face was aglow, ana her eyes filled .with 
tears. 
“ Do you know that man 7” 1 asked, as soon as 
utter amazement would let me find words. 
“ It Is my schutz (sweetheart)," she replied, 
slroply, struggling to speak wHhoufcagttation. 
" Ho, lio t" I thought. “ The fool seqs raeslt- 
ting here under the trees next Ills lore, and im¬ 
mediately thinks I’m prying attentions to her ! ” 
The idea qutte tickled me. very many years had 
fled since 1 had been considered dangerous. 
“ Tell him when you see hint,” I said, “ that he 
Is wrong in being jealous, as 1 suppose from his 
conduct ho Is. Say au old man offered you a cup 
of coffee. Go and say so, my girl." 
“ ne is doing ills master's work,” Bho answered; 
41 1 may not go to him now. Besides, Herr, he 
has hardly spoken a kind word to me for tho last 
week, and just now ne glared at me so fiercely." 
At these words she fairly broke down, and burst 
Into tears. 1 tried to console her, but an old fel¬ 
low like me Is not clever lu love affairs. Present¬ 
ly she grew calmer; aud. wiping her eyes with 
her apron, she once more curtseyed, and bade me 
“Good morning, and good thanks, Herr." To 
turn the current of my thoughts, which at that 
time were not of tho pleasantest description, I 
determined fo ascend tho Bargberg, the moun¬ 
tain nearest the village, the view from which 
well repays the slightly fatiguing ascent. 
When l had soon ray All of the view, I rose and 
surveyed t he remains of the castle that stood here 
formerly, and the alto of which la now occupied 
by an elegant hotel; and then, recollecting that 
I had ordered ray aupper early, determined to re¬ 
trace my way. 
I had gone but a few steps downward, when I 
came to cross roads, and saw a signpost whereon 
was Inscribed the direction to the various points 
accessible thence. On the board to the left was 
written, “ Zur Kattenaese." 
Kattenaese t” I repeated to myself, reading 
the words; was not that the name mentioned by 
that man this afternoon 7 I had forgotten all 
about him till then. 1 wonder what the Katte¬ 
naese Is, I thought. It bad n ver cor a moment 
occurred to me to go and meet the girl’s lover ; 
I hoped the matter was long since cleared up be¬ 
tween them. Bui, now that I saw the name, it 
tempted me to go. It was not far. I wanted a 
walk. Perhaps the man might be there, and 1 
ceuld clear up his mistake, 
Then, loo, l remembered to have seen some 
large weird rocks jutting out at the top of a 
mountain within view of my sitting-room win¬ 
dow ; and when I asked my landlady about 
them, she said they were the Kattenaese. I 
was halt-way already and could not know when 
my olcfand lazy bones would carry me up here 
again, so 1 turned In the direction indicated. 
The walk led between tall pines along a moss- 
grown path, and I exulted and delighted In Its 
beauty and In the fragrant odor emttted by the 
trees. Tho silence was Intense, and grew op¬ 
pressive at last; the heat, too, was great. Pres¬ 
ently! felt some drops of rain; It must be a very 
heavy shower, I knew, that could penetrate these 
clustering trees; but seeing from another sign¬ 
post that I was not far from my destination, 1 de¬ 
termined to proceed. 
At last I emerged from out the sheltering trees, 
came on to a large open space, and saw two large 
rocks about a hundred yards ahead of me. These 
then, were my destination, but although so near 
It seemed very doubtiul whether I should get to 
them, for It was raining heavily. 
Unwillingly, and with a kind of relief, I turned 
to leave the spot and regain the valley, by de¬ 
scending the mountain's shapely sloping side. 
Hardly had I commenced my descent when I 
fancied I heard sobs. At lirsi,. on standing still 
to listen, I held It to be the wind’s soughing ; but, 
ou listening more attentively, I distinguished a 
human voice. To leave some poor fellow creature 
— perhaps suffering pain—alone here In the 
storm was beyond me; sol began to search for 
the spot whence the sounds proceeded, and, fol¬ 
lowing their direction, came after a lew seconds 
upon a little knoll of pines, where a man In work¬ 
ing clothes was seated, ills face was burled in 
bis hands, his powerful frame shaken by sobs. He 
did not notice my approach, and I hesitated 
whether I ought to break la upon his grief, lie 
was praying—praying aloud, and his words were 
full of agony. 
"Oh, great Heaven," he said, “take her not 
from mo—mine own, my only treasure 1 Let not 
a David rob me of my sweet ewe lamb. Pour bet¬ 
ter feelings Into my heart. O, Lord, let ma not 
bear him malice; but oh, let him not do me 
wrong! Preserve her to me—to me, kind Heaven 
—to me!" nere sobs and tears choked further 
utterance. 
The rain continued to pelt clown; the water 
was pouring In small streamlets down the moun¬ 
tain side; I wished to continue my way, and yet 
could not leave this man la the midst of his 
misery. He might, do himself an Injury. From 
the wording of Ills prayer, too, It might be the 
man who had proposed to meet me here. I 
approached gently, and touched him on the 
shoulder. 
“My good fellow,” I said, “you are getting 
wet. Come down into the valley with me; we are 
having a frightful storm, and this soaking Is 
enough to make one III.” 
“None would care If I were,” he replied, with¬ 
out raising his head. Then after a few moments, 
during which 1 stood immovable, be said, “ Why 
don’t you go ? I never asked you to wait lor me, 
I don’t know who you are. If I die that wilt be 
the best thing for rne, and one may perhaps bo 
glad.” His head, which he had lifted wearily, 
and with a half-vacant expression as he 6poke 
the last words, fell again into his hands. 
“ Who will be glad lfyoudle?” I asked. “None, 
I feel sure." 
“ Who are you that you can be sure 7" be said, 
fiercely. Then, suddenly starting to bis feet, be 
cried, “ Perhaps you are the man I came to meet: 
If so. It is well. Ha, ha I Heaven favors quarrels 
to-day. Tell me, how have yon dared for some 
time past to pay such marked attention to my 
glrl7 Nay, do not. try to deny,” he said, as I was 
about to speak. “ 1 know It all, though l did not 
see you myself. Ilans Herden told me of your 
conduct; and though I never used to love or even 
trust Hans, I now thank him greatly for this 
warning. You shall pay with life for your 
daring 1 “ 1 will-" and he raised his arm to 
strike. 
“ Stop I” I satd, as gently and softly as I could, 
laying my hand on bis. “You are mistaken, my 
friend—you are Indeed." 
"MistakenI how7” be cried,shaking free his 
arm—an easy task, for he was a far stronger man 
than I. 
“I am the man you came to meet,” 1 began. 
“Did I not say?" he shrieked, his wrath rising 
threefold. 
“ But,” 1 added, once more detaining his 
uplifted arm, “not he who paid your girl atten¬ 
tions.” 
At that moment a fierce, dazzling flash of 
lightning shot across the gloomy heavens, and a 
long, loud crash or thunder followed. The man 
trembled. 
“ Let us go down,” I said, again placing my 
liaud on his trembling one, and he yielded. “ I 
never saw the girl till this afternoon,” I explained, 
as we descended; “I then offered her a cup of 
coffee, for she was warm and tired. Look at mo. 
Sae, 1 am an old man—old enough to be her 
father. Acknowledge your mistake.” 
“ Hans Ilerden said if, was a gentleman that 
courted her,” was the answer given while eyeing 
me incredulously. 
" 11 1 give you my word of honor as a gentleman 
that It was not I, will you then believe?” I asked. 
“ 1 could not misdoubt mat," he replied. 
“ More still,” I said; " If I promise to aid you In 
your search for the real culprit?” 
“ Sir," said the man, turning an astonished, 
grateful glance upon mo, “you are good. luo 
not deserve such goodaess: I was a bruie to you. 
But oh, Herr, 1 love Margarets so dearly, and al¬ 
though all pro.spect ot our marriage seems yet far 
off, the thought that I was losing her was more 
than I could bear. 7 ’ 
“ Why can you not marry 7” I asked. “ But 
come, walk faster while you talk; this rain is 
fearful, and the storm increases in violence." 
“Ah, Ilorr, It is money 1 need," ho replied; 
“thatold and constant complaint. If I had a 
few hundred thalers, ah then- But till I have 
saved so much years must pass.” 
“What Is your work 7” I asked. 
“lama waggoner,” he replied. “ When I have 
a waggon, homes, and bouse of my own, then I 
can marry." 
I pilled the poor man from my hoars. All the 
way down tho mountain he poured out his griefs 
to me, and as Ue did so his wrath cooled. I forgot 
even the Inclement weather in my interest for 
Johann (that he told me was his name), nis 
deep love to his betrothed was touching ; and It 
seemed to me, from Lis narrative, that he had 
been perfectly goaded into jealousy, as until 
lately he had the llrmost trust In her faith. 
“You shall hear from me again,” I said as we 
parted; “ that Is to say, It I survive this rain.” 
After exchanging my wet garments for dry and 
warm ones, and pertaking of my retarded sup¬ 
per, I caused my landlady to come to rno, aud 
questioned her as to the man and woman I had 
met that day. Sue could not speak in terms 
laudatory enough of their faith, honesty and 
worth. 
u And who Is Hank Herden ?” I asked. 
“ A driver at Uerr A-she replied; “and 
between ourselves, Uerr, 1 tbluk a bit of a scarnp. 
He's been far too polite to Margarets lately, but 
she’s the right one; she'll soon teach him his 
place.” 
I made a mental vow here, dismissed ana 
thanked my hostess, and retired to rest. 
Next morning, while sitting In the pretty gar¬ 
den before the house I lodged In, taking my 
breakfast In the true Continental style, al jYesco, 
Margareto passed and I beckoned to her. 
“Is It all right between you and your Intend¬ 
ed 7” I asked. 
She hung her head and replied—“Ho says, 
since It Is not ytu, It must be some one else—that 
Hans Harden told him so, and mat he will find It 
out. Ue hardly gives me a kind word. But I 
must go tOjWork,” she said suddenly, after a mo¬ 
ment’s pause. 
1 readily forgive her the little falsehood. I 
a iw mat she could not control her tears, and for 
that reasau wished to escape. 
Alter she left i went to Herr A-’s, and, 
through his kind Intervention, obtaLned a private 
talk wah Hans Herden. The man was dogged at 
first—I could get nothing from him; and he con¬ 
stantly questioned my right af interference—In 
which respect I felt bo was not quite in the 
wrong. I was an old busy-body, after all, though 
a well meaning one. Threats availed little—a 
senso of sharno seemed unknown to the man; 
only a bi Ibe of money was at last successful In 
drawing a confession from him. 
It was as I had thought/—the man admired the 
girl himself, and hoped, by stirring up his com¬ 
rade against her, to break off tbe match then he 
would endoavor to win her for himself. His only 
chance lay In such means, as he well knew her 
faith and Integrity. He was a horrid man—the 
most obnoxious I had come across for many a 
long day. But I did not rest satisfied with the 
confession given to me—I forced him to go to his 
fellow-worker, and In my presence repeat It. At. 
first he appeared disinclined to do tills, but the 
sight of some bright thalers in my hand decided 
him. 
The lovers must soon have become reconciled, 
for that evening 1 saw them walking together 
arm-in-arm unter den efofren In the moonlight. 
They were far too absorbed lu each other to see 
me; and I, who had been dms ex machina In re¬ 
uniting taem, was alone—u i noticed—forgotten. 
Uelgho! 
Next, day I went to Brunswick, where I em¬ 
ployed my time lu making purchases, and re¬ 
turned a few days afterwards, when I heard that, 
both Johann and Margarete had several times 
been to call upon me, to thank me as they said. 
I told my landlady to say, should they call again, 
that there was no cause for thanks; but, before 
they could do so, I visited them at a time when I 
thought It. likely that Johann would he at the 
house of IWargarete's mother. I drove up to the 
cottage door In a strong-built blue cart with 
bright red wheels, drawn by two stout bays. 
Inside the cart I had caused household furniture, 
The fruit of my late purchases, to bo packed. 
They both exclaimed with Joy when they saw 
me a.lght, and the old woman press:d me to take 
some supper with them. I accepted their offer, 
ordering the cart to wait. 
We had a cosy little meat of simple, frugal 
fare. Before parting-1 lifted my well-filled beer 
glass to my hand, aud satd, rising, “This to your 
happiness, Johann and Margarete! Think or me 
someUmes—a lone old bachelor, who knows no 
joy liko yours." Then, emptying the glass, I 
bade them follow me, and once outside the door, 
I snowed them the cart and Its contents. I ex¬ 
plained to them that it was all for their future 
household, and, turning to Margarete, and press¬ 
ing a thousand-thaler check in her hand, 1 said, 
“ This Is lor your dowry.” 
Before they could recover from their mute as¬ 
tonishment I was gone. Vainly they called after 
me—1 would not hear. I rushed l* the railway 
station, and departed by the next train. The 
sight of their happiness had overpowered me, and 
I did not wish lo receive thanks, which I knew 
were inevitable should I stay longer in the place. 
I wrote to my landlady to forward my luggage, 
which she did, sending at the same time a letter 
from the happy lovers, full of the deepest grati¬ 
tude, In which they called me their benelactor, 
and prayed me to come back once more. But I 
had not strength enough for this: I could not. It 
is a great happiness to help others on the road to 
Joy, but, If one can never learn that joy oneseir, 
it Is better not to witness It, for it only makes the 
pang keener and sharper. 
-- 
ANCIENT MODES OF EMBALMING THE 
DEAD. 
Herodotus and Diodorus tell of three modes 
of embalment prevalent In Egypt. The first was 
very costly, answering lo about$2,ooo, exclusive 
of such gems, Jewels, and gold, as love or prodi¬ 
gality might lavish upon the dead; the second, 
$300; the third, within the reach of all. As to the 
extent to which gems and Jewels wero wound up 
lu the cerecloth to deck the dead, there Is the In¬ 
stance of the queen lately found at Thebes, whose 
ornaments were Bhown in an exhibition of isoo. 
They are now lu the Pasha’s Museum. Their In¬ 
trinsic value alone—that, is, to break up and 
melt down—Is about * 10 , 000 . 
It Is curious, In reading the two historians’ ac¬ 
counts or the Egyptian embalmer, to observe In 
divers matters the foreshadowings of the modern 
undertaker In his ways. The different degrees 
of woe were then, as now, sounded according to 
the depth of the purse. Just as It Is now, when 
the furnisher will undertake for you any grada¬ 
tion of sorrow from the simple elm coffin andpau- 
per funeral up to the flourish and parade of plum¬ 
ed hoarse, weeping mutes, and prancing steeds, 
so with tbe Egyptians, Only tho manner was 
different. 
When a bereaved mourner, they tell us, went 
Into one of these Egyptian shops, the function¬ 
aries would show him different models In wood 
highly and artistically finished or otherwise, to 
represent the mummy aud coffin. There were 
painted patterns of mummies In their multicol¬ 
ored cases to choose from. The various costs, 
according to pattern, were then stated. The cus¬ 
tomer chose bis model, and the bargain was 
struck. He then went home aud sent back the 
dead body, and the body remained with the em¬ 
balmer until the whole process was completed. 
The number of days requisite for embalming was, 
as we gather from both historians, seventy or 
seventy-two, and this tallies with the Scripture 
account—Gen. 1-3; for doubtless the Immediate 
process only occupied part of the time, the rest 
being gtven to tbe ritual ot mourning. 
The processes for embalment are j elated very 
categorically. In some things they hardly com¬ 
mend themselves to our present sentiment of 
what Is respectful to the dead. The chief secret 
seemed to consist in certain chemicals Injected 
Into the veins and body; In certain washings and 
Btceplngsln natron, and In the filling up of the 
cavity of the body with my rrh and other balsamic 
substances and spices. The brains were drawn 
out through the nostrils, sometimes the face and 
hands were gilt. Certain Jewels were laid on the 
breast under Innumerable swath lugs of linen. 
And then a kind of pictured shell received the 
body—a sort, ot close-fitting case made to open 
and shut lengthwise after the fashion of a vlolin- 
case. 
But when the mummy was sent home, what 
then? The family did not Immediately part with it. 
On the contrary, they often kept their dead rela¬ 
tive for a long while, a guest In his own house. A 
mam was set apart. The mummy, standing up¬ 
right as lu lire, was enshrined In a kind of painted 
cabinet, a tabernacle starred over with Innumer¬ 
able hieroglyphics, and protected with great 
painted scarabs I and multicolored cherubim, with 
their overshadowing wings spread athwart the 
chest. Hither, then, at Intervals, the family would 
come to hold communion with the dead. They 
would bring fresh lotus flowers to enwreath their 
silent relative, or strew about, the ground blos¬ 
soms of asphodel and papyrus. 
Numberless paintings In the tombs of Egypt 
picture this affocting scone—a mother and her 
children kneeling In circle with the dead In their 
midst, or a wife with plaintive face and dishevel¬ 
ed hair embracing the placid-look lug mummy ot 
her husband. Listen to what Diodorus says: 
"A clever embalmer,” ho writes, " would send 
back the body perfectly preserved, even the hair 
of tho eyelids and eyebrows remaining undisturb¬ 
ed; tho whole appearance so unaltered, that 
every feature mlghtbe recognized. The Egyptians 
therefore, who sometimes keep their ancestors In 
magnificent apartments set apart, have an op¬ 
portunity of contemplating the faces of thosuwho 
died long betore them, and the bight and figure 
of their bodies being distinguishable, as well as 
the character of the countenance, they may enjoy 
a wonderful gratification, as If they lived in the 
society of those they see before them.” 
-- 
RESPECT FOR THE AGED. 
NELSON KirrER. 
Some one has truly said, that “To ridicule old 
age, Is like throwing cold water In the morning 
Into the bed In which we must sleep at night.” 
Old people have a right to demand that they be 
treated with respect; but are they not under 
great obligations to be pleasant., agreeable, and 
—its far as possible—cheerful 7 Falling in this, Is 
It any wonder that neglect, and disrespect some¬ 
times follow 7 old people should be held in rev¬ 
erence by the young, especially if there Is any¬ 
thing wort hy of reverence about them ; hut each 
man and woman should see to It, that, as they 
grow old In years they (lo not grow out of all sym¬ 
pathy for their children and grandchildren. No 
person, because he is old, has a right to be sel¬ 
fish, 6Ullen, and morose. 
Said a little boy, "Ma, will grandpa go to 
heaven?”. 
“Yes, my son, I hope 69fbut why do you ask 
that quest ion ?’’ 
"Because, ma, If grandpa goes to heaven, I 
don't want to go there. He would say, 1 Whew! 
whew! what Is this boy bothering around here 
for?” 
A short time since I rehd a long article, written 
to show t hat. It was our duty to love old people. 
The writer described her great love for an aged 
grandfather, and proceeded to give a minute de¬ 
scription ot him, Investing him with so many vir¬ 
tues that not to love in n—or any other person 
such as described—would ho an Impossibility. I 
thought that to love such a person would bo more 
of a pleasure than a duty. Every neighborhood 
has Us old person who, although bowed down 
with weight of years, still has a warm heart for 
the young and a kind word for the children. 
No need for the word “ duty,” to cause Buch 
people to be sincerely loved and respected. Again, 
every neighborhood has its representative, from 
whom the children Instinctively spring away, as 
from a plague. Persons that little girls are afraid 
u> meet, whom the boys give a wide berth to, and 
whom no person desires to encounter. Even a long 
newspaper article, In which all the changers are 
ruDg upon the word “duty," wlU f ill to cause 
such unsympathetic people to be respected, much 
less loved. 
Let us all, therefore, resolve that whatever be 
the number of our years, we will Le true to the 
rlgnt, kind and sympathetic to all, especially to¬ 
wards the weak ones of earth, whether they be 
In their first or second childhood. Doing this 
faithfully, we shall bo loved and respected all 
along the pathway of life. And when the end 
comes, may It be said of us, as says Sir Walter 
Scott In his vivid description of “ King Rene 
“ A mirthful mau he \vbb ; the snows of age 
Fell, but they did not chill him. Gaiety, 
Even iu lips climiuv, touched hie teeming brain 
With Buoh wild visions aa tho setting aun 
Raises in front of some hoar glacier, 
Painting tho bleak ice with a thousand hues.” 
Syracuse, N. Y., Jan. 4,1878. 
- ♦■■»♦- — - 
PROSPERITY AND ADVERSITY. 
Years of each have been tho lot of many, and 
It would be hard to say which, in soras cases, Is 
the most dangerous to a man’s welfare, even in 
this world. 
The first mentioned often causes a man to hurt 
another’s feelings. As he prospers lie begins to 
study bis own Interests, ignoring the comfort ot 
every one whom circumstances have placed un¬ 
der hIS control. lie begins to order about like a 
great commander, and thinks It very smart, to 
ahitt his employes from Job to Job, and giving 
them no reason for doing so. He will be tyranlo 
al wnerever he can, and he Is otien even so in his 
own family, ne thlnkshe Isa superior kind ot a 
being, and many crafty, cunning, but dishonest- 
hearted men, will humor this assumption, and 
pander to his conceited notions for the purpose of 
cheating him, which they will easily do, until 
they become too venturesome and too covetous; 
or one to the ring or confederates proves treach¬ 
erous and shows up the other to get first chance 
himself. 
These prosperous men then begin to distrust 
