Part 16

Walking three miles a day he will go around the world once and have a neat margin besides. The five-miles-a-day man will walk around twice and have a few thousand-odd miles to his credit.

At forty this man will have made three trips, and at sixty his pedometer will indicate one hundred and nine thousand five hundred miles, which means that he will have walked around the earth four times and he will still have about two thousand miles to the good on the fifth trip.

MISNOMERS WHICH ARE COMMONLY USED.

WRONG IDEAS CONVEYED IN NAMES.

Some Are Unblushing Contradictions, While Others Might be Classed With the Milder White Lie.

Custom and usage have made the misapplication of some words so familiar that they have lost their original meaning and now signify quite the opposite. The word “slave,” for instance, is a striking example of this fact. The Slavi were a tribe which once dwelt on the banks of the Dneiper and derived their name from “slav,” which means noble or illustrious. In the later days of the Roman Empire vast numbers of them spread over Europe in the condition of captive servants, and the name of the tribe came to mean the lowest state of servitude—the very antithesis of its original sense.

Some of our commonest expressions are misnomers which seem to be absolutely unaccountable, yet we shall probably go on using them to the end of time.

Irish stew is a dish unknown in Ireland.

Kid gloves are not made of kid, but of lambskin or sheepskin.

German silver is not silver at all, nor of German origin, but has been used in China for centuries.

Dutch clocks are of German manufacture.

Baffin’s Bay is not a bay.

Turkish baths are unknown to the Turks.

There are no leaves in Vallombrosa, Milton to the contrary notwithstanding.

Turkey rhubarb should be called Russian rhubarb, as it is a Russian monopoly.

Why are turkeys so called? They do not come from Turkey.

Titmouse is a bird.

Sealing-wax contains no wax.

Shrew-mouse is no mouse.

Rice-paper is not made of rice or the rice plant.

Catgut should be sheepgut.

Blind worms have eyes and can see.

Cleopatra’s needles should be named after Thothmes III.

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And so, I say it most confidently, the first intellectual task of our age is rightly to order and make serviceable the vast realm of printed material which four centuries have swept across our path. To organize our knowledge, to systematize our reading, to save, out of the relentless cataract of ink, the immortal thoughts of the greatest—this is a necessity unless the productive ingenuity of man is to lead us at last to a measureless and pathless chaos. To know anything that turns up is in the infinity of knowledge to know nothing. To read the first book we come across in the wilderness of books is to learn nothing. To turn over the pages of ten thousand volumes is to be practically indifferent to all that is good.—=Frederic Harrison.= (1831– .) Essay on the “Choice of Books.” 1886.

Cooks’ Caps and Coronets.

True Stories of Members of the European Nobility Who Were Domestic Servants Before or After Fortune Smiled Upon Them—Several Society Leaders Came from the Kitchen.

Extremes often meet, and probably nothing better illustrates this than the many instances that exist of the elevation of persons of lowly birth to positions of great dignity and importance, while many others who have been delicately nurtured and enjoyed the highest culture have been forced to resort to the humblest forms of hard labor in order to earn the bread which they would eat.

Wicked little Cupid is responsible for many of the former cases, for he dearly loves a joke, and frequently has it at the expense of the rank and traditional glory of some ancient house and name. The world has always been rather democratic when love has stepped in, and some of the great personages of history have contracted alliances which might have been expected to turn things topsy-turvy, yet nothing has been seriously ruffled.

In Paris one of the most influential and popular leaders of society is the Baroness de Waru, the wife of the only son and heir of the multimillionaire president of the Orleans Railroad Company. Her blonde beauty is of the most ethereal kind, and her dainty person is distinguished by so much aristocratic elegance that no one to look at her would ever dream that her father had begun his career as a mere stable-boy, who, in the service of the last reigning Duke of Parma, was promoted from one post to another until he blossomed forth as a general, a baron, and as Prime Minister of the Duchy of Parma, besides being decorated with the grand crosses of most of the orders of chivalry of Europe.

Chambermaid Became Lady Mayoress.

Lady Evans, who, several years ago, as Lady Mayoress of London, was dispensing magnificent hospitality at the Mansion House to crowned heads and royal personages, foreign as well as English, was a chambermaid at the Oak Hotel, at Sevenoaks, in Kent, when her husband first met and married her. Her father was a village plumber, and her mother, until the date of her own marriage, was a cook and general servant.

On the Continent there is no more ancient or illustrious family than that of Kinsky, the chief of which bears the title of Prince of the Holy Roman Empire. Two of its most distinguished members—the Counts Eugene and Octavius, both of them Privy Councilors of the Emperor and Knights of the Golden Fleece—married domestic servants, Eugene taking his wife from the laundry, while the Countess Octavius Kinsky was formerly the chambermaid at a small inn.

The Countess Octavius has rendered herself very obnoxious to her husband’s family by her grasping propensities. But the late Countess Eugene, the ex-washerwoman of Ischal, was a singularly charming woman, universally beloved at Vienna, and, although she never asked for a presentation at court, the names of quite a number of members of the imperial family figured on her visiting list.

Lady Hawkins Was a Cook.

The widowed Princess Alexander of Battenberg, whose husband at one time ruled over Bulgaria, may likewise be said to have sprung from the kitchen, her father having been the valet and her mother the cook of the old Austrian General de Martini. Yet in spite of this parentage, Princess Alexander is treated as a sister-in-law by the similarly widowed Princess Henry of Battenberg, who is a daughter of Queen Victoria. The late queen showed great kindness and consideration toward Princess Alexander of Battenberg, acknowledging her as a kinswoman.

The second wife of the late Lord Bramwell had originally been his cook, while Lady Hawkins, who is the better half of the eminent English judge of that name, and the aunt by marriage of “Anthony Hope,” the novelist, was originally a housemaid, as was also the widow of the “Grand Old Man” of Australia, Sir Henry Parkes.

King Joachim of Naples, from whom the entire princely house of Murat is descended, began life at the close of the last century as a mere stable-boy, while the first Prince Kutusoff, founder of the grand Russian family of that name, achieved his greatness a hundred years ago by the skill which he displayed as the valet and barber to Czar Paul, a monarch whose own great-grandmother, Empress Catherine, was the chambermaid of a village inn, where she first attracted the attention of Peter the Great, who ultimately married her.

Earl Served as Porter.

That the prejudice which formerly existed in exalted circles against menial occupation is rapidly disappearing is abundantly proved by the number of titled personages who are content to take at meal-time their place, not at the table of the master of the house, but at that of the domestics in the servants’ hall.

Thus in the course of a civil suit against Sir Charles Nugent it came out that he was earning his livelihood as a groom, while Lady Nugent was taking in washing. Yet the Nugents are among the most ancient and illustrious of all the grand houses of the nobility of Europe, some of their members being princes of the Austrian Empire, while the head of the family is the Earl of Westmeath.

Here in this country Lord Drummond, the grandson and heir of the British Earl of Perth and the French Duke of Melfort, died several years ago while occupying a menial position—that of door-porter in the establishment of one of the proprietors of the great New York daily newspapers; and the writer can remember having found, a few years ago, Prince Benjamin Rohan, who by virtue of his birth is the titular cousin of every crowned head in Europe, and is descended in a direct line from Godfrey, Duke of Bouillon, leader of the First Crusade, and the first Crusader King of Jerusalem, serving as a waiter in one of the smaller restaurants in Second Avenue, New York City.

Sir Thomas Echlin, head of the ancient house of Echlins, which has been settled in Ireland since the reign of King James I, and whose baronetcy is nearly three hundred years old, recently was employed on the Dublin police force in the humble capacity of an ordinary “bobby” at six dollars a week, and was formerly footman in a London family.

One of the last things that Lord Beaconsfield did before his death was to obtain from the queen a pension of five hundred dollars a year for the widow of the late Lord Kingsland, whom, in spite of her rank as a peeress of the realm, he had discovered earning a bare living as a washerwoman in a large family at Kensington.

Lord Kingsland, prior to his accession to this ancient peerage, had been a waiter in a Dublin hotel, but on becoming a lord, through the death of his uncle, abandoned this calling and preferred to rely upon his wife’s earnings at the washtub.

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[Sidenote: Happiness.]

Happiness in this world, when it comes, comes incidentally. Make it the object of pursuit, and it leads us a wild goose chase, and is never attained. Follow some other object, and very possibly we may find that we have caught happiness without dreaming of it, but likely enough it is gone the moment we say to ourselves, “Here it is!” like the chest of gold that treasure-seekers find.... There is something more awful in happiness than in sorrow,—the latter being earthly and finite, the former composed of the substance and texture of eternity, so that spirits still embodied may well tremble at it.—Nathaniel Hawthorne.

IN STREET AND GRAND-STAND.

Familiar Sounds That Enter the Windows of City Flats and Put Sleep to Flight, or, on Baseball Fields, Cause the Voice of the Umpire to Seem Like a Penny Whistle in a Company of Fog-horns.

THE OLD HAND-ORGAN.

By W. D. Nesbit.

The old hand-organ in the street Has not the gaudy gold and gilt The new ones have—but, oh, the sweet Old tunes it plays with limping lilt! “The Harp That Once Through Tara’s Halls,” “Jim Crow,” and “Annie Laurie,” too— And, answering its bugle-calls, The old times rise for me and you.

“Then You’ll Remember Me,” it plays— And straight our memories go back Through all the dead years’ mellow haze, With frequent pause along the track. And then we see the grass-grown streets, The orchards gleaming in the sun, Where crooning bees seek out the sweets And shadows o’er the grasses run.

We see the flash of merry eyes; We see the gleam of old-time smiles; And, ere the old-time music dies. We live again the old-time whiles. We walk the pathway in the lane. And day-dream as we used to then, For on the rippling old refrain The old times come to life again.

Play, old hand-organ, in the street! Play every song we used to sing, And let our hearts in cadence beat With each glad memory they bring. Play, in your halting, careless way, The fine old tunes that softly tell Of every God-made happy day In those old times we love so well. _Baltimore American._

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THE STREET MINSTREL.

By S. E. Kiser.

His hands are soiled, his throat is bare, His face is streaked with dirt and thin, And many a slip is in the air He plays upon his violin; A sadness dwells within his eyes, The shoes are ragged on his feet, And scoffers stop to criticise The little minstrel in the street.

Thereby the curb he plays away, Where flakes float past and winds blow chill, And maybe, as the critics say, He lacks the tutored artist’s skill; But now and then a little strain, Played faultlessly and soft and sweet, Floats up from where he stands out there— The little minstrel in the street.

Say, ragged little minstrel, why Must people listen but to hear The false note, ever passing by The strain that rises soft and clear? Oh, it were well with us if we Might in our own ways sound the sweet And faultless notes as oft as he— The little minstrel in the street. _Chicago Record-Herald._

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A CONFESSION.

I’ve been down to the city, an’ I’ve seen the ‘lectrlc lights, The twenty-story bulldin’s an’ the other stunnin’ sights; I’ve seen th’ trolley-cars a-rushin’ madly down the street, An’ all the place a-lookin’ like a fairyland complete. But I’d rather see the big trees that’s a-growin’ up to home, An’ watch the stars a-twinklin’ in the blue an’ lofty dome; An’ I’d rather hear the wind that goes a-singin’ past the door Than the traffic of the city, with its bustle an’ its roar.

I reckon I’m peculiar, an’ my tastes is kind o’ low; But what’s the use denyin’ things that certainly is so? I went up to a concert, an’ I heard the music there; It sounded like angelic harps a-floatin’ through the air. Yet spite of all its glory an’ the gladness an’ acclaim, If I stopped to think a minute, I was home-sick jes’ the same; An’ I couldn’t help confessing though it seems a curious thing, That I’d rather hear a robin sweetly pinin’ in the spring. _Washington Star._

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THE ORGAN-GRINDER.

Beside the curb, out in the street, The organ-grinder stands, With stubbles on his swarthy face, And very dirty hands, And, while you curse him, plays away Like twenty German bands.

The ragtime airs you gaily hummed A year or two ago Forth from the box he wheels around In jangling torrents flow— The waltzes always hard and fast, The marches mild and slow.

I often think Pandora must Have chanced along one day, And opened up the box the first Poor dago had to play, And thus ungraciously let all But discord get away. _Chicago Times._

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PICKLES.

The rain and snow were falling fast, As through a down-east village passed A youth who chalked with great display, Upon a barrel in his sleigh, “Pickles to sell.”

His cheeks were blue, and red his nose, His ears and feet were nearly froze, And tears of cold bedimmed his sight. But still he yelled with all his might, “Pickles to sell.”

As on he went, a maiden bold Came out and asked him what he sold; The youth looked up with winning smile, And said with voice as soft as ILE, “Pickles.”

“Oh, tell me!” cried the maid divine; “Say, tell me are they in the brine?” “Nay,” said the youth, “that sort don’t pay,” Quite vexed, he heard the maiden say, “Such Pickles!”

That one so sweet should speak so tart (The word went deep into his heart); That she should crush his hopes so flat, And scorn his smiles, or worse than that, “His Pickles.”

Away he drove, through wind and rain; They tried to stop his course in vain. By asking what he had to sell; He wouldn’t stop but only yelled, “Pickles.”

“Don’t drive so fast,” an old man said; “That worn-out nag is nearly dead.” “His shoes are off,” another cried; With shout of scorn the youth replied, “Oh, Pickles!”

“For mercy’s sake don’t cross the creek! That wooden bridge is awful weak!” The youth dashed on his headlong way. And only turned his head to say, “Oh, Pickles!”

The night was dark, the wind was cold, The pickle boy was brave and bold; He never stopped or checked his flight, And soon the sleigh was lost to sight, Pickles and all.

Next morn, two little wandering Jews Came into town and brought the news; Down in the drift a corpse they found, While far and near were scattered round, The Pickles. _Old scrap book._

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“FR-R-RAISH PEANUTS.”

Who is this man of mighty voice Who bids all human kind rejoice— Who visits bleacher and grand-stand With roasted rapture in his hand? “Peanuts! Fr-r-raish peanuts!”

Who, when the umpire shouts: “Play ball!” Hears with disdain the feeble call. And whose own stentor-modeled lungs Drown out the noise of many tongues? “Peanuts! Fr-r-raish peanuts!”

Who stirs the circumambient air And moves his optics here and there To find the man who cries: “Here, boy. Give me one sack of roasted joy”? “Peanuts! Fr-r-raish peanuts!”

Who hastens onward with his wares While every individual glares Who lacks the necessary price; Who cuts a mighty slab of ice? “Peanuts! Fr-r-raish peanuts!”

And when we seek our restless beds With goober goblins in our heads, What is the awful cry that seems To be the burden of our dreams? “Peanuts! Fr-r-raish peanuts!” _Baltimore News._

Relative Power of the World’s Navies.

In the Matter of Tonnage the United States Occupies Fourth Place on the List, Being More Than a Million and a Quarter Tons Behind Great Britain—Ships Now Building Will Give Us Third Place.

The navies of the world represent a tremendous amount of money as well as power. It now seems to be generally admitted that being prepared for war is the best way of insuring peace. If this is true, there would seem to be very little likelihood of war among any of the great nations of the world. They are all pretty well prepared to back up any arguments which they may find themselves forced into by a display of force.

Our own latest appropriation includes thirteen and a quarter millions of dollars for a battle-ship and three torpedo-boat-destroyers, with a million’s worth of “subsurface, submersible or submarine boats.” The battle-ship is to be of the British Dreadnaught class—a monster of nineteen thousand tons displacement.

Japan is building one of thirteen thousand one hundred and fifty tons, and Germany has increased the tonnage of some of her ships heretofore authorized to eighteen thousand each.

Commenting upon this the New York _Sun_ says:

The Russian-Japanese War convinced the naval experts of the world that the big battle-ship must be the principal weapon of marine combatants, and the effects of the lesson may be seen wherever national ships are building.

Leaving out of consideration all vessels more than twenty years old, except such as have been rebuilt or rearmed, all vessels authorized but not begun, all transports, colliers, repair ships, torpedo depot ships, converted merchant vessels, yachts, vessels of less than one thousand tons, except torpedo-boats, and all torpedo-boats of less than fifty tons, the tables prepared at the office of naval intelligence show the strength of the eight greatest marine powers last fall:

GREAT BRITAIN. Tons. Tons. Built 1,673,338 Building 234,660 FRANCE. Built 619,675 Building 181,283 GERMANY. Built 466,084 Building 121,978 UNITED STATES. Built 388,519 Building 313,278 JAPAN. Built 321,131 Building 106,740 ITALY. Built 266,728 Building 73,700 RUSSIA. Built 244,601 Building 131,094 AUSTRIA. Built 122,756 Building 21,200

Were the vessels now in course of construction all completed, the order in which the powers stand in this table would be changed by the transposition of the positions of Germany and the United States and of those occupied by Russia and Italy.

Comparing the personnel of these navies, it is shown that the United States, with one thousand three hundred and seventy commissioned officers of all ranks in the sea-going corps, has actually fewer than any power except Austria, which has eight hundred and fifty-one, and in proportion to tonnage stands at the bottom of the list, having only 1.95 commissioned officers to each one thousand tons of her war-ship tonnage built and building.

Great Britain has 2.52 officers to every one thousand tons, France 3.58, Germany 3.48, Italy 4.60, and Austria 5.91. It is not practicable to give the proportions for Russia and Japan, owing to the conditions created by their recent struggle.

In midshipmen and cadets the United States leads all the nations save Great Britain, both absolutely and relatively, with one thousand and fifty-four in the service, or 1.49 to each one thousand tons.

In nothing is the tremendous size of the British navy shown more impressively than the figures of her enlisted men. Of these, exclusive of marines, she has ninety-five thousand two hundred and sixty-three, but there are only 49.93 men to each one thousand tons, while the United States with thirty-seven thousand men has 52.70, Germany with thirty-five thousand one hundred and thirteen has 59.71, and France with fifty-two thousand one hundred and fifty-three has 65.10.