Evening Star Newspaper, May 12, 1894, Page 13

HAT ABOUT SWELLS, Especially the Kind Who Are Their Own Creators. I? COMES HIGH, BUT THEY ENJOY If Directions How to Attain to the Felicity ot This Condition. THE GIRL THEY WED ——_+—_—__ ‘Written Exclusively for The Evening Star. E WAS LAMENT- ing. There was some- thing evidently that had disturbed his equilibrium, and he did not know what his status was. “I don’t know what it ts,” he said, “but at this season I can’t come to any conclu- sion. It is neither one thing nor the other — neither sum- - mer nor winter. I hardly know what clothes to wear, or where to so. It is getting warm in the city, yet if I go to a summer resort I won't find a soul there.” The young man almost wept. He has only one thing to do in the world, and that 1s to enjoy himself. To accomplish this he is endowed with the sum of fifteen thousand @ year. He says it is a tight squeeze to make two ends meet, and he hoots at the idea of marriage, unless it be to a rich girl, as an absolute impossibility. He keeps a few horses and is distinctly a swell. Being &@ swell has become as much a part of his ature as the pursuit of law is a part of @ lawyer's nature or medicine of a physi- clan's. The truth of the matter is that thoroughly swell people seldom are any- thing else—it is a career that requires a concentration of energy and thought which leaves little room for other things. How can a young lawyer sit in his office with his thoughts wrapt in the question of how he shall obtain an invitation to a certain other Swell’s dinner parties and at the same time Study law or write a brief? Yet if you ask him which he wishes for more, a good law case or the Invitation, he will answer promptly the invitation—he would if he told the truth, that is. It is tolerably fair to presume that men strive for what they want, and you have a perfect right to draw Your own conclusions when you see a man straining every nerve either to be a swell or to mairtain the position of a swell cred- itably, while he neglects his profession or business, if he happens to have one. “What were you on earth?” St. Peter is said to have asked of an arrival at the golden gates. swell!” came the proud reply, and it is hardly necessary to say that the gates swung open before him. He had spent his whole energies on earth toward compelling doors, and especially golden ones, to open before him, and was now not likely to be excluded. Uncertain as 2 Maiden. But it would be just as well to return to the swell spoken of at the beginning of this article, who is now bemoaning because he does not know precisely what to do with himself. He certalnly has some reasonable complaint to make. Can he caii in the af- ternoon in the city in any other costume than a long frock coat and a tall hat? And yet, if he puts these on he is likely to melt away and is certain to be uncomfortable. Of course, he does not care for the comfort of his apparel when it interferes with his Rotions of what is the correct thing to do; but he has grave doubis whether it is a correct thing for him to appear robed in winter woolens when the thermometer is Up to summer heat. Therefore he cannot call at all. Another thing that has given Bim much distress {s that the days are get- ting so long that they render it impossible for him to avoid wearing his dress suit by daylignt. When he goes out to dinner in the evening it is not yet quite dark, and he is obliged, consequently, to wear an over- coat, or he will be disagreeably conspicuous as he waiks the streets in his sabies and White linen. fie did this one evening last week, and he Was late and could find no cab, so that he ized to proceed at a double-quick . Ww he perspired in his overcoat. He arrived at the dinner party somewhat flur- ried, and as he waiked into the drawing Xoom he noticed a smile pass around. He did not understand it at the time, but a lit- tle later he passed by a mirror and saw a reflection of himself. His collar was even @s_no collar, for it had melted and run down in a weak, helpless condition on either side of his neck. His white cravat looked drowned, and his shirt itself was obviously damp. He was an unhappy man for some time after he discovered how he looked, and he swore positively that he would never waik to @ dinner party wearing his over- eat on a hot evening again. Yau see, all this gives him something to think about, and in reality he is one of the most miserable men alive, because he is so thoroughly deter: that he will be al- Ways swell in everything he does. He thus s of judgment, and they oc- less heartburnings and flut- Not long 3 for instance, there sreat meet of gentleman-rider races. Those Social Parades. @ places where the truly smart There is such a fine chance ainty that whatever ; whatever you wear . that the competition y high. it ran high on on, and the man we are consid- 'S Was determined that he would outdo & certain other exquisite who is noted for the beautiful coach and horses he drives. had his drag brought out and even decorated nally harnessed, in » he was a tri- art. His silk hat was S box coat had pearl st as large as dessert r than butier plates. A con- : m of a conservatory graced left-haad lapel. u iode om that party who was not with str no girl was thorough-going perone sat on the box be- rone! She was party, and the with a groom band. There that coach. there to create an im- all kue that they were signed to outdo the vacher. They swept into the infield, ¥ a tine blast from rancing into the most conspicuovs pr mon the grounds, came to a stop. Now they looked about them to the rival coacher approach, but no coach was in sight. The designer of the w began to think that his rival had de- in: rather than be cast into the home; but presently he i e was looking out i of his coach and four, fh was driving a poor, little hed to a modest ttle vil- tead of appearing in full he wore a rather shabby ¥ coat and a soft felt hat. Cleariy this was a case a mighty army, well ed and carefuliy trained, going out zttle, c nat there was no we cart and polo right up alongside stopped at the an inside alighted ok out 2 tie rein and hitched his own hands. Then he © drag for the first time, tstonished people on it without so much as and findi The is a man to do under such etr- ? He who had come out in so was tortured with doubts as to whether he ou not to have come out shabbily. He wondered whether he had not Gone a thing that was anything but swell. His rival was a noted swell, with an inter- ®ational reputation in that line, and he chose to put om no style. Was that the much glo! right thing to do? The truth is that no imitation by a man of another who is a swell will make a swell of the imitator. He may follow certain rules, get into cer- tain company, do certain things, have cer- tain manners, but, nevertheless, may fall SS ng He emp mien trying enough, an e puts every other consideration back of him and has money enough, he can in the end usually succeed in having himself classed among the swells. Perhaps the most essential thing, if he is not @ swell from the very beginning—that is, if he achieves swelldum, instead of be- ing born in it—is that he should put any previous existence he may have lived, and any previous acquaintances or friends he may have had, behind him. He must not care for the consequences. If he is asked if he has ever been to a certain city, he must remember not to say yes, unless it is a city he knew after he began his swell reer. Otherwise he might make the mi: take of saying he knew some of the people im that city who are not in its swell circles, and he might be compelled to admit that he did not know some of the swells, all of which would be an injury to his standing. Similarly with the people in the place ‘in which he lives. He have had a friend who was fond of him and to whom he was himself attached, but he must know him no more, unless he ts a swell. imply Indifference. This, you will say, is the act of a mean man. Of course it is, but the species of biped described here is a mean man. It 1s strange; too, how very few relatives these fellows have. They soon let it be known that they cannot afford to care for these relations any longer, and as for the rela- tions, they very soon let it be known that they don’t care a snap of their finger about it. It is here that there is apt to be a cer- tain frankness of mutual treatment that is rather singular. They meet, perhaps, on the street, nod carelessly and pass on. Or they come together at a family funeral, perform their duties together, and separate. ‘They may not meet for years, and when they do there is neither cordiality nor of- fensive coolness, but simple indifference. They have chosen different paths and do not cross one another. Perhaps the swell hears that one of his cousins is about to be married—a cousin whom he used to re- gard as a chum and partner in former days. mebody tells him the lady in the case 1s good, worthy girl.” The words have a peculiar sound to his ears. He wonders if he would ever care to marry “a good, worthy girl” He has an idea that if*he should speak to his swell acquaintances of “a good, worthy girl” they would laugh. He does not precisely look for one answering this description to be- come his own wife—not that she may not be both good and worthy, but this must be a mere accompaniment of other and more important characteristics. The girl that he marries must be in the right set; that is, perhaps, the most important thing. and it is desirable also that all “her peo- ple” should be in the right set. When the man is a seif-made swell this is especially desirable. Then she ought, if possible, to have a goodly sum of money, for no matter how much a bachelor swell has, it is, in estimation, not enough for two. Other considerations come into play also, but these are the chief ones. Only Looks Like a Butterfly. In fact, the self-made swell is a much more painstaking one than the other, whose father and mother were swells, but there is not much fundamental difference between the two. One has had to learn the ideas that the other imbibed from infancy, but they are the same ideas. Chief among them is the belief in the genuine inferiority of all people who are not swells. No class on earth can approach the swell class in self-satisfaction. Great statesmen may sometimes doubt whether they might not have done better if they had re ined in private life, great writers often get tired of their calling and clergymen are racked with doubts. But the swell, alone among men, never conceives that any one who is anything else is not a mistake, or that he is not the most consummate success of civilization, coe WHAT INVENTION HAS DONE. ‘The Poor Man More Benefited by It Than the Rich. | From Mr. B. H. Warner's address to the Inventors’ Association. We talk about the great armies of Eu- rope, and we have a standing army more wonderful and more beneficent and more obedient to will. It is the army of harvest- ers, which, in divistons and brigades, on the great farms, and in squads and files on the smaller, stands always ready for action, and at the sound of the harvest horn. Beginning at the south and proceed- ing northward, it moves in a military line of battle, extending over a thousand miles, in front of it are the waving grain fields; behind it lie the scattered bundles. No army of living men could be organized or sustained or kept ready and obedient for such work as this. If this army of machines were swept out of existence the grain fields would perish ungathered, a calamity inconceivable. Yet all this has been ac- complished by the combined efforts of the inventor and business man. What shall I say of all that great host of textile machines, some of which, with quick steel fingers, kat ten thousand stitches a minute, and shape garments as if with instinct, th intelligence; of looms that weave unattended and ornament the web with a small nap or adorn it with fig- ures and flowers of the brightness of a garden. The shops are full of these ma- chines, and the wonderful machinery un- erringly selects from the wilderness of va- ried. colored shades, thre: and inter- weaves them into pictures of fruits or flowers, and all the shapes that the artist’s eye can conceive. The shops all over the manufacturing portions of this country are full of these. The skill of the machine surpasses in accuracy and in nicety of ac- tion the most skilled fingers of the best trained workman. The innumerable and subtle fingers, which from the warp. of sun beams and woof of showers, weave the green and flower-decked carpet of the spring time, are no more deft or busy than the fingers of steel which the inventor has created, and which work daily in all our factories, untiring and uncomplaining, will- ing and obedient. Their work fills the stores and markets with soft fabrics, with gauzy lace, with brilliant-hued carpets and with all that luxury and necessity demand, and in abundance. They descend to the houses of the poor and have transformed luxuries into articles of common use. Three hun- dred years ago knitted silk stockings were considered a fit present for Queen Elizabeth, and now you can buy them for $2 a pair. In fact, machinery has done more for the poor man than for the rich, who could al- ways be supplied—patient hands and in- numerable toil for them; but until the in- ventor and his help-mate, the business man, stimulated by the beneficent patent system, had come into the field, the poor toiled for the rich and nobody toiled for the poor. Now the machines work for them and the rich alike. For less labor the poor have more, a great improvement on old conditions when the poor went bare- footed and half clad. Now shoes and stock- ings are waiting for the humblest lad. The primal curse of labor and drudgery never began to be lifted before invented machinery was produced for the benefit of mankind. And with what labor, what care and what anxious thought all this has been brought forth. The history of very many of the inventions now in common use and which have become almost necessities, would, if written, seem as strange as fiction. In one of the musty Patent Office reports issued by Commissioner Holt is the story of the invention of hard rubber. Goodyear had labored for years, he had spent every dollar which he possessed and all the money of those who had faith in the idea, but that was exausted. His family were reduced to want; the potatoes in his little garden were dug half grown to satisfy the cravings of hunger of himself and his wife and chil- dren. One day he stood with the soft ball of rubber, mixed with sulphur and overcome by a rush of despair, he flung the ball into the open fire-place and as he watched it simmering on the coals, the impulse of changing mood led him to rescue !t. The heat had accomplished the work and he stood holding in his hands the achievement of his life-time; there only remained to be ascertained by easy experiment the amount of heat which was required. The same outline of painful effort, disappoint- ment, failure and ultimate success, might be told of hundreds of others and there have been thousands who have labored and suffered in the same cause without achiev- ing success, other than that of laying the foundation for those who should come after them with better fortune. e+ A Rumor. From Puck. Brown—"That will be a great debate be- tween Yale and Harvard.” Jones—“On what subject?” Brown—"Should the pitcher be placed back five feet?” = ses Kitty—“Willis Norton met a girl on the steamer and before they got to the other side he was engaged to her. What do you think of that?” Tom—“It only goes to show that not all of the perils ocean travel have been eliminated yet ‘Life. ESSENTIAL OILS 1 —2—___— Flavoring Extracts Produced in This Country and in Europe. USED FOR CORDIALS AND PERFUMERY Also Employed in Confectionery, Aerated Waters and in Medicine. HOW THEY ARE MADE HE DEPARTMENT of State has been col- lecting = informatiun about ential oils. Much interest at- taches to the subject because of the vast quantity of products utilized in this country for per- fumery and confec- tionery. They are also employed to flav- or liquors, cordials and aerated waters and in medicine. Those made abroad reach the United States in an impure condition, American importers actually preferring adulterated brands because of their cheap- ness. Of the essential olls manufactured here the most important is that of pepper- mint, the production of which is enormous and constitutes a great industry. The peculiar and characteristic odors of flowers, leav fruits, seeds, roots, barks and woods are due to the presence of es- sential oils. Without the latter there there would be no liquors or perfumery, and spices would be unknown. In some plants the oil is found in the flowers, as the rose and violet; in others in the fruit, as the nutmeg; in others in the unexpand- ed buds, as the clove; in others in the bark, as certain laurels, and in still others in the outer rind of the fruit, as the orange and lemon. In South Germany is found a species of dittany, the stem of which is covered with oil glands that dif- fuse a lemon-like odor. The country people say that the vapor exhaled from it on warm summer nights will ignite from a candle, but this phenomenon lacks scien- tifle verification. The Oi} of Peppermint. The bulk of the world’s supply of pepper- mint oil is produced in the United States. In the states of New York and Michigan 100,000 pounds of it are manufactured an- nually, representing 15,000 tons of raw material. The latter consists wholly of the fresh flowers of the peppermint plant, which are treated by distillation. One acre of land will produce about eleven pounds of the oil, it is reckoned. It is used for perfumery and to flavor confectionery and cordials. Peppermint cordials are favorite drinks in Europe. The oil is also employed for medicinal purposes, being a popular household remedy and highly recommended for children’s complaints. It is an im- portant agent in the treatment of cholera. One of the most interesting essential oils is the so-called attar of roses. The com- mercial supply of the world is obtained fom a patch of ancient Thrace, now called Bulgaria, along the southern slopes of the Balkans. There grows a Kind of rose which far excels all other varieties in profuse- ness of bearing. A good plant will produce 1,000 flowers in a season. The exportation of these rose trees is prohibited by the government. They are set out in the fields So as to alternate in rows with grape vines and kitchen vegetables. Nearly every farm- er distils the oil from his own flowers, the process being conducted in the most primi- tive fashion imaginable. The farmers adulterate their oil to a con- siderable extent with geranium oll and ginger-grass oil. The product is put up in squatty flasks, holding one to ten pounds each, and these are sewn up in white wool- len cloths, At Constantinople it is trans- ferred into small gilded bottles for export, and in this shape it comes to market. The annual harvest of roses utilized in this way represents a money value of about $4,000,000. Attar of roses is also manu- factured in Persia and India. The petals are distilled, and the rose water thus ob- tained is placed in shallow vessels, cov- ered with muslin to keep out dust and in- sects. At intervals the oll is skimmed off the surface with a feather and deposited in bottles, which are finally sealed with wax hermetically, Where Oils Are Prepared. Essential oils from fresh flowers are pre- pared chiefly at Grasse, Cannes, Nice and Monaco, where thousands of acres are planted with jaemines, tuberoses, jonquils, acacias, violets, &c. Distillation is employ- ed to some extent, but the delicate flavors required by perfumers can only be ob- tained by a comparatively slow and trouble- some process termed “enfleurage.” Frames of glass are covered with a thin layer of purified lard, upon which the petals of the fresh-plucked blossoms are laid. The es- sential oil of the flowers, having an affinity for the lard, passes over to the latter. As fast as the petals fade, they are replaced with fresh ones. The grease thus perfumed is called “pomade.” When it is soaked in spirits of wine, the alcohol takes up the oil from the lard and becomes “cologne.” The oil obtained from violets in this way is green in color, and {ts odor {s so pene- trating as to cause headache. The perfume is rendered agreeable by much dilution. The yield is small, and is consumed in the manufacture of the finest perfumery. Ylang- ylang is from the flowers of a tree that grows in the Philippine Islands. The oil has an exquisite odor, and was formerly held at an enormous price. At present it costs about $70 a pound. Orange-flower oil, known commercially as “neroli,” is also very ccstly. Perfumers employ it consider- ably. Also they utilize an oil from the flower: id leaves of the myrtle. Lavender oil is distilled from the blossoms of that plant—extensively cultivated in England and France—is an ingredient of expensive “waters” and soaps. Many kinds of flow- ers not now used for this purpose, such as the hyacinth and mignonette, would afford valuable oils. Italy supplies the world with orange and lemon oils, which are obtained from the rinds of those fruits. Calabria and Sicily are the chief producing districts. “Berga- mot” is the oil from a small orange of agreeable flavor. The same remark applies to “mandarin” and “tangarin.” Various processes are employed. One consists in wrapping the peels in linen cloth and sub- jecting them to pressure. Thus is obtained a turbid, milky fluid, consisting mainly of oll and water. This is set in a cool place to clarify. The oil comes to the top, and readily separated; but further treatment is required to remove the vegetable fibers, in- visible to the naked eye, which float in it. If permitted to remain they would decom: pose and spoil the flavor. Bergamot oil is mostly used in perfumery. hen it is stored, light and air must be carefully ex- cluded, or it will spoil. The Best Lemon Oil, The best lemon oil is obtained by what is called the “‘spongo process.” To begin with, the rinds are soaked for twenty minutes in water, Then a workman takes each piece in turn, and, holding it against a hard-grained sponge, grinds the outer sur- face forcibly with two or three dexterous twists of the wrist. This breaks the oil cells, and the ofl is taken up by the sponge, which at intervals is squeezed into a re- ceptacle. The liquid obtained ts clarified in the manner already described. Another method is to roll the fruit gently and quickly around in a pan, the inside of which 1s covered with little spikes. T@e latter prick the ofl sacks and let out the oil,which escapes through a hole in the bottom of the pan. Our consul general to Italy reports to the Department of State that practically all of the orange and lemon oils which reach the United States are sophisticated to a great extent. Bergamot, the most costly, is adul- terated with oil of sweet orange, turpen- tine, mineral oll, pitch and essence of pep- permint. Pitch is employed for coloring, and stearin Is added to increase bulk and weight. The most important adulterant is turpentine, which is so nearly related chemically to the oil of lemon—both being terpenes—that Its presence as an ingre- dient can hardly be detected by analysis. The best grades of orange and lemon oil go to France and Germany. The French perfumers want quality, and are willing to pay for it. It seems strange to learn that adulterated essences have taken prizes at exhibitions in preference to pure articles. One reason is that their odor is apt to be more agree- able when they are diluted. Oil of lemon those | is obtained from the bruised roots of the weakened by an admixture of nearly odor- less turpentine has a more pleasant smell than the geauine. A mixture of bergamot with lemon and sweet orange oils is more pleasing to the nose than the plain essence. It is claimed that such oils keep longer when turpentine is added. Sweet orange and lemon oils are the most difficult to so- Phisticate without detection. Lime ofl is obtained in the same manner as lemon oil. OIl of citron is got by pressing the peel. Difference From “Fixed” Oils. Essential oils are distinguished from the so-called “fixed” oils by the fact that the former when subjected @ heat will wholly evaporate, leaving no trace behind. Any- body may obtain these volatile oils by sim- ply soaking the leaves or other odoriferous parts of a plant in alcohol. The alcohol will take up the of! and will thus be trans- formed into home-made cologne. Nuts and barks, to be distilled for their oils, are first crushed, and roots are chopped up into lit- tle pieces. Woods are reduced preliminar- ily to shavings or sawdust. For example, cedar oll, which is much used by perfumers, is made from the shavings collected in lead pencil factories. It is a sort of by- product of the lead pencil industry. Hard seeds, like caraway and anise, are smashed preliminarily with rolls. Besides peppermint ot!, considerable quan- tities of the oils of lavender, sassafras and birch are produced in this country. The birch oil is from birch bark. Sassafras oll sassafras tree, which is one of the lau! and is widely distributed in North Americé Most of it is distilled within sixty miles of Baltimore, which is the principal depot for its sale. Isolated squatters in New Jersey and elsewhere do a small business {n the distillation of sassafras root. Anise-seed oil is used in the manufacture of liqueurs. Caraway-seed oil is employed as a scent for cheap toilet soaps and for liqueurs. — Celery-seed oil is sometimes utilized as an aphrodisiac. An oil obtained from the swect flag is useful to perfumers and to manufacturers of liqueurs. Laurel oll and ginger oil also contribute flavor to some liqueurs, as do likewise oil of allspice and the oil distilled from the flowery tops of the sweet marjoram. The same may be said of vanilla oil and nutmeg oil. Laurel O11 Laurel oil is used to keep off insects. Juniper oil is a valuable diuretic. The flowers of the camomile plant yield an oil much used to perfumery, which has an agreeable odor of fresh lemons. Caraway- seed ofl is added to purgative medicines to prevent griping. Oil of pennyroyal is util- ized for medicinal purposes and as an adul- terant of oil of peppermint. An ofl derived from rosewood root serves as a scent for so-called “rose soaps.” A hundredweicht of the root yields three ounces of oil. Sandal- wood oil is highly valued by perfumers and physicians. Turpentine is an essential oil. It is ob- tained by distilling the crude resin which exudes from the tree. Oil of euc: used to dilute cologne waters. valuable for antiseptic dressings. The eucalyptus forms the greater part of the vegetation of Australia and is famous for its fever-destroying properties. The gum resin called myrrh yields by distillation an oil that is useful to perfumers. Perhaps the queerest essential ofl of all is distilled from amber, which is a fossil gum of an extinct cone-bearing tree. It is utilized in medi- cine and perfumery. It has the property of dissolving amber, which, otherwise, is dif- ficult of solutio RENE BACHE. ——_—_—.— In the Cheerin, Dp Business. From Harper's Bazar. When the hard times began last year it was reported that a clever woman declared that if she had to earn her living she would become a “general sympathizer,” going to any one who wished to pour out the troubles and worries, listening and comforting for a fixed sum per hour; the Interviews to be strictly confidential and the professional sympathizer never to allow herself to have pains or trials greater than those of her cent. This seemed an odd little fancy, as impracticable as original, until a short time ago, when, reading over the lists which a woman’s exchange prepares to meet the wants of its patrons, the eye fell upon this item: “In the cheering-up bust- ness. A lady who has had successful ex- perience will read to or amuse invalids or convalescents.”” Then there is such an occupation, after all, and one which this cheering lady has made successful as well. How does she manage her delicate work? By what cun- ningly devised means has she bottled up the sunshine which carries its brightness into the lives of those who are strangers to her? And from what founts does she draw sparkling exhilarating draughts? And who, after she has spent her day in “read- ing to and amusing invalids and convales- cents,” cheers her when twilight gives her back to herself? It is a beautiful and self-effacing occu- pation, demanding special gifts of tact and Sweetness and calling for keenness of eye id quickness of ear and also, contra- dictorily enough, for a certain judicious near-sightedness and mental deafness, which can leave unnoticed and unheard all that tends to mar the perfect harmony which it {s so essential to maintain. Yet, while as a means of gaining a liveli- hood the business is undoubtedly new, it is really an old, very old, vocation, to which from time immemorial women have spontaneously devoted themselves. In the home nest, as daughter and sister, a woman learns to expr the sympathy of a loving heart, and in the new relations of wife and mother her opportunities increase immeas- urably and unceasingly. Upon the so-called weaker partner has ever fallen the duty of lightening by her ready, responsive cheerfulness the burdens borne by her lord and master, When everything down town goes wrong, home is made to take on more than its usual attractiveness, and domestic atmosphere has a soothing calm which re- freshes a tired man, whese wife and bair- nies are at their brightest when poor papa comes in. A married man is more apt to retrieve his fallen fortunes and to rein- state himself more speedily than the unfort- unate bachelor, whose only comfort is that when he puts on his hat his whole family is_under it! It is by no means claimed that women have a monopoly of this inspiriting, bliss- imparting quality, yet it is always conceded to be such a right womanly talent that the highest compliment that can be paid to one of the other sex is to liken his powers of sympathy to those of ours. The men whom one must depend on in the dark hours of life, when illness and sorrow and losses de- press the most buoyant nature, often pos- sess in the highest degree the power of cheering—physicians, whose mere presence seems to bring healing; lawyers and clergy- men, whose help glows with the unaffected goodness of their sunny natures; and others bebe with the exacting cares of busi- ness life, who yet have a pleasant word and a bright smile in even the darkest hour of their own troubles. Blessed be all, of whatever age, sex or condition, who are “in the cheering-up busi- ness!” —~+oo__. How to Bring Him Back. From the Detroit Tribune. The sailor's bride, with haggard, anxious face, gazed across the stormy sea. At her feet the breakers moaned upon the rocky reef. “Bring him back, bring him back to me,” she wailed. The storm buffeted her and the spray dashed over her. “How can I bring him back?” And the summer girl who had chanced to wander near in her reefing jacket and high rubber boots suggested: “Make him jealous of you.” The wind rose and shrieked. —_+ e+ ___ Man Must Help Him: (On the way from the brewery.) “Thunder! He's fallen through again.” “There she goes!” 18 HOMES IN CONFUSION, Moving and House-Cleaning Days Are Upon Us~Comforiless Men dud Gross, Tired Out, Nervous Women, Van Tromp, with a broom at his masthead, sailed up and down the ‘Thames in defiance. Brooms and dust rags are now putting households everywhere into confusion. ‘The traditional time for moving and house clean- ing is upon us. Innumerable cases of weakened herves, exhausted strength and debility date from these days of feverish exertion, fret, and cold risk health and strength in this annual struggle with dirt and dust. But as a preparation for great bodily and mental strain, hosis of careful women bulld up their strength with Paine's celery compound, the great nerve and brain strengthener and restorer. Physi- rooms, Every good housewife, however, feels bound to NOT FEASIBLE. Rhodes Macknight in Romance. ) It was one of those days which come » benign after fickle weather,and which make ‘a New York May a delight and an inspira- tion, The avenue was alive. Upon the side- vaiks was the well-dressed throng thai is without a break between the Worth monu- ment and the circular sweep of the Plaza; in the roadway the crush was even greacor. The progress of Mrs. Kemyss, driving the Piebald cobs to the phaeton, was perforce slow. But she was the more admired. Men turned to look at her from the curb; women in carriages, who knew her by sight and would have given their ears to know her more intimately, craned necks at her and could not hide the flicker of envy that shone in their eyes. She was envied because she was rich and beautiful aud the widow of a great name. If the day were perfect below in the ave- nue walled with brownstone, the first glimpse of the park promised even more. The trees were budding into tender, yel- lowish green, and there was the odor of springing sap and damp, fresh-turned earth ard blossoming shrubs. The ponies now were given more he: and presently, the Plaza crossed, the phae- ton was rolling up the driveway between ard beneath the greening trees. From the opposite direction there was an occasional vebicle, but at this fashionable hour the tide was northward. The paths skirting the road were filled with nursemaids and chil- dren; here and there was a gray-coated Policeman, the custodian of dyed mustaches and the dignity of the law. On one side came a glimpse of a little muddy pond, then a broad smooth meadow of intense green, again an upright mass of gray rocks em- broidered with creepers. Mrs. Kemyss had her eyes straight before her; she had no thought of these things. She did not expect to see any one in par- ticular, and the glance she sometimesegave to some one passing was purely casual. But as she pulled the ponies’ heads to the right at the broad sweep where the drive- way forks at the mall, the look she gave a carriage called for a second. Then she bow- ed; and when once more her eyes were be- fore her, a tinge of red was in her cheeks. In that carriage sat a young woman of great beauty. Yet it was not so much at the woman that she looked at a child upon either side of her—a fair-haired boy, and a girl like her in miniature.She knew the woman to be Mrs. Minturn Appleby—she had met her two or three times—and she guessed the boy and girl to be her children. She had heard how beautiful they were. With the flush she was deep in thought; and it was of a time fifteen years past that she was thinkin, She was barely more than twenty then; but young as she w: she had had her own views of life. was beautiful, and she was ambitious. That night—the night up the sound—when young Appleby had walked with her the Norah’s deck in the moonlight,she had been pretty sure of what was to come. She tried hard enough to prevent it. But he was such a headlong youth—such a man for knowing what he wanted, so determined to have it when he did! He had proposed, and she had declined. That was a thing of everyday occurrence, and she could never urderstand why he had made such a fuss about it. But the black look he had given her!—and what he had said! He had ac- cused her, she remembered, of being a co- quette. Well, lots of men, before and since, had said that to girls and they didn’t mean much, after all. But she had not coquetted with him: she had liked him too weil for that—and herself too well. The next morning the Norah had run in to New London, and Appleby had himself pulled ashore, bag and baggage, before any- body was up. He had left some easy mes- sage for his host, the owner of the yacht, and he had left a note for herself. The words of that note she could readily recall, even now: “Pardon for my hasty jumping at conclusions, for my hasty words, for my hasty departure, for my hasty forgiveness.” That was all—all but what was between the lines and he had probably studied how to say !t. She had laughed annoyedly. After that she had not heard of him 4i- rectly for several years. She knew, from what was known by friends, that he was working frenziedly and tenaciously at the law, that he was spoken of frequently as a “rising man,” and she had been glad to see how sensibly he took his disappointment. Glad, but, being a woman, perhaps not wholly with satisfaction. Then she had msrried and spent a term of years abroad. Her husband had been her choice. She had been ambitious, but she had not had time to regret. She had been blamed by some, she knew, for marrying an old man; and upon more occasions than one she had been conscious of lorgnettes leveled at her critically. When she had become a widow, however, still comparatively young, still handsome, with power and position and wealth, all that had ceased. She had returned to New York to find Appleby a light at the bar, a man risen, a husband and father. She had seen him and his wife together several times, but he had bowed coldly. The wife she had met at re- ceptions also. Now she had seen his chil- dren, and. She had come abreast of the reservoirs without noticing how deep her thoughts had been, and she dropped the lash upon the ponies’ backs with a little awakening start. ‘This part of the park was quieter; the path- ways were almost deserted, and many of the carriages had turned back. All was green and silent and rustic; a gardener was setting out some potted flowers, tulips and hyacinths and crocuses, in a highly in- genious parterre at one side of the road, and she noticed dreamily how he seemed to be stooping amid creeping flame. For the return she took the West drive, and it was not long before she had again fallen to deep thinking. She had a tirm rein upon the ponies, and her bearing was irreproachable; yet any one might have seen that her mind was absent. And if the any one had been more than a superficial observer, he might have seen also that her thoughts had brought an unequivocal look of pain to her eyes now. The entrance at 96th street was passed, then 7Sth, and the phaeton was bowling down the smooth macadam upon 72d. At the crossing stood a policeman; but his thoughts were apparently as far away as Mrs. Kemyss’. Some fifty yards farther on @ young woman was coming up a by-path, leading by the hand a chubby boy of two or three years. She did not come to the cross- ing, but stepped over the narrow strip of grass into the roadway. Thinking, doubt- jess, that she would have time to get over before the phaeton came, she started, stop- ped undecidediy when she saw how much nearer it was then she thought, started egain, then seemed fastened to the spot. It ‘was not until the vehicle was upon her, not until she screamed, that Mrs. Kemyss saw. She swerved the ponies to one side, and cleared the woman, but the chubby boy geil bentath their hoofs. ‘The second cry that came to Mrs. Kemyss chilled her. She had pulled the ponies al- most to their haunches, and the next thing she knew the groom, dismounted hurriedly from the rumble, was scrambling under their bellies. She saw the woman standin, aside, her frightened eyes set in a face of marble; she heard footsteps trotting over the macadam from behind; then the groom emerged again with a little bundle of topsy- turvy clothes in his arms. ‘A small crowd had sprung up out of the ground. She heard a street urchin yell, “Gee! here comes de sparrercop,” and then &@ gray-coated figure stood majestic beside She clans prescribe it for dyspepsia, kidney trouble, sick headaches, and all forms of nervous weakness, because It makes people well when other remedies can do no good. Men and women who have the tired, languid feeling that indicates depleted blood aud feeble condition of the nervous system, need Patne’s celery j compound, the remarkable discovery of Prof. Ed- werd E. Phelps, M.D., LL. D., of Dartmouth med- Seal school, the one great spring medicine preserib- ed by physicians of every school. Sleep is the necessary condition of the system to Testore its lost powers and retain its vigor. Paine’s celery compound quickly repairs the wasted, worn- out, nervous tissues, calms and equalizes nervous the phaeton. All this could have occupied not more than a minute, certainly: it seem- ed to her an hour. “Fwhat's dthis, leddy?—fwhat’s dthis?” cried the officer, his spine stiffened with au- thority. But without awaiting a reply he Swept the crowd back with a wave of the official arm, and advanced to the woman rapturously hugging to her bosom the dusty bundle of clothes. ‘The crowd closed in at once, and Mrs. Kemyss could not see. “Merriam!” she cried to the groom—“Mer- riam!" ‘ The man came back reluctantly, and took his place at the ponies’ heads. ‘Then she stepped to the ground and made her way fcerward. “The poor child!—is he hurt?—he is not hurt?” she cried brea*hlessly, her own face as white as the wo. *® whom she now fronted. “No'm; oh, no'm, I thina not,” was the tremulous afswer. “He don’t seem hurted— he don’t seem hurted a bit, ’m. Reuby’s rot hurted?+is Reuby hurted?” ‘The child squirmed in the woman’s arms to get his head around. He was only ly successful; but, looking as hard as he could from the corner of one eye, his little brows all smudged with dirt and criss- with wrinkles, he declared in- juredly: “TI don’t like dat dere lady!” “S-sh, dariing—s-sh!” murmured the ycung woman; and then, to smother the derogation as well as to hide her confusion, she a : “He's jest a little mite scart, ma’am. Mrs. Kemyss impulsively leaned forward and kissed the grimy face. The infant was taken by surprise, and his eyes got big and 8 his lips, uttered one piercing yell, then be- came quiet, frowning the more. The policeman had been awaiting impa- tiently a chance to get his word in, and this seemed to be it. He spat for prelude. “An’ sure he might bees scart, mum,” he said to the woman sympathetically, harking back to the subject with which he had to do, and ostentatiously ignoring Mrs. Kemyss. But that lady instantly moved away with dignity, beckoning the young woman to fol- w. “Come, get in, and we'll drive away from the crowd,” said Mrs, Kemyss rapidly as she seated herself. “I'll drive you to the er trance, or to your home. Come, get in.” The woman hesitated, glancing first at the immaculate drab cloth cushions, then awk- wardly at the ponies; but in a moment she seemed more at ease, lifted the child in, and got in herself. Mrs. Kemyss took up the reins and nod- Ged to the groom. But the policeman felt that he had been cheated out of a good deal of taik. He had not many opportuni- ties like this, it might be said in his ex- cus ‘ourse yez knows,” he remarked, draw- ing near and placing a foot familiarly on the step—“course yez knows 't Ol c’u'd take yez t' d’ Ars’nal foor athis rickliss drivin’. Sure. But, course, "f th’ kid’s not hurted any, ut’s diffrint.” He twirled his mus- taches a moment: he considered that he | must have made a very favorable impres- sion; he had been polite—he had refrain from using the official phrase “run yez ia"— and he was enjoying his pose because he knew that he presented a pretty figure to the crowd behind. As a fitting finish he ad- ded, “An’ Oi'm plazed t’ see yez'll do th’ right ting by dese people,” and withdrew his detaining foot. Mrs, Kemyss had listened with an anery flush, and now she cut the ponies with the whip. But they were not to be off yet, it seemed. The chubby boy had been kicking excitedly since he got into the young wi man’s lap, and now he bawled “Me ca) The cap, it appeared, had been beneath the carriage. The groom ran back for it, and restored it to its owner. It was an affair of drab felt, a stiff hemisphere, with, @ band of blue plush around the base, a’ in front, and an elastic for the chin. The chubby boy grasped it; the tears ready to fall suddenly were checked by the eager scrutiny which followed; then he jammed it far down on his little round head. It was some time before Mrs. Kemyss spoke; she had not recovered instantly from | her vexation, and she had thought for a | little while. ; “He is your child, is he not?" she asked | at last, glancing at the boy, who, now that | he felt his hat safely on his head aguin, was lost in big-eyed contemplation of th flanks before him over dashboard. “Such a nice a fellow!” she went on. | “Your only child?” H The young woman seemed confused, but presently she got out that it was her only child, and that she was a widow. | “A widow!” exclaimed Mrs. Kemyss, half to herself, pensively. Unconsciously she took in at a glance the woman's poor dress, her gloveless hands, and contrasted them with the smart,yet still cheap,rig of the boy. “But then,” she added presenti: ‘a widow | with a child. And has he—have you no} relatives? By the way, I've forgotten your / name; Mrs.—ah—what did you say it was?” The young woman had not said, but now, . Instantly he drew his fist across | partl crossed dd a, laring. lo as, had peak action and brings refreshing sleep that makes re covery easy. There is such m thing as too closely watching for signs of ill-health, but, on the other hand, there 4s @ wise attention to signs of weakness and break- ing down. Painful sensations and sudden weakness are nature's evident hints. Constipation, with fat. ulency and nausea, in the early morning, suggests Serious trouble. ‘The dull, wearing ache at side and back should make one pause to think. Bright's disease and disorders of the heart and liver may be positively and permanently cured by taking Paine’s celery compound as soon as neural- sia, weakness, rheumatism, lack of appetite, and low spirits show the beginnings of disease of some of these important organs. been for the moment forgetful of where she was. “I'm afraid you'll think he's a little —_ ma'am,” she murmured apologeti- cally. The boy may have heard this, for, in- stently waiving the attractions of the win- dow, he strutted back and determined air, “W “S-sh, Reuby, s-sh ‘hispered the er, reddening. But Mrs. Kemyss looked amused, and said: “Dces he want candy? Dear me! I'm afraid we've none in the house. But wait a moment.” She went to the bell and pushed and im mediately the butler was at the door, While she was speaking to him, the mother essayed to protest. “Oh, don't speak of it, pray,” Mra Kemyss interrupted her. “The man'll be back in a jiffy. I only hope he'll bring the kind the little boy likes.” The little boy discerned something here germane to his interests. “I likes sour-balls,” he said without hesitation, and at the lady as if challenging her to luce that peculiar confection. Then doubtless inferring from her amused perplexity that she did not know overmuch about it, he | edded, “An’ I likes them wot's got red Stripes onto them.” “Oh, Reuby, Reuby! That was all the mother could cay in her helpless shame. “But he's such a dear little fellow!” cried | Mrs. Kemyss, stooping suddenly and gath- | ering him to her arms before he could pro- test, “such a dear little fellow!—such a dear —_ vo i ‘reathless and indignant, the child strug- | gied to free himself; but he was held fast. | With a sudden frantic outburst he mum- | bled, “Say, I'll smash ye?" The young woman could hardly believe | her ears. Burning with shame she gasped, started forward, and took him from Mrs. Kemyss" arms. Then, falling to her knees | beside him, tearfully she bewalled his wick- | €dnest. But he preserved a stolid front. A diversion was brought by the butlers timely reappearance. It was found that | Scur-balls formed no part of the boxful he | had got; but what was there in place of them seemed to excite sufficiently the tn- fartile curiosity and liking. It was while the boy was deeply delving that Mra | Kemyss begin to talk earnestly to the | mcther; and as she talked, ner face warm- |ed into sympathy, and she seemed to be pleading a case. She spcke of what a boy naturally bright might expect to become, what future there was for him. She spoke of a supposititious boy, yet even the young mother could not but see at last that it was her boy the great lady had in mind, and, her bewilder- ment swept away, she sat overcome with gratitude and pride at the wondrous pic- tures unfolded to her view. She had never had any one talk to her like this before, she had never known any one to take in- terest in the child, and her mother heart expanded and throbbed, and her eyes got moist, and her lps quivered. She could hardly have believed it all—could hardly be- Heve it now; yet this lady, with the soft glance and the tender ways—could she be saying that to her which was not sincere? She could not believe that. It must be true: the little lad was all that the great lady said—would be all that she forecast. She leaned forward, giowing and palpitating, and fondly stroked his hair. But Mrs. Kemyss had only presented the beginning of her argument. In a little while she came to a conclusion with: “And the little fellow, Mrs, Burwell, would be all this, might do this, if he—-if he only had the opportunity.” The mother looked up, not catching the drift of the emphasis. Mrs, Kemyss was —s her closely, and now leaned for- wi “I think, Mrs. Burwell,” she went on—I think I can put that in your way. You are peor, and out of employment, you say. And, moreover, you are a widow. I too am a widow. But,” she murmured softly, “I have never had a little boy. I was thinking of something this afternoon when that strange accident occurred—let us call it a happy accident. It seems to me in some way providential—that it should happen at that very moment, you know. And—and now I am going to ask you something.” She arose and went over to the young wo- man, laying a hand gently on her shoulder. “Mrs. Burwell,” she said, “I'm going to ask you to let me adopt your little boy.” The mother started, and looked up at her quickly in consternation and tn supplica- tion. All the color was gone out of her face now, and when she tried to speak her lips merely moved. “You do not seem to wish it,” resume@ Mrs. Kemyss after a pause, her face falling, “Of course it is a little sudden, but I shan't Ppres® you to answer at once. You must think over it, certainly. And you must not forget that the little boy would not be out of your reach. You might see stantly. I will make a place for you in my household, if you wish. It would be oniy—” she stopped, for she saw that the young woman was trembling violently, and that her breath was coming in little gasps. She would give her time to compose herself, decided. So she went on gently: “You may after giving a quick glance, she replied: “Mrs. Burwell, ma’am. And, no’m, I have | no relations.” 4 “Then you are really—ah—what might be! called alone in the world?” The question | eemed eager. | “Well, yes'm. Me and little Reuby. have some rooms—two rooms over 'n Sec- ond avyna. I'm—I'm a salesjady. But I'm out of a position jest now.” “Ah! Mrs. Kemyss looked at her closely for a moment, but, seeing that this embar- rassed her, she sent her eyes forward axain. | There was no need to sound the depths of her poverty, she reflected; the thin pale face was sufficient answer. Her thoughts again kept her busy for a while, and she was only recalled by the voice of the young woman, who suggested that she and the boy be set down now; they would walk straight across town, she said. Mrs. Kemyss started slightly, and saw that they were really nearing 59th street. “But I'm not going to let you off without a talk,” she said. “You must come with—you must come to my house. I'll send you home later. A look of incredulity came upon the young woman; she started to protest, but relapsed into wondering silence. They crossed into Broadway; and for a long time now neither spoke. Under the elevated they went, and down into Long Acre square, and finaliy Then Mrs. Kemyss turned to remark, with a smile, that they were nearing home. ey drew up before the pretentious house in 5th avenue. Mrs. Kemyss, on the right side, got out first; the young woman Was about to follow—had haif risen—when it was found that the boy had grasped with both hands the rein-guard before him. He had made no out-cry, but his tight-shut lips ——, without a murmur, that he had letermined to stay where he was. “Come, Reuby, com: in a mortified undertone. The boy turned his head slowly, without relaxing his grasp, looked coldly at the side- walk, then turned back again. His small coaxed his mother fists became more compact upon the rail. “Come, we get Reuby cand: the young woman went on in a whisper. “We get Reuby nice candy.” “Come it back here, Mrs. Burwell,” seid Mrs. Kemyss, leading the way to the rear drawing room. “We can be quite alone here; we can talk without interruption.” The young woman trod with an awed step as she followed with the child. At the por- tiere shi as if what lay beyond was for her eyes; but at last she was got inside and seated. “Now do let the little boy down,” said Load hostess; “you must be so tired holding The little boy when he was let down, with great ceremony undid the elastic be- neath his chin, took off the cap, and laid it carefully upon a chair. He looked down at the front of his cheap kilt, detected some stains remaining from the late mishap, and brushed them off with querulous mutter- ings. Tidy again, he clasped his hands be- hind him and strutted to a window. “He's such a manly little fello’ Mrs. Kemyss exclaimed in a low voice. She had been watching him as closely as the moth- er, almost as admiringly. The young woman looked up; she had |gested that perhaps the take as long as you wish to think it over, Mrs. Burweil, of course. I can go to see ‘ou—tomorrow—next day. I'd like you to give me your address, and—wait a mo- ment,” she interrupted herself, and moved toward the bell button. But suddenly be- thinking herself, she paused: delicacy sug- woman would be abashed before a servant in her present agitation. “I'll get my address book,” she said, going to the doorw “Just waig— I'll be back in an insta As she went up the stairs, she could still see fronting her the woman's white and ter- rified face: and when she passed b a mirror in her boude she wondered to dis- cover how flushed her own cheeks were. The address book she found in a mom upon the table; she grasped it, made way into the entry and weni down. “Now,” she exclaimed, pushing the por- tiere aside—“now if you'l "she broke off suddenly and stared about ‘The woman was gone, and the cilld. The candy box was overturned, as if it had been relinquished hurriedly, aud its contents were scattered. She ned into the front room, thinking had wandered in there, perhaps. ¥ also. She crossed the at the bell. Almost butler was before her. “Stop her” she cried—"stop her!” The man straightened, and surprise shone through his habitual She @vas gazing at him. stop her?" she demanded. stand there looking at me?” “Stop her, madam?” Instantly! Run out quick! She's in the street The butler made a hurried movement for the front door, and she followed in her ex- citement. His’ hand was upon the knob when she recalled herself. “Wait,” she said coldly; 2 quickly and pushed stantly the decorous ‘Why don’t you Why do you “you needn't mind.’ “If she has stolen anything, madam,” he began, and paused respectfully. Then, dis- cerniffg that she was struggling with an impulse, he suggested mildly, “There would be no time to lose, madam. ‘Stolen anything? But there—never mind. No, sae hasn't stolen anything. You may 60, Price.” She turned, re-entered the front drewing room and moved to a window. Shrouded in its lace she looked out into the street. “No, she hasn't stolen anything,” she kept re- «ating to herself. Ehe saw the steeple of a distant church, the very tip, gilded with the Mght of the sun already set; in a moment it had gone. She saw men coming up the avenue from business; she saw a Lg & ot 4 = merry shop girls pass by; she sa - nibux, loaded until the springs were flatten- ed to the axles, pursuing its tollsome way; she saw a belated nurse hurrying home with her charges—two mites toddling, one in arms. Then a piano organ stopped on the opposite side of the way and rattled out a tune. The — was already grow- x gray in the twilight. "Tne cathering darkness was suddenly @is- pelled by the flashing of electric lights, Then she heard the maid's voice behind her: Madam, it is time to dress. It's Mra Vallandigham’s tonight, you know, ma dam.”