Chapter 14

"To Peace, however, in this vortex of existence can the Son of Time not pretend; still less if some Specter haunt him from the Past; and the Future is wholly a Stygian Darkness, specter-bearing. Reasonably might the Wanderer exclaim to himself: Are not the gates of this world's Happiness inexorably shut against thee; hast thou a hope that is not mad? Nevertheless, one may still murmur audibly, or in the original Greek if that suit thee better: 'Whoso can look on death will start no shadows.'

"From such meditations is the Wanderer's attention called outward; for now the valley closes in abruptly, intersected by a huge mountain mass, the stony, water-worn ascent of which is not to be accomplished on horseback. Arrived aloft, he finds himself again lifted into the evening sunset light; and cannot but pause, and gaze round him, some moments there.

"An upland, irregular expanse of wold, where valleys in complex branchings are suddenly or slowly arranging their descent toward every quarter of the sky. The mountain-ranges are beneath your feet, and folded together; only the loftier summits look down here and there as on a second plain; lakes also lie clear and earnest in their solitude.

"No trace of man now visible; unless indeed it were he who fashioned that little visible link of Highway, here, as would seem, scaling the inaccessible, to unite Province with Province.

"But sunward, lo you! how it towers sheer up, a world of Mountains, the diadem and center of the mountain region! A hundred and a hundred savage peaks, in the last light of Day; all glowing, of gold and amethyst, like giant spirits of the wilderness; there in their silence, in their solitude, even as on the night when Noah's Deluge first dried!

"Beautiful, nay solemn, was the sudden aspect to our Wanderer. He gazed over those stupendous masses with wonder, almost with longing desire; never till this hour had he known Nature, that she was One, that she was his Mother and divine.

"And as the ruddy glow was fading into clearness in the sky, and the Sun had now departed, a murmur of Eternity and Immensity, of Death and of Life, stole through his soul; and he felt as if Death and Life were one, as if the Earth were not dead, as if the Spirit of the Earth had its throne in that splendor, and his own spirit were therewith holding communion.

"The spell was broken by a sound of carriage-wheels. Emerging from the hidden Northward, to sink soon into the hidden Southward, came a gay Barouche-and-four; it was open; servants and postilions wore wedding-favors; that happy pair, then, had found each other, it was their marriage evening! Few moments brought them near; _Du Himmel!_ It was Herr Towgood and--Blumine!

"With slight unrecognizing salutation they passed me; plunged down amid the neighboring thickets, onward, to Heaven, and to England; and I, in my friend Richter's words, _I remained alone, behind them, with the Night_!"

THE ACTUAL HEIGHT OF SEA WAVES.

Average in Different Oceans--Fifty-Two Feet the Height of the Tallest Billow Yet Measured--Not More Than Thirty Feet in North Atlantic.

Waves are the agents of tremendous force, as the batterings received by the big ocean liners in the winter storms tend to prove. But in spite of the stories told by timid or imaginative passengers on the Europe-America ferry, the surges of the North Atlantic are not the highest waves nor the most forcible. The most tremendous of seas are those that form south of the Cape of Good Hope and Cape Horn, where the oceanic belt is unbroken by land.

How high those southern waves rise has not been accurately measured, so far as can be discovered; but probably they are not very much higher than the waves farther north. Says the New York _Sun_:

Sailors in modern times have never seen such waves as those which the early navigators declared attained heights of one hundred to one hundred and thirty feet. La Perouse asserted that he saw waves towering in the Pacific to a height of nearly two hundred feet. In these more scientific days we may say that the highest wave yet measured had an altitude of about fifty-two feet.

This was in the southern ocean, a little north of the Antarctic regions; and it is quite certain that the highest waves ever seen in that region did not surpass fifty-eight feet in altitude. A wave of that height would certainly be a formidable looking object, and its crest would wash the windows of the fifth story of many New York buildings.

The average height of the waves in different oceans has been ascertained with some approach to accuracy as the result of a great many measurements. The highest waves observed in the Indian Ocean, for example, are about forty feet. The highest waves in the North Atlantic are from twenty-five to twenty-nine feet, and in the Mediterranean from sixteen to nineteen feet.

Even the smallest of these great waves has considerable destructive power. Some of them travel along at a speed of twenty-five miles an hour. A wave about thirty feet high contains thousands of tons of water, and when this immense force is dashed against any structure the ruin wrought is likely to be impressive.

BASEBALL BARDS "ON DECK."

A Garland of Truly American Verse--Poems, New and Old, That Sing the Glories of the Great National Game.

THE OLD ENTHUSIAST.

By S.E. Kiser.

There's a glad old-fashioned feeling stealing over me once more; I forget that I'm gray-headed and am verging on threescore; There are many weighty matters that my earnest care should claim-- But come, old man, let's knock off and go out and see the game.

Let's get a bag of peanuts, and be boys again and shout For the men who lam the leather and who line three-baggers out; Let's go out and root and holler, and forget that we have cares, And that still the world has markets which are worked by bulls and bears.

Every year or two they tell us that baseball is out of date; But each spring it's back in fashion when they line up at the plate, When the good old, glad old feeling comes again to file its claim-- When a man can turn from trouble and go out and see the game.

I can feel the warm blood rushing through my veins again--hooray! See those slender pennants waving? Hear the umpire calling "Play!" Yah, you bluffer--no, you didn't--aw, say, umpire, that's a shame! What? Two strikes? Come off, you robber! Well, you're rotten all the same!

Oh, if we'd a man like Anson or Dan Brouthers used to be, To hold down that first bag--say, what a corker that was! Gee! Go it! Slide, you chump--you've got to--never touched him! Yip! Hurrah! Say, that boy's a wonder--hold it! Ah, the dub, they've caught him--pshaw!

Ever see John Ward as short-stop? There's the boy that had the head! Why, if we had him out yonder he would scare those fellows dead! And Mike Kelly--Whee-e-e! A beauty! Home run, sure as Brown's my name! Downed 'em nine to eight, by golly! Wasn't it a corkin' game?

_Chicago Record-Herald_.

THE BOY WHO KEEPS THE BATS.

By Bide Dudley.

Just see him stride from bench to plate-- The boy who keeps the bats; With truly a majestic gait-- The boy who keeps the bats. His clothes are old, his feet are bare, His face unwashed, unkempt his hair, He's still in pride a millionaire-- The boy who keeps the bats.

A most important man is he-- The boy who keeps the bats; Possessed of great activity-- The boy who keeps the bats. He knows each player by his name, His age, his weight, from whence he came, And just how long he's played the game-- The boy who keeps the bats.

He'll lug ten sticks and laugh with glee-- The boy who keeps the bats. "De gang" regards with jealousy The boy who keeps the bats. Although he's not employed for pay, He "gets inside to see 'em play," Which beats his former knot-hole way-- The boy who keeps the bats.

He knows each player's stick, you bet-- The boy who keeps the bats. 'Twould break his heart should he forget-- The boy who keeps the bats. Whene'er a ball is knocked away, He throws them one with which to play, He's there for business ev'ry day-- The boy who keeps the bats.

He yells when worthy work is done-- The boy who keeps the bats. He "hollers" after ev'ry run-- The boy who keeps the bats. He's overjoyed at victory, And tells the other kids how "we" Won out as easily as could be-- The boy who keeps the bats!

_St. Joseph News_.

CASEY AT THE BAT.

BY PHINEAS THAYER.

It looked extremely rocky for the Mudville nine that day; The score stood two to four, with but an inning left to play. So, when Cooney died at second, and Burrows did the same, A pallor wreathed the features of the patrons of the game.

A straggling few got up to go, leaving there the rest, With that hope which springs eternal within the human breast, For they thought: "If only Casey could get a whack at that," They'd put up even money now, with Casey at the bat.

But Flynn preceded Casey, and likewise so did Blake, And the former was a puddin', and the latter was a fake, So on that stricken multitude a deathlike silence sat, For there seemed but little chance of Casey's getting to the bat.

But Flynn let drive a "single," to the wonderment of all, And the much-despised Blakey "tore the cover off the ball." And when the dust had lifted, and they saw what had occurred, There was Blakey safe at second, and Flynn a-huggin' third.

Then, from the gladdened multitude went up a joyous yell, It rumbled in the mountain-tops, it rattled in the dell; It struck upon the hillside and rebounded on the flat; For Casey, mighty Casey, was advancing to the bat.

There was ease in Casey's manner as he stepped into his place; There was pride in Casey's bearing, and a smile on Casey's face. And when, responding to the cheers, he lightly doffed his hat, No stranger in the crowd could doubt 'twas Casey at the bat.

Ten thousand eyes were on him as he rubbed his hands with dirt, Five thousand tongues applauded when he wiped them on his shirt; Then while the New York pitcher ground the ball into his hip, Defiance gleamed in Casey's eye, a sneer curled Casey's lip.

And now the leather-covered sphere came hurling through the air, And Casey stood a-watching it in haughty grandeur there. Close by the sturdy batsman the ball unheeded sped-- "That ain't my style," said Casey. "Strike one," the umpire said.

From the benches, black with people, there went up a muffled roar, Like the beating of storm waves on a stern and distant shore. "Kill him! Kill the umpire!" shouted some one on the stand. And it's likely they'd have killed him had not Casey raised a hand.

With a smile of Christian charity great Casey's visage shone; He stilled the rising tumult; he bade the game go on: He signaled to Sir Timothy, once more the spheroid flew; But Casey still ignored it, and the umpire said, "Strike two."

"Fraud!" cried the maddened thousands, and echo answered "Fraud!" But one scornful look from Casey and the audience was awed. They saw his face grow stern and cold, they saw his muscles strain, And they knew that Casey wouldn't let that ball go by again.

The sneer is gone from Casey's lip, his teeth are clenched in hate; He pounds with cruel violence his bat upon the plate. And now the pitcher holds the ball, and now he lets it go, And now the air is shattered by the force of Casey's blow.

Oh, somewhere in this favored land the sun is shining bright; The band is playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light. And somewhere men are laughing, and somewhere children shout: But there is no joy in Mudville--mighty Casey has struck out.

FOIBLES OF LITERARY MEN.

Many qualities which would be regarded as censurable if possessed by ordinary men and women are often regarded with a respect that is tinctured with admiration when they are possessed by persons of genius.

There is scarcely an author or musician of note who has not been distinguished by some foible that has excited the amusement of his friends. In many instances these foibles afford an index to the character of their victim. Some are natural, while others would seem to be the result of some inexplicable affectation. Viewed in any light, however, all are interesting.

=Keats= liked red pepper on his toast.

=Sardou= imagines he has a perpetual cold.

=Dickens= was fond of wearing flashy jewelry.

=Ernest Renan= wore his finger-nails abnormally long.

=Walter Savage Landor= threw the dishes around to relieve his mind.

=Edgar Allan Poe= slept with his cat. He was inordinately proud of his feet.

=Alphonse Daudet= wore his eye-glasses when asleep. He did his best work when hungry.

=Thackeray= used to lift his hat whenever he passed the house in which he wrote "Vanity Fair."

=Thomas Wentworth Higginson= possesses a singular power over wild birds, and can easily tame them.

=Alexandre Dumas=, the younger, bought a new painting every time he had a new book published.

=Robert Louis Stevenson's= favorite recreation was playing the flute, in order, as he said, to tune up his ideas.

=Robert Browning= could not sit still. With the constant shuffling of his feet holes were worn in the carpet.

=Longfellow= enjoyed walking only at sunrise or sunset, and he said his sublimest moods came upon him at these times.

=Washington Irving= never mentioned the name of his fiancée after her death, and if anybody else did so, he immediately left the room.

=Nathaniel Hawthorne= always washed his hands before reading a letter from his wife. He delighted in poring over old advertisements in the newspaper files.

=Macaulay= kept his closets crammed with elaborately embroidered waistcoats, and the more gaudy they were the better he liked them.

=Disraeli= wore corsets. The older he grew, the greater became his desire to dress like a young man. He had a pen stuck behind each ear when writing.

=F. Marion Crawford= carries his own stationery, pen, and ink, and never writes with any other. He has written every word of every novel with the same penholder.

=Bjornson= kept his pockets full of the seeds of trees, scattering handfuls broadcast in his daily walks. He even tried to persuade his associates to do the same.

=Darwin= had no respect for books as books, and would cut a big volume in two, for convenience in handling, or he would tear out the leaves he required for reference.

=Zola= would pass whole weeks in the belief that he was an idiot. While in this state he wrote more than at any other time. He would never accept an invitation to dinner.

=Oliver Wendell Holmes= used to carry a horse-chestnut in one pocket and a potato in another to ward off rheumatism. He had a great fondness for trees, and always sat under one when he could.

=Voltaire=, as a preliminary to his day's work, would sharpen an even dozen lead pencils. He would untie and retie his stock whenever an idea concerning his work particularly pleased him.

=Count Tolstoy= used to go barefoot and hatless the year round. He is fond of French perfumes, and keeps his linens scented with sachet powder. There is always a flower on his desk as he writes. Although rich, he wears the cheapest clothes he can buy.

=Sir A. Conan Doyle=, even in the coldest weather, never wears an overcoat. When he gives an afternoon lecture he removes his vest and buttons his Prince Albert coat close to his body. He is a golf enthusiast, and spends all the time possible on the links.

=Bret Harte=, when the inspiration was on him, would hire a cab for the night, and drive, without stopping, through the darkness until the struggle for ideas was over, and he grew calm enough to write. Nothing pleased him more than to be taken for an Englishman.

The World's Fastest Trains.

Great Britain Leads in Speed, with France a Good Second, and the United States Only a Slow Third.--Some Passenger Statistics.

Speed is the magician that makes the world smaller. Compare the hourly runs of the old stage-coaches with the hourly runs of the modern railroad train, and we can figure without difficulty just how much the world has shrunk in seventy-five years--though, as always happens in magic, the shrinkage is apparent, not real. Motor cars now are made so powerful that the fastest can go more than two miles in a minute--a speed which is not yet considered practicable for ordinary travel. Railroad trains have made phenomenal time over short distances, and there is one train which regularly travels one hundred and eighteen and one-half miles at about sixty miles an hour.

It is something of a surprise to learn that American trains are not the fastest. England is first, with France second. The following article from the New York _Sun_ gives the speed figures of the fastest trains of all countries where good speed is made:

The fastest regular long-distance run without stop in the world is on the Great Western, from London to Bristol, 118½ miles in 120 minutes, or practically sixty miles an hour. In order to leave passengers at Bath a car is dropped from the train without stop, a time-saving device in operation on a number of European roads, though still unknown here.

The longest run without stop made in any country is from London to Liverpool on the London and Northwestern, 201 miles, made at the rate of fifty-four miles an hour. The next longest is on the Midland, from London to Leeds, 196 miles, at the rate of fifty-two miles an hour.

The Empire State Express.

The train in this country coming nearest to these long runs without stop is the Empire State Express on the New York Central, from New York to Albany, 143 miles, at the rate of 53 64-100 miles an hour; and the time of the same train to Buffalo, 440 miles in 500 minutes, is just a trifle faster than that of the Midland express from London to Glasgow, 447 miles in 510 minutes. Each makes four regular stops. The Northwestern runs a train from London to Glasgow, 401½ miles, in eight hours, making two stops.

The Great Northern runs a train from London to Doncaster, 156 miles, without stop, in 169 minutes, at the rate of 55½ miles an hour, and the Great Central train runs over England's new road, from London to Sheffield, 165 miles, in 170 minutes, better than 58 miles an hour, slipping a car at Leicester without stop.

Such runs as that between London and Birmingham on the Great Western, a distance of 129¼ miles, made without stop in 140 minutes, or at the rate of more than 55 miles an hour, are less remarkable; for this seems to be about the regular gait of many trains in England.

These fast and long runs are common to all the trunk lines in England, while in the United States the fast runs are all confined to two roads, the New York Central and the Pennsylvania. Compared with many English fast runs, the time between New York and Washington and Boston is slow. The distance to the two cities from New York is about the same, and in both cases the fastest trains make it in five hours (or a little over, now, to Boston), or at 46 miles an hour.

For runs of nearly 1,000 miles no country can show trains to compare with the New York and Chicago trains on the New York Central, the best trains making the 980 miles in 1,080 minutes, or at 54 miles an hour. While this is not quite so fast as the time made by the fast trains from Paris to Lyons and Marseilles, the distance is twice as great as across France.

Fast Time to Atlantic City.

Coming to short runs and special summer trains, undoubtedly the fastest are from Camden to Atlantic City. Here some very fast time has been made over an ideal country for fast time by both the Reading and the Pennsylvania. The best Reading time is 56½ miles in 50 minutes, or 66 miles an hour, while the best Pennsylvania time is 59 miles at the rate of 64 miles an hour.

These constitute all the very fast regular trains in the United States. The fastest run in New England outside the Boston-New York run is from Boston to Portland at the rate of 44 miles an hour, and the showing is still poorer in the West and South. Chicago, in many respects the greatest railroad center in the world, has no fast trains outside the New York Central and Pennsylvania trains referred to.

Throughout the West, though the best trains are very luxurious, the runs are all short, averaging about 30 miles between stations and the speed nowhere averages 40 miles an hour.

Next to speed may be considered the frequency of trains, their appointments, etc. In this respect a still more pronounced difference appears in different countries with almost equal population.

More trains leave the great South Terminal in Boston in one day than are moved in one direction on all the roads of Spain and Portugal in two weeks. From one terminal in London more trains leave daily than move in ten days to supply the whole population of Russia.

The World's Largest Station.

The South Terminal in Boston not only is the largest station in the world, but sends out daily more than 400 trains, nearly twice the number despatched from the Grand Central Station by the three roads starting from there. The next largest number sent from any station in this country is about 350 from the Boston and Maine terminal in Boston, and the next about 325 from the Broad Street Station, Philadelphia. Then come the Grand Central Station, New York, and the Reading Terminal, Philadelphia.

But these figures do not equal those of the great London terminals. There one station sends out 700 trains daily, the greatest number from any one station in the world, and all of the twelve great terminals send out large numbers of trains.

Including all suburban trains, and figuring on a mean average of winter and summer, the regular scheduled trains leave the four great centers in the following numbers daily, the figures being for all roads and approximately correct: New York city, 1,400; Boston, 1,000; Philadelphia, 850; Chicago, 850. No other American city has 400.

Good Road-Beds Abroad.

The road-bed and the operating equipment are better in England and some parts of France and Germany than in America, and, owing to the ever-prevailing precautions, accidents are only about one-fifth as frequent as in America. All the principal roads in England have two tracks and many main lines have four.

In this respect Americans are making great improvements now, as the Pennsylvania is four-tracked from New York to Pittsburgh, and the New Haven from New York to New Haven, while the New York Central is three-tracked part of the way to Albany, and four-tracked from there to Buffalo.

Turning to continental Europe it is found that France alone indulges in really fast trains, and possibly she is ahead even of England in the number of trains running regularly above fifty miles an hour. The greatest travel route on the Continent is from Paris south to Lyons, Marseilles, and the Mediterranean, and here are found fine and fast trains.