A THOUGHT OF THE RESURRECTION,
! The julbs that were hid Id the darkness
Through the winter time and the soow
Have fel > the thrill of the sunlight.
Their l r>nr to bloom they know.
Purple u d gold and scarlet
And white aa the robes of a king,
To tbaglory of love at Easter
Their beautiful wealth they bring.
' The grass that was brown and withered
And cold on the sodden plain
Baa been kissed by the tender sunshine.
Caressed by the crystal ratn.
And Its bright green lances quiver,
Lol twice ten millions strong.
And the bird, with her nest among them.
Flies up with a sudden song.
And we, who have seen our darlings
Reft from onr side away;
Who have wept in silent anguish
O’er the cold and pulseless clay.
Take heart in the Easter gladness,
A parable all may read.
Foe the Lord who cares for the flowers
Cares well for our greater need.
i He knows of the loss and anguish.
The grope of the stricken soul.
He will bring again our dear ones.
By his touch of life made whole.
i We shall need and know and love them
In the spring beyond the sea.
That; after earth’s dreary winter.
Is coming to you end me.
—hint. M. E. Sangster.
EASTER IN INGIN’S ALLEY.
BY KATE JORDAN.
tOopyricht, jam, by American Press Associa
tion.]
"Is this Mingin’s alley?"
“Yis. that it is."
“Does Mrs. Terry Mason live here?"
"She do. Jest heyant that fus’ dure,
one flight np, back, yell foind her.”
“Thank yon.”
They stood at the entrance to the al
leyway, so chill, so damp this cloudy
day of early spriDg—an old woman in a
shabby quilted bonnet, a market basket
an her arm, her seamed, flabby face fair
ly quivering with curiosity, and a foot
man in dark green livery, as carefully
groomed as the matter who sent him.
He certainly was an unusual sight in
Mingin’s alley—so unusual indeed that
old Mrs. Ryan could scarcely get her
breath back as she looked after him.
"Well, well, well! Upon me wnrd,
bat that’s airs, I must say! Mrs. Terry
Mason’ll bonld her yaller head a little 1
higher than ever now that she has a
laddy buck like that comin with let
ters to see her. Oh, my, but this is a
wicked wnrld! Who is Mrs. Mason
anyway, and whoy does such an airish
young piece live in Mingin’s alley, and
where’s her husband, and whoy do the
loikes o’ that fntman come after her?
Faith, I have me donbts about these |
aisy going, soft voiced, standoffish sort 1
Of people! Divil a dhrop o’ whisky would
■he take wid me avin on the blessed
Christmas day! No nse troyin to be
fri’ndly with the loikes o’ her. She’s got
too many fri’nds among the upper tin I
not fit to look an honest woman in the
face, I’ll' be bound, if the thruth was
told! Well. well, what’ll Mrs. Mnlcahy
aay to this whin I see her at the market?’
It was a choice hit of newB, and Mrs.
Mary'Ann Ryan of Mingin’s alley looked
forward to retailing it over a glass of
whisky, just as Miss Manhattan at 5
o'clock tea rattles the skeletons her ah- 1
aent friends think hidden.
Meanwhile the footman went on, gin
gerly picking his way over the muddy
pavement, until he came to the door in
the small rear house to which he had
been directed.
It was still wintry and cold in the pas
sageway, but when the door was opened
to bis knock there waa something spring
i i
“IS THIS MTOGIN’S ALLEY?”
See •bout the interior of the little room
•srealed and about the girl who stood
•ere pale, wide eyed, silent.
8he was only a girl—Mrs. Terry Ma
son—as far as looks went, for her figure
bras Blender and youthful, and her sweet
Moe was of the ethereal, blond type that
always seems childish. In reality she
Was 28. In suffering she often felt about
JOB.
‘•Mrs. Terry Mason!” and the footman
lfted his hat respectfully.
“Yes,” her dry lips murmured.
“A letter for yon, madam.”
“Come in,” she said, and with the
grace of one gently hied she sank into a
Jrooden chair, the letter fluttering with
a rustle like a dead leaf in her fingers.
The footmen looked around the room.
Me knew be would be asked questions
doncerning it, so he noticed it particu
Wly. It was very clean, the bare floor
•rubbed to an astonishing whiteness, a
Crisp bit of muslin in a bag frill upon
Me shining window, a red geranium
Wedding its bright head against it, and a
■ttle chubby boy, with steady, inquir
Mg bine eyes, sitting in a high wooden
chair, playing with a painted horse.
"Hello,” said the little fellow, nod
ding hie bead. ‘Tm Ted. Who*re yon?
And where did you get all those buttons
Mom? Brass buttons I You ain’t a po
liceman, for you ain’t got a chib.”
The footman sailed, bat a low cry
tens Hit Mason as she bowed her head
dmost to her knees startled him.
It Startled Ted, too, for he scrambled
Mam the chair, his round cheeks fairly
swollen with wrath, and than the foot-1
•an saw tar the first time that be was I
hopelessly lame, hie tiny cratch the very
•oddest thing he had ever seen.
He stood for a moment looking from
the downcast bead of his yoang mother
to the footman’s now impassive face.
“Yon made her cry.” And the flaxen
carls fell in a tossing angry mass over
his accusing eyes. “You’re a bad man.
Yon made her cry—deliberyP’
He hobbled to bis mother’s side, forced
her head ap with his mites of hands and
looked inquiringly at her white face.
“Mammy, tell Ted,” he whispered.
“Oh, my darling,” and she flnng her ,
arms around him, “if we coaid both diet
If you and I, Ted, could just find rest.
It’s a sorry old game, this life, dear. It’s
a cold, horrid, old world, my baby. I
begin to think there isn’t room for us
here.”
She kissed him on the lifted baby
brow, closed her dry lips, and replacing
the letter in its envelope handed it to
the footman.
“Take that back,” she said in an icy,
level tone.
“What answer, madam?”
"No answer. Just take it back.”
“But Mr. Trevelyon”
“Go. Tell my father—tell Mr. Trevel
yon,” she said, hurriedly correcting her
self—“that I cannot anewer it as I would
if he stood here before me.”
“He might come himself, madam.”
“And the way I would answer it is
this: I’d tear it to bits and cast them in
his merciless face?”
Long after the door had closed upon
the footman she sat there, white, silent,
unmindful even of Ted’s furtive caresses
and tender questioning. She seemed to
see the words of that cruel letter still be
fore her—yes, every sentence was burn
ed on her brain:
Your note of appeal reached me when I ar
rived here from San Franciteo on a trip
around the world. You are weak, you say. and
poor. You abk me for help. You say you would
not do this but for your child’s sake—that If
you cannot work he must starve. I have con
sidered the matter, and I have decided to give
yon one more chance. The facts of the case are
these:
You married Terry Mason against my ex
pressed threats. He was the son of the only man
I hated, one who tried to ruin me financially
and socially for reabons I need not state here.
I told you that if you clung to your absurd in
fatuation for Terry Mason you lost your father
forever. Perhaps you thought I did not mean
It. I did.
However, Terry Mason is dead. Come back,
then, tf you will, and I’ll receive you, give you
a borne, but his child I will never permit to
live under my roof. Sehd him to the beggarly
relatives his father has bequeathed to him or
put him in some institution where he can be
paid for. Do as you please about that. He
cannot live with me—and, more than that, you
must drop the “Mason” and be my daughter
again, in name and in spirit. There must be
no reminders of your sorry past. For your im
mediate need I inclose $50.
Junes Trevelyon.
“The money would have scorched my
fingers!” the girl muttered. “And yet,
oh, how I wish I might have kept just a
few dollars to buy something for Ted for
Easter—poor darling!”
What fancies passed before the young
widow’s sad, blue eyes, what pictures of
the past!
She saw herself so happy as a girl at
Trevelyon House, her father’s ancestral
home in England. She saw Terry Ma
son, who had won her heart the very
first time she had met him, during the
London season. She saw herself so hap
py, so happy with him during their short
honeymoon together—happy, despite her
father's estrangement and bitter words.
But the happiness had died so soon.
She thought of one sunshiny April
morning when they were in the Alps, a
few months before Ted was born. Terry
had gone up one of the mountains with a
party of men. His last words still echoed
in her ears:
“Don’t worry, Mildred, dear. Til be
back before you are up in the morning.”
Ah, death had its shadow over hire
oven as he spoke! He never came back.
Into one of the treacherous crevasses
that lurk in the still, white depths of the
eternal snows he had disappeared. TTia
companions, reaching the top, had called
and waited for him in vain. Search par
ties Bent ont had returned without a
hope. The earth had literally swallowed
him and with it all Mildred’s joy in life.
Yet—not all—for when Ted was born
—poor, pretty, crippled Ted, with his
eyes like the sky that arched the peaks of
snow—there was something to live for.
Money went, ill luck came like a shadow
that persistently kept pace with her, but
her love for Ted grew stronger with sick
nees and disappointment.
Like so many other hapless ones, she
had eventually drifted to America, the
land of promise, but it had brought no
fulfillment to her. What weary yean
of struggle had passed, yet she had been
brave, had fought the fight alone, and
no prayer for help had reached the iron
willed master of Trevelvon House.
But just a week before this Eastertide
she bad seen her father step from his
carriage into one of the hotels on Fifth
avenue. This was her first intimation
that he was in New York. An irresisti
ble impulse had led her to appeal to hi™
for Ted’s sake. Despair was the result.
“Oh, is this all of life?” was her dreary
protest on this Easter Thursday as she
listened to the slow, silvery notes of a
church bell drifting over the battered
rooftops that crowded Mingin’s alley.
“Is this all, dear Ted?”
But Ted. leaning his elbow in its frayed
sleeve upon her knee, only shook bis yel
low curls and looked with wondering
eyes into hers.
The next morning, after a breakfast of
dry bread and suspiciously bluish milk,
Ted wa3 left alone. Mildred had gone to
seek a position in one of the big shops, a
quest she had started on daily for al
most a month, while her small horde of
savings was decreasing with terrifying
rapidity.
Ted was nsed to being left alone, but
tins morning he was restless. The mem
ory of his mother’s tears the day before
seemed tj bum hig baby heart. His
wooden horse didn’t amnse him, he
couldn’t find any interest in his tiny
reading book nor prepare his spelling les
son of one syllable words for his mother
by the time she came back. He just sat
with his crutch across his knee, thinking
Suddenly his eye caught sight of a tat
tered newspaper on the table. It had
come around the bread that morning.
Was that a picture he saw upon it—a
pictaraof a big hen harnessed to a nest
of eggs and driven by a little cherub not
unlike himself?
Ted took the paper and spread it out
on his knees. It was, in fact, the chil
dren’s page of a daily , paper. He liked
the hen and the eggs. How he wished
he might have a candy egg for Easter
Sunday, as he had had when times were
better the year before!
But he was a philosopher in his small
way, and he put the tempting thought
aside.
Nevertheless the page interested him,
and he began spelling out this conspicu
^ V
TED?S LETTER.
ously printed notice in a lond, lisping
voice: “Easter gifts for the children.
Send your name and address to The
Trumpet office, — Broadway.”
Ted’s cheeks flushed; his eyes almost
started from his head. He seized the little
crutch and ticktocked over to where he
kept his schoolbooks and a stubby pen
cil. After an hour’s hard work the fol
lowing letter was completed on a page
of his copybook:
Dere trumpet office—i am Ted sevn year old
next joon and i want a gift, my mama cryed
hard yesday she has no muny for gifts a letter
came that was horid, a man with bntonss brot
it, i am lam but i dont min that i was horned
that way, do pies send a gift my papa is ded i
gess that makes mama sad, so pleee send the
gift to Ted in min gins alley yor true frend
Tzd.
Posting the letter was an easy matter,
for when Sophie, the little German girl,
came np stairs he gave her explicit di
rections about sending it at once.
Not a word did Ted say to his mother
about this venture of his, and his cheeks
were very red when he went to sleep that
night, his first secret weighing most im
portantly on his heart.
******
It was Easter eve, and the city editor
of The Trumpet was very busy.
Among his letters was one in a very
cheap and rather soiled envelope, the ad
dress written on it in a hand that was
ludicrously babyish.
“This is from one of the kids about
the Easter gifts,” he said, with a smile.
“How in thunder did it stray among my
papers? Tm afraid it’s too late now
yes, for it’s almost 11, and the children’s
editor is gone.”
But when he had waded through little
Ted's scrawl there was a mist over his
eyes. He thought of his three boys at
home, and he determined that thi. little
chap should have an Easter gift if be had
to fetch it himself.
Folding the letter, he looked hurriedly
around the room.
There was a man busily writing at a
desk near by. He was the assistant ed
itor, a young Englishman but lately en
gaged by the paper.
“See here. King, I’ve got a job for
yon.”
He showed Ted’s letter.
“Sad, isn’t it? It may be a fake, bat I
want yon to go and find out. It’s too
late to touch it tonight, bnt go. like a
good fellow, the first thing in the morn
ing. Here are a few dollars, and you’ll
find some of those painted eggs we sent
out to the children in the desk there.”
“What’s the name?” asked King, his
sad, vacant eyes glancing down the
page. “H*m, the little chap has forgot
ten to put anything bnt ‘Ted.’ How
ever, I dare say ‘Ted of Mingin’s alley1
will find him. Have yon ever noticed
what little royalists children are? Their
signatures are kingly. One name is
quite sufficient, they think, to distin
guish them from all other mortals. He
probably supposes there is only one Ted
in the world.”
“Yon know where Mingin's alley is—
the place where they found Ridel, the
anarchist, hiding—a sad, poverty striek
sn hole.”
"Yes, I remember, m go in the
morning.”
King went back to his desk. The light j
above him shone on his stern young face, !
the hair strangely white around the j
a 1
DTOWS.
When the city editor was gone, and
the place was almost quiet, he threw
down his pen and clasped his hands to
his burning head. How the old pain
racked him tonight—the surging, the
humming, the vertigo that seemed as if
some day it would surely drive him mad
again.
Again 1
He was almost afraid to think the
word, lest in some way it reach the
minds of the men he heard laughing in
the other room.
What would they say if they knew he
had been mad—the inmate of a mad
house for years? Now they spoke of him
as a man who had suffered much—that
was evident from the settled sadness of
his clouded eyes—and who was strangely
reticent about his origin, his past.
What would they say if they knew that
to him there was no past—that beyond
his first conscious hours in the Swiss
madhouse he knew nothing?
Dismal thoughts—terrible, penetrating
loneliness. How his soul was tortured!
But worse even than this poignant pain
was the feeling that often beset him
when he awoke just at the edge of day,
just as the gray light of dawn was steal
ing over the sluggish world, a feeling
that his consciousness was trembling on
the brink of a discovery—that a great
joy or a great sadness would be his in
that flood of light.
Dub it uia not come, ana me ciona aia
not lift from his eyes.
Easter morning dawned fresh, crystal
clear. The sky was a tremulous azure;
the fragrance of trumpet shaped lilies
hung in the velvet air; the church bells
pealed out gladly; the streets were
thronged with people who seemed un
troubled by a care. •
To the city editor’s gift King had add
ed a bunch of white flowers, and feel
ing the happy consciousness that he was
going to make one small boy happy
made his way to the dreariness of Min
gin’s alley.
As fate decreed, he met old Mrs. Ryan
about to sally to church in her Sunday
bonnet.
“Will you tell me, please, if a little
boy lives in this alleyway named Ted?"
King asked.
“Well, upon mewurdl” and Mrs. Ryan
tossed her head. "It’s Ted now, is it?
And yisterday it was a futmau that ud
dazzle the eyes of ye. Oh, yin, ye’ll foind
Ted and his mother, too, ril warrant—an
airish piece—jes’ beyant th;.t fns’ dure,
one flight up, back. Upon me wurd,
wid such callers on Ted and herself
she’ll be havin barooches stoppin here
tiit. ffmP And with these charitable
remarks Mrs. Ryan pursued her self
righteous, self satisfied way to church.
Outside the door to which he was di
rected King paused.
Dare he venture in? There was grief
beyond that door. He beard a woman’s
weeping voioe, a child’s short, heart
broken sobs.
“Oh, Ted, Ted, Ted, what shall we do?
Oh, the crnelty of the world! There,
there, dear. Fm selfish to make you
weep, fm a bad mammy. Still I don’t
1 f W I!
SHE HEARD THE WHOLE STORY,
often break down, Ted, dear, you most
admit, but when it comes to being turned
out—into the streets—O God, have you
forgotten Ted and me!"
A deathly coldness swept over King’s
body. Something seemed to snap in his
brain, and he clung to the casing of the
door to keep himself from falling.
That voice! He had heard it before!
Some one had called him Ted long ago
fe-jost those sweet, velvety tone* ia^gh
ter laden and loving then, instead of
broken by anguish. Oh, wise he going
from joy?
faces and scene* that
Hid the light oome
Madred Trevelyon’s sweet Wond face
! rase as if on tot m mht. He remembered
all—the bright sunny day when in a
holiday mood he had left her; the fall
into the hidden snare in the mountains;
the awful period of hunger passed there
as in a walled in chamber, where he was
imprisoned like a bird in a snare; then
the terrible straggle for freedom, aided
by the sun, whose sudden, unseasonable
heat loosened the drifts about him; bis
crawling from the place and wandering
—he knew not where—a wreck from pri
vation and hunger; his next memory the
madhouse! How it all came back!
Ob, it was a moment that a century of
life, if that were possible, could not blot
out
And yet—and yet—he dare not hope
for too much. How could he expect to
find Mildred, his proud, gentle Mildred,
here in Mingin’s alley?
His faint knock was not heard, so he
gently opened the door, Ted’s letter and
the white flowers in his hand.
Ah, the scene that met his eyes! A
young woman was seated by a table, her
face hidden on her clasped arms, a cherub
faced, yellow haired boy leaning on a
crutch beside her and gently stroking her
shoulder.
“You got Ted to help you when he gets
big,” he wassaying. “Isn’t Ted nothing?”
As King entered the baby face was
turned wrathfully toward him.
“Don’t you touch my mammal Are you
the landlord?"
“No; I’ve come from The Trumpet,
Ted, with some Easter gifts for you,” an
swered King, scarcely able to control his
voice as his eyes fastened on the wom
an's downcast bead instead of Ted’s face,
now wildly jubilant.
Slowly, at sound of that voice, Mil
dred looked up, turned, as if expecting to
see a spirit beside her, rose slowly, all
the while gazing into King’s eyes as if
magnetized.
“Did—you—speakf she gasped.
He caught her in his arms.
“Terry 1" came in a ringing cry of mad
joy from her lips.
Yet still she trembled and gazed, still
unbelieving, still dazed. Could the dead
oome back?
There, while in his arms, she heard the
whole story.
“The people who took me in when
they found me wandering half crazed
never thought, I suppose, that I was tho
chap who disappeared weeks before.
Those graves of snow seldom open, and
one false step usually means oblivion.
They gave me the name of King at the
asylum, and I kept it. I hadn’t an idea
who I was any more than if I had never
heard of myself, but otherwise my mind
was perfectly restored, and I’ve been in
journalism in New York on different par
pers for three years.”
“For three yearsl” And she shivered
as her lips met his.
But, oh, the giory in Mingin’s alley
that dayl Easter in the air, Easter in
the souls of these restored lovers, while
Ted was monarch of all he surveyed, in
cluding his father’s watch, cane and
matchsafe. He marched np and down
the room, a curious little figure, leaning
on his cratch.
“It was my letter done it!” he kept
crying, with a fine disregard for gram
mar. “Hooray! Hooray!”
EASTER EGG FANCIES.
How an Old Time Custom Has Grown Into
an Art.
One of the queer products which an
artist has hatched from Easter eggs is a
tulip. It is very easy to make, and if
touched np with water colors will fill a
useful and artistic office as an ash re
PETULANCE AND PEACE.
ceiver. The little end of the shell must
be broken first and all the contents re
moved. The edge may then he broken
carefully down to about one-quarter of
the length of the shell. A stem may be
made of twisted green paper and pasted
on it at the base. Another device is
made by cutting the small end of a shell
straight across, pasting on a strip of paper
at the side and placing a bit of wood or
cardboard underneath. The little cnp
thus made can be tastefully decorated
with either oils or water colors. This is
as easily constructed as any and is a
rather neat object when carefnlly fin
ished. A basket made from a good sized
eggshell is another novelty. It is not
hard to make, bnt care must be taken in
breaking the shell and in cutting it down
trim and smooth.
One of the new designs is especially
calculated to catch the fancy of mascu
line juvenility. It is made out of an un
broken egg which has been painted to
resemble a swan, and to which a tail of
pasteboard and small feathers has been
appended. The throat and head can be
made either of paper or of a wire around
which paper or cloth has been wrapped.
By carefnlly blowing out the contents
of the shell throngh pinholes and sealing
up the holes before adding the head and
tail the artificial bird may be made to
float on the water like its natural relative
in the parks.
One of the Easter devices is very elab
orate and a rather pretty trifle in its
way. It is simply an egg from which
the little end has been cut neatly away,
and upon which figures, like those seen
in Chinese flowerpots, have been paint
ed. Into the open end small artificial
flowers of wax are placed. The whole is
to be mounted on a little three legged
support of the very light, thin bamboo.
Two other designs are eminently prac
tical ha their uses and are not hard to
make. One is a matohsafe, and theotber,
which is painted to resemble a tub and
fitted with a pasteboard bottom, may be
used to hold matches, pins or other small
articles. In making both of these de
vices considerable caution will have to
be used in cutting the shell. After that,
however, the work is easy. On any or
all of the designs there is great scope for
iageauity, and a cheap box of paints
will enable one to make any number of
decorations that fancy may suggest
SEEN IN DIFFERENT LANDS.!
- i
CURIOUS EASTER CUSTOMS IN VARI
OUS FOREIGN COUNTRIES.
Children Hunting For Eggs on Easter
Morning—The Festival In Russia—De
scription of the Ceremonial In Rome.
The Day la Blberla.
A .
1 ywTS’S'far,1' —
HE Easter season ie fall
of curious customs in va
rious countries. In Ger
many Easter nests are
made to hold the eggs
and many prepared good
I — ies. These nests are made
sometimes of twigs and ivy, or gilt
and silver leaves, or lace and artifi
cial flowers. Sometimes a basket lined1
with silk and trimmed with ribbon or
anything bright and pretty is used for
a nest. Besides the eggs, there are can
dies and cakes made in odd shapes of
people and animals, with marbles, toy*
and even books. But whatever else is
missing, the eggs are always there, and,
strange to say, a rabbit—not a hen—is
set on "top of all. The rabbit is made of
pastry or sugar.
On Easter morning the children hunt
for the nest, and the first one who finds
it cries out, -‘Cater hase, ester base!”
meaning “Easter rabbit.” The finder
then distributes tho gifts, which are
marked with the children’s names.
In Paris thousands of people go in
holy week to visit “the tombs” erected in
the various churches, scenes represent
ing tho birth and death of Christ. The
figures in these scenes are made very
lifelike and are grouped according to the
descriptions of the events in Scripture.
Many candles and beantifnl flowers are
used to decorate them.
Eggs play an important part in the
Easter festival in Russia. It is estimat
ed that 10,000.000 are used in St. Peters
burg alone at that time. It is necessary
for all persons to prepare a good stock of
decorated eggs for every one, and meet
ing and greeting an acquaintance to press
an egg into the hand. All the eggs have
“Christos vosskress,” “Christ is risen,”
on them, and generally are decorated.
Besides the eggs, everybody gives a kisa
to all of his acquaintances he chances to
meet. Not to do so is considered rude.
On Good Friday in each church is
placed a representation of Christ’s body
after death, and as people pass by it they
kiss the wounds. Saturday is very quiet.
There are no services and no ringing of
bells. At midnight the priests appear at
their several churches, theBong, “Christ
is risen from the dead,” is heard, the
churches are suddenly lighted, and peo
ple kneel in groups to receive a blessing.
Then the Easter kissing begins, and ev
erybody kisses all with whom he has the
slightest acquaintance. In St. Peters
burg there is a grand illumination with
fireworks.
In Siberia people shake hands and
present eggs to each other on Easter
morning. These eggs are exchanged for
other eggs, and so on ad infinitnm until
the day is over. Men go to each other’s
houses in the morning and utter the
greeting, “Jesus Christ is risen.” The
reply is, “Yes, he is risen,” after which
the people embrace, exchange eggs and
drink brandy.
In the Greek church in Asia Minor the
Easter ceremony consists of having a
small bier, decked with orange and cit
ron bnda, jasmine flowers and boughs,
placed in the church, with a crucified
Christ rudely painted on a board for the
body. Before daybreak a huge bonfire
is lighted, Binging and shouting indulged
in and every honor paid the effigy, ac
companied by presents of colored cakes
and Easter eggs.
The observances of Easter are especial
ly interesting at Jerusalem, where the
event which they commemorate took
place. A single mass is celebrated on an
altar erected for the occasion ip front
of the sepulcher, which is in the Church
of the Holy Sepulcher. The Patriarch
of the Holy Land celebrates it, and hs
is assisted by members of the Franciscan
order. The friars come in a body, and
many high officials attend with their
retinues. There is always a vast num
ber of pilgrims in Rome during boly
week, and among the worshipers one
may see Persians, Russians, Albanians,
Assyrians, Kurds, Armenians, Egyp
tians, Abssynians, Turks, Arabians and
all sorts of Europeans. On Good Friday
thousands attend a service at Golgotha,
which consists mainly of the nailing of
an image to a cross, a sermon on the
crucifixion, the taking down of the image
and its removal to a tomb after being
laid on a slab of marble supposed to be
the same one on which Christ’s body was
laid.
In Rome Easter day is the grand
est of the year. The Boston Transcript
gives this brief description of the cere
monials: “The pealing of cannon ush
ers in the day, and at an early honr thou
sands of men, women and children hasten
to St. Peter’s. The church is newly dec
orated for the occasion, and around the
tomb of St. Peter is a perfect blaze of
light. The holy father officiates in per
son at the high mass. He is borne from
the hall of the Vatican to the church
seated in his chair of state, carried on
the shoulders of his officers. His robes
are most gorgeous, and upon his head is
the triple crown, which signifies the em
bodiment in bis person of temporal and
> spiritual power and a union of both. On
each side of him and before and behind
march men bearing huge fans of os
j trich feathers, upon which are painted
I eyes to symbolise the eternal vigilance
' of the church. In the church he rests un
i der a rich canopy of silk. After the mass
he is borne back to a balcony over ths
central doorway, where, rising from his
I chair of state, he pronounces a benedic
tion, with indulgences and abeolutic •’
