43 p.m.; Manassas Di- and 8.40 wan ave., = Led ‘Station, Pennsylvania Iail- W. B. GREEN, Gen. Mi Gen. Man. L. & Brown, W. A. TURK. Gen. Pras. Agt. General Agent Passenger Dept. se23 PENNSYLVANIA. ROAD. STATION CORNER OF ‘Siti AND 3} STREETS. In effect September 4. 1893. 10.15 AM. COLUMBIAN EXPRESS.— Pollman Dining Cars to Chicago, and Har- fisbure to Cincinnatl and Indi: oc 10.15 AM. “FAST LINE.—-For Pitts and Chi U ‘room Parlor und Sleeping Cars 1 Jarrionrg. 130 Pit Pex eeye he M = Dretteg syivixta LIMITED. —Pullman ate Sleeping, Dining, Smoking and Observation Cars fiarrisharg te B10 PE ghee Parlor Car to Barrisinrg CAGO EXPRESs, Palla Date baton ot .— Pullman Buffet r te Harrisburg. Sleeping and. Dini Lt to St.’ Louia, Cincinnati, and Chicage. 7.40 P. eo STERN EXPkE Pullman Sleeping Dining Carte Chiens ree Chie 7.40, Peat SOUTH Ww! EXPRESS.—Pellman Sleeping Car to St. Louts. and Sleeping and Din- Harrisbarg to Cincinuati and St. 1. —Puliman ing Cars 10.49 P.M. PACIFIC EXPRESS. Car to Pittsburg, and risbu' 7.502. Bus to Chicage. eg for Kane. Canandaigua, Rochester an@ Palle oa ly except Supday. ate f % ‘Mia » Renovo and Elmira Sunday.” For Williamsport dau Kameport, Rochester. Buffalo and ‘incara Falls. daily, ‘ex: Seturday. wit Sieeping Car Washington to Ruffalo. 10.40 P.M. for 2 Erie, nests Gsily. for Buffalo’ avd Niagara Palle daily. fet Saturday, with Sleeping Car Washington FOR PHILADELPRIA.NEW Y SD THE FAST _NEW YORK AND THE Fa 4.00 P.M. “CONGRESSIONAL LIMITED.” all Par- or Cars, with Dining Car from Baltimore for New York daily. for Philadelniin week dare. 7.05, ino Coaches), 7.20, 9.00. 9.40 (Diving Cai AH 8.5220 «Dining Car), 3. , mn Sunda’ AM. xpress, prem, 2.01 and 5.40 p.m. asi For Boston. without change, 7.00 a.m. week and 3.13 ios ee. i . 10.15, 11.00 a.m., 3.15. (4.00 Limtted, 00, 10.40 and 13.38 7.20 a.m. and 4.36 pm. 20, 9.00 and 11.50 a.m. and 4.20 Sunday. Sundays, 9.00 «. nd the South. 4.30 and 10.57 a.m., » For Richmona only, 7.10 p.m. for Quantico, 7.45 a.m. daily an? 225 pm. week dayne raglgna tine ‘For Alexandria, 4.30, G35, 7.45, 8.40. 9.45, 10.45 Bm, 12.01 noon, 1.00. 2 ™m. ‘anny. cept Bandas a S For Annarolis: 7.20. 8 0 all Por’ 00, 10 82 p.m. offices, northeast corner 12th street and Tenne, and at the atation, 6th and f haeage to destination trom hotels so testers, to nat els and rest 4 S.M. PREVOST, . R. Woon. Manager.(ne20) General Passeneer Agent BALTIMORE AND OIO RATLROAD. Schedule in effect July 9. 1893. incton from stallion corner of New Leave Wi avenue and ersey strect For Chicago and Northwest. Vestibuled Limited 2 trains 11.35 am. 6.15. 8.40 p.m. 12.35 Bight. Sleeping car open for passengers, 11 p.m For Cincinnati, St. Lonts and Indianapolis, Vestl- buled "imited, 3.80 p.m., express 12.85 night. For Pitishurg and nd, express daily 11.35 a.m. and 8.40 9m For Lexington and Staunton, 110.40 nm. For Winchester and way stations, For Loray, Natural Bridge, Bi Chattanooga and For Taltimore, 7.15, (8.00, 45 minotes), x8.05, 45 minutes) a.m. x12.00, 12.15, x1 BP a4 1544-28431. x8 00, x5. 30. nd °5.30 pm. Galthersbure abd. say ‘pointe, 36.25, 10.00 oints, 1% 5 te 12.45, 13.00, 14.33, fs T., 9.40, Bb m For Washington Tanction ana way points, 29.90 a.m. 11.15 p.m. Express trains stopping st prin- i stations only. °10.40 a.m. 14.20, 15.30 pom. ROYAL BLUE LIXE FoR New York AND York, Roston and the enst, . $.00 10.00. Dining Car) a.m... 12.00. 2.40, 45.00, Dining Car), 8.00, (11.80 pim., Sieeping For For m.. Car, open at 10.00 o'clock). Buffet Parlor Care on all dar trains. For Boston, *240 pm.. with Prliman Ruffet Sleeping Car ronning through to Boston without change vin Ponrhkepste bridge, lnpding passengers in_B. and M station at Roston. For Atlantic City, 10.00 a.m. and 12.00 noon. ‘Sundays. tExcept “Dally. ‘Wunday only. XExpress trans. Baggage called for and .checked from hotels anf residences by Union Transfer Co. on orders left at 12.00 ‘Sunday ticket offices, 419 apd 1351 Pa rve. ant at depot. J.T. ODELL CHAS. 6. SCULL, nacer. (Jel) Gen. Pas. Act. POTOMAC RIVER BOATS. WASHINGTON STEAMBOAT 00. “LIMITED.” From 7th st. ery wher.” Steamer Wakefield on MONDAYS, WEDNPSDAYS and SATURDAYS at 7 a.m. for Nomir WEDNESDAYS at 3:00 p.m. for. Ale nial Beach and all lower river ta i leaves Kinsale Tommpaye - return landing?, arriving NESDAY and FRIDAY MORNING DAYS at 5:20 p.m. for Colonial a Leonarttown, St. George's Island, Sp Coan and Yeocomico: returning leaves on SUNDAYS about riving at, Washing» ¢. W. RIDLEY. wer : General Manager. NEI ACE STEAMER HARRY RANDALL. Laatee Rinse View wharf, th street. Sunday, Twesday and Thureday at 7 a.m. Landing at ali far down as Maddox creek. Returning ‘Wednesdays and Fridays, 3 p.m. Pas- tious first-class. Freight recetved lephone, 1765, yf Until bour of sailing. Tel A. REED & 00. ¥. , Agents, ‘Alexandria F. 8. RANDALL, epz7-te Proprietor and Manager. NORFOLK AND WASHINGTON STEAMBOAT 00. BETWEEN WAS! DAILY UND ORTUESS MONROE ad NORPOLK, Va. ‘The new and powerful Iron Palace Steamers. WASHINGTON AND NORFOLK—SOUTH BOUND, ‘Washington daily at 7 p.m. from foot of rest’ whart, arrive at Fortress Montos at 620 a.m. next day. Arrive at Norfolk at 7:30 connections XCRTH POUND. es Be Norfolk daily at 6:10 p.m. Leave Fortress Montes at Tic p.m Arrive at Washington "st 6:30 a.m. next day. ickets on asle et 513, 1851 ané 142] Pen Bony ‘ave, and 615 15th st. n.w. ‘ask for tickets via the new line. ———-- JNO CALARAN, are made for all point