Litchfield enquirer., 1876-12-28

behold him in white choker, pretending to be verger. Y0n become at last so habituated to seeing persons approach in fo4ala pGuaoefis, that your barber seems to lack originality when he "leayes it to your generosity, :" though he has a regu. lar tariff for his local patrons. He does not dare name price in your case. though the price were four or five times above his usual rate. for he knows that you would accept his terms unhesitatingly and his existence would be forever blight ed by the reflection that he might have charged you more. These things, re. peat, cease to amaze one after a while. though plead guilty to new sensation the day respectable Viennese physician left it to my generosity I attempted to reason with Herr Doctor Scheister, but quite fusilely. No, it was so he treated princes and Americans It vas painful to see member of noble profession, not to say the noblest, placing himself on a footing with grooms and barbers and ven- ders of orange-wood walking sticks. But the intelligent Herr Doctor Scheister was content 10 do that.
 In many cities the street teggar is un- der the strict surveillance of the police; yet there is no spot in Europe but has Its empty palm. It is only in Italy, however, that pauperism is regular branch of in- dustry. There it has been elevated to a fine art. Elsewhere it is a sordid. clumsy make-shift. with no joy in it. It falls short of being gay science in France or Germany, or Austria or Hungary. In Scotland it is depressing. The guide books give disheartening accounts of men, h,,k AI, h0 in the interior. saw nothing of it. along tered only one beggar in Ireland. at Uniformed him iii English that l was a
 "Thrue for ye, he said, ''bad cess to me, what was thinkin ov!'
 On the rising and falling infection of that brogue returned to America quite Independently of Cunard steamer. I had to call the man back and pay my passage.
 In England you are subjected to diff ferent kind of pillage. There are beggars enough and to spare in the larger cities; but that is not the class which preys up- on you in Merrie England. It is the mid dle-aged housekeeper, the smart chamber maid. the elegiac waiter and his assistant. the boy in buttons who opens the hall door, the frowzy subterranean person called Boots, the coachman, the ostler, and one or two other individuals whose precise relevancy to your affairs will al- ways remain 8 pleasing mystery to you, but who nevertheless stand in line with the rest in the hall of the wayside inn, at your departure. and expect a gratuity. They each look for fee ranging from t~ o to ten shillings sterling, though very charge for attendance has al- ready been recorded in your bill, which appears to have been drawn up by an mathematician of somewhat un- certain tonch as yet in the intricate art of addition.
 The English cousin of the American working man, who would feel inclined to knock you down If you offered him money for telling yon the time of day. will very placidly pocket fee for that heavy ser vice. In walking the streets of London you never get over astonishment at the eminently respectable person in black your conjecture makes him a small curate or tutor in some institution of learning who, after answering your trivial ques- tion, takes the breath out of you by sug- gesting his willingness to drink your 'ealth.
 On the whole, am not certain that I do not prefer the graceful, foliage-like, vagabond ways of Pietro and Giuliana to the icy mendiclty of Jeemes.
 They have fashion across the water, on the Continent, of making much of their dead. A fifteenth or SIX teenth century celebrity is revenue to the church or town in which the distin- guished ashes may chance to repose. It would be an interesting operation, if it were practicable, to draw line between tue local reverence for the virtues of the deceased and that strictly mundane spirit which regards him as. assets. The two al e so nicely dovetaiIed that I fancy it would be quite impossible, ill most instan- ces, to say where the one ends and the other begins.
 In the case of the good Cardinal Bor- romeo, for example. The good cardinal died in 1584. He is is one of the loveliest figures in history. Nobly born, rich, and learned, he devoted himself and his rich es to holy deeds. The story of his life is 8 record of beautiful sacrifices and unsel- fish charities. He gave nearly all his pos sessions to the poor. leaving himself at times as destitute as Q Franciscan friar. During the great plague at Milan in l576, he sold what was left of his plate and fur niture to buy bread for the famishing people. When he died, all Italy wept for hlm like one pair of eyes. He lies in the crypt of the cathedral at Milan. It is dark down in the crypt; but above him are carv- ings and gildings and paintings, basking in the mellow light sifted through the ina- mease choir windows
 "Innumerable of stains and splendid dyes
 As aye the tiger moths deep-damasked wiDgs." Above the fretted roof the countless ''statued pinnacles" lift themselves into the blue air. How magical all that del,- cate needle-work of architecture looks by or sunlight
 60 Milan, O the chanting uuires
 The giant windows blazoned fires,
 The height, the space, the gloom. tine glory!
 mount of marble, hundred spires !"
 When they show you the embalmed body of Borro4neo, o,-tor 1t is really the body and not merely the sarcophagus they show you,-the custode, a priest, lights the high candles on either side of the silver-encrusted altar. The cardinals remains are kept in an hermetically-sealed case of rock crystal set within a massive oak coffin. one side of which is. lowered by a windlass There he lies in his jew eled robes, with his gloved hands crossed on his bosom and his costly crosier at his side. just as they laid him away nearly three centuries ago. The features are wonderfully preserved, and have not lost the placid expression they wore when he fell asleep. that look of dreamy serenity peculiar to the faces of dead persons. The head is bald, and as black as ebony. There were services going on the day we visited the cathedral. Above us the crowds came and went on the mosaic pavements, but no sound of the outside world penetrated to the dim. begemmed chapel where Carlo Borromeo, count, car dlnai, and saint, takes what rest he can. We stood silent in the unfaring candle light, gazing on the figure which had been so beloved in Milan in it's time. Present. y the biack-robed custode turned the nolseless crank. and the coffin side slowly ascended to it's place. It was all very solemn and impressiye,-to solemn al- together for so small sum as five francs. am but an intermittent worshiper of