Dewar td
Bellefonte, Pa., March 3, 1893.
LITTLE MOTHER OF POVERTY ROW
Dear little mother of Poverty Row, !
Rocking your baby mid sorrow and toil,
Whence is the light that transfigures you so?
Whence is the beauty no sin can assoil ?
Now I must look at you there by the door,
I who am fortunate, buoyant and strong ;
You who are hunted and wretchedly poor,
Lulling your babe with a lullaby song!
Dear little mother of Poverty Lane,
Where are the roses that bloomed in your
cheek ?
Blighted I fear by deception and pain,
Men are so cruel and women so weak.
Ragged and torn ie the dress that you wear,
aking you squalid from head unto feet,
Still I must own you are womanly fair,
Still I must paint you as tenderly sweet.
Brave little mother of Poverty Place,
Mother-love healeth the stripes of the rod,
Hence is the beauty that lighteth your face,
Loving your baby and trusting in God.
Hear now my Laver for your beggar-born boy;
Great in all honor and good may he grow,
Bring you solace and glory and joy,
Dear little mother of Poverty Row.
—George Horton,
————
A KISS.
BY MRE&. DENISON.
Some say that kissing’s asin,
But I think it's nane, ava,
For kisssng has wonn’d in this world
Since ever there was twa.
Oh, if it wasna lawfu’,
Lawyers wadna allow it;
If it wasna holy,
Ministers wadna do it.
If it wasna modest,
Maidens wadna tak’ it;
If it wasna plenty,
Puir folk wadna get it.—Anonymous.
Miss Myrtoun had not gone to the
review that afternoon, because of a cold
she had caught at Mrs. Lewthwaites
garden party, sianding on a damp path
while Lord John Ainslie proposed to
her. She had a mind to be vexed
about it.
“Indeed, Jack, you must not be so
careless another time,” she said to him
when he came to ask after her. “Do
you know you've never yet chosen a
really comfortable and wholesome spot?
That evening in the Coliseum was
nearly the death of me, and you gave
me malaria down in Surrey. Don’t do
it again, please, until I say ‘Ready.’ ’
Lord John looked at ber, burst out
laughing, and fell more in love with
her than ever.
“I'm afraid I am always too far gone
for deliberation, Mary,” he answered
sweetly, ‘but I'll try to lay it out more
hygienically next time. It's a great
shame you have to give up the review.
I wanted you to see Henry.”
Lord ‘John was the only person in
the world who called her Mary, besides
her grandmother, and she rather liked
him for it. To all the rest she was
Hyacinth.
How quiet the equare was! Of
course all London had gone to the pa-
rade, and at the first roll of the drums
she began to wish that she had bun-
dled her throat up and gone herself, at-
ter all, and she dropped her book and
ran to the window, craning her neck to
look down to the park. Yes, she conld
see them very well—the red coats, the
white helmets, the arms flashing in the
sun, and the arching heads of the hor
ses a8 the Guards paced by. She threw
open the window and stepped out upon
the balcony. The square was quite de-
serted, but the crowd stood black along
the street where the troops were pass-
ing, every man and woman cheering,
the handkerchiefs and hats fluttering
and waving, and, oh, the swell of the
mueic as it reached Hyacinth’s ears !
“Good-by, good-by,”” she whispered,
with an exultant sob. And still the
solid ranks marched on, huzza upon
huzza greeting them all; and now a
regiment of blue-coated cavalry wheelea
into sight, and Miss Myrtoun nar-
rowed her eyes to see more clearly. “I
am sure those are Harry Ainslie’s
men.” But the faces were only a blur
in the distance, and one officer just like
another as they sat erect in their sad-
dles. And thiswas the end. The last
dram and fife, the last flag, had gone
by, the crowd began to dissolve, and
with a final lingering glance she came
back into the room.
“That horrible, horrible Soudan!”
she murmured, closing the window.
She was trembling a little with ex-
citement and the fatigue of standing,
and threw herself down among the
cushions of a lounge for a rest, and a
doze if might be. She picked up her
book again, and almost forgetting her-
gelf in the ever-enjoyable trials of Bur-
go and Lady Glencora, was idling and
quieting deliciously, when the rich, per-
vasive strain of a band was borne on
the air once more, and this time it was
playing “The Girl T lett behiod Me.”
The dear, dear old tune! She could
not read for quickening her ears to it.
It came nearer and louder; gay and
brave it sounded, yet with a heart
breaking note it. It was passing the
very square now, and she sat up to lis.
ten. And at this moment, through all
the jubilant trumpeting, she caught an-
other sound, the ring of horses feet com-
ing down the street and stopping at
her door: She sprang to look out, but
could not eee for the balcony, and
paused startled. “Who can it be? I
know no one who would come now.”
The butler bowed at the threshold.
“What is it, Maxwell 7"
“Captain Aivslie aks if you can see
him for a moment, miss.”
_ “Captain Ainslie? Oh yes; show
him up at once, Maxwell.” And she
stood waiting and wondering while the
jangling spurs came up the stairs and
Captain Ainslie entered.
He was splendid with gold lace and
plumes, glittering epaulets and orders,
and bore himself superbly ; but his face
was lividly pale, and his fingers trem-
bled where they gripped the sword hilt.
Hyacinth took in the gallant show of
his appearance, and would have wel-
comed him with some laughing flattery
if his pallor and strange intentness of
manner had not struck ber dumb, He
closed the door and came straight to- |
Standing very close, he seized her
was sharp and strained with emotion,
and yet piteously entreating,
“l am going away,” he said, in a
harsh, hurried voice. “Won’t you
give me a kiss, Hyacinth, before I go?”
Give hima kiss! Miss Myrtoun was
a young woman of the world—of a
very gay world indeed—and some of
her friends had said of her that she
would stop at nothing ; but the truth
was that never in her life since she
could remember had she kissed any
man but her grandfather and her uncle
James. There had been no brothers
nor cousins to claim her caresses as a
familiar right, and to lovers who im-
plored for them she had been as cold
as a stone.
bold young officer who dared beseech
for such a favor? He was Jack Ains-
lie’s brother. She had vague remem-
berances of play with him in old ehild:
ish days; she had seen him of late here
and there at reviews, in ball-rooms, a
tall, silent fellow, and never spoken a
hundred words to him in her life.
A kiss! She wondered that she did
not break from him ina rage. But
she did not ; she left her hands in his,
and made no movement of reproach.
It was because she was in a gentle
mood that day, because he was going
away, and because he loved her—his
eyes were telling her that, and the touch
of his hands. Ainslie drew his breath
hard while the girl gazed at him, hesi-
tating. She saw the anguish in his
drawn face; a sudden memory of the
boy’s lonely motherless life came to
her, and the tender cadence of the mel-
ody enwrapped her very soul; she
raised herself a little on her tiptoes,
and held up her beautiful mouth frank-
ly and freely to him. With a broken,
passionate exclamation, the man
clasped her in both his arms, and set
his lips to hersin a kiss so prolonged
and so imperative that Hyacinth
swayed under it. Then he whispered,
hoarsely, “God bless you tor this! and
loosening his hold of her as if it werea
renunciation he must force his every
nerve and fibre to, he turned and left
her. But Hyacinth did not see him
80, and ooly heard confusedly the
stamping of the horses as he mounted
and rode away with his orderly, for she
was standing in a daze, her eyes brim-
ming with tears, and the room was
dim to her. She put up her fingers
goftly to her lips, a burning tide of col-
or flooded her cheeks and forehead, and
che buried her face in the cushions.
Fainter and fainter the music was
dying in the distance.
“You're not looking well; you're fe-
verish,” her grandmother said when
she came 10, “It isn’t good for you to
be moping here all by yourself.
And was a kiss such an uncanny
thing that it should have the power to
haunt one likea ghost? Hyacinth did
her best to exercise it with scorn and
indifference, but it was no use; the
ghost would not be laid, and came
creeping back just as she thought she
bad rolled a sione upon it heavy
enough and commonplace enough to
keep it down. And the stone would
be something like this:
“It was a perfectly natural thing to
do. Grandmother knows him very
well, and he was lonely at going away,
and he recollected me when I was a lit-
tle girl, and it was very sisterly and
kind of me to kiss him good-by.
Then the ghost would steal a little
nearer, the girl's drooping eyes grow
luminous, and through closed lids she
could see him enter, aud would hear
the deep vibrating voice again, and
then—oh, then came the heaven and
the shame of it, for she would feel his
lips and his enfolding arms, a slow lit-
tle smile would tingle at her mouth,
and a glow suffuse her very being. In:
stantly she curled her lip at herself in
the glass :
“So you were only waiting for a
somebody with epaulets and spurs to
ask you for a kiss, you common little
thing! You've got the soul of a nurs
ery-maid. Um sorry I can’t cut your
acquaintance,” But the scorn in turn
would merge into a companionable
thought of him. Was he, perhaps, in
the same straits? Did the thought of
that kiss haunt him as it did her?
Then a venomous imp of the brain
would prick her with the thought,
“Perhaps he thinks slightingly of you;
the kiss was lightly asked. and lightly
valued ; he may be laughing in his
sleeve at you now.” But this was the
last resource ot the tormenting imp,
and caused only a moment's cringe, for
the very light of truth had been in
those clear eyes, the very stamp of a
chivalrous and loyal personality upon
Ainslie’s every word and look and
movement, and in her heart of hearts
she knew that she trusted him abso-
lutely.
Lord John had come in the very day
of the sailing of the troops, and talked
most affectionately about his brother.
“I'm awfully cut up about his going,”
he’s off there in the country with Un.
cle Spencer, and we've been almost like
strangers until just lately, when he’s
been stopping with me, and I’ve grown
immensely fond of him. He isa re
served sort of chap, but he’s got un-
common force of character. Uncle
Spencer adores him, you know. He is
such a shy fellow that I suppose he
baen’t spoken half a dozen words to
you this spring, Mary 2’
“I've geen very little of him,” Miss
Myrtoun answered, calmly. Then the
next moment she asked, apropos of an
azalea show Lord John was talking
about: “Of course it is very hard for
you to have him go. Is there any
chance of your hearing from him for a
long time 9”
“Oh yes,” suid Lord John: ‘the will
send a word or two from Gibraltar, I
fancy, or Alexandria, and perhaps
again later on if there comes a chance;
but we've never been much at writing
to each other,”
That was enough. So the ship
would stop at Gibraltar, and that was
a wa ter of six days, and a letter: pos-
ted at once might be back in England
within another three days. But would
wards her, while she watched him with. he write? The ninth day answered du-
round questioning eyes, like a child's.
ly, for when Hyacinth came in from a
hands, and bent a look upon her which |
And now who was this |
late drive there was a little pile of let-
ters lying upon her desk, and the one
on top bore a clear postmark of Gib-
raltar. She snatched it up, and her
fingers hurried as if to tear it open; but
all at once she stopped and laid it down
very evenly, and turned to her dressing
table, and began taking out her bou-
net-pins, and unfastening her veil with
the nicest deliberation. She dusted
her bonnet tidily, and put it in its box,
and ruffied and tousled her bang about
into a charming state of disorder, and
next she took off her gown and put
herself into an old and sympathetic
wrapper, rolled a chair and footstool
up to the fire, pulled the logs into place
with painstaking jndgment, and at last
sat herself down and lazily gathered
her letters together. The foreign one
fell into the middle of the heap now,
and had to take its turn and wait until
the others had been attended to. Then
it was cleanly cut apart with a nice lit-
tle paper-knife, and devoured in a doz
en glances of those lovely eager eyes :
“My DEAREST LOVE.—Do you forgive
me? The gentle pity in your face as
you looked upon me the other day
comes back tocomfort and reassure me,
but again I have a wretched thought
that I may have vexed you, and this
overwhelms me. Let me tell you now.
I have loved you with every pulse of
my heart and every aspiration of my
soul since those days you were at Dun-
ham a year ago. Have you forgotten ?
The first evening I saw you you were
in the drawing-room with all the oth.
ers, and you spoke to me of the old
friendly tie between our people, and
wondered if I remembered how we used
to fight the stone lions at Shepley, and
at the first note of your voice and lift-
ing of your eyes I loved you. You
were gone in a day or two, but you
staid with me. Then I was living for
for the spring, that I might be with
you again; but seeing you in the con-
fusion of your London world, it has
seemed to me as if you werein the
midst of a dazzling fog that obscured
all the realities of life, and that I could
not penetrate it, though it veiled you
from me. And so perhaps fate did me
a kind turn, after all, when she sent
me off so suddenly, for now if I die it
will be with a memory in my heart
and on my lips that makes both life
and death a mystery of joy.
“You know we oaly got our sailing
orders the day before our leaving, and
I was counting upon seeing you at
Jack's little farewell gathering after
the review. But when you were not
there the world seemed to come to a
halt, and then every impulse within
me impelled me to you. I was beside
myselt with longing and loneliness,
and the boon which your compassion
prompted you to grant me I shall bless
you for to the end of my days. There
was never a devotee more filled with
reverence, with lowly abasement be-
fore some undeserved mercy from
Heaven.
“In writing to you now with the
spell of your presence upon me, and
with the thought of what may happen
that would make these my last words
to you, I cannot name you otherwise
than what you are to me—my Love,
my Light.
“May God bless you, my beautiful
and beloved lady, and pour upon you
the pure peace and happiness whicn
belong to your sweet life.
“Faithfully and always yours,
“HENRY SPENCER AINSLIE,”
If grudging old Mother Nature had
bestowed the gift of second sight upon
lovers divided by distance, the balance
of delight and disappointment in the
world would undoubtedly remain the
same; but in Ainslie’s case, could he
have had a vision of Hyacinth that
May afternoon as she read his letter,
the proportion of his content would
have been almost too great for any
load of after-sorrow to outweigh it. He
was riding with the army across the
miserable desert of the Soudan, mono!-
onous, baking, searing to the eye and
brain; aimless scrappy fighting bad
been going on all day, and it was neith-
er a glorious nor an inspiring business,
Nor was he serene in his own right,
He saw no reason to hope of gaining
the girl he loved, and doubted lest he
had made too rash a move and lost his
chances for good. Now if only a mir-
age had danced before his sight in the
shimmering air, and showed him the
girl he loved as she sat with her arms
lifted drowsily above her head and
such a winning coquetry alight in all
her face !
“How tall he was! How strong he
was! What steady eyes! Why did I
never know him before? How is it
that I know him so well now 2’ The
fire-light flickered, the twilight gathered
the girl dreamed on, and when she rose
she was humming a snatch from Mar-
guerite’s song—
“Sein, hoher Gang,
Sein’ edle Gestalt,
Seines Mundes Lachein,
Sein’ Augen Gewalt,
“Und seiner Rede
Zauberfluss,
Sein Handedruck"—
and then the refrain sang 6ut, and her
voice was low, but clear and thrilling
sweet—
“Und, ach, sein Kuss?"
But poor Ainslie was plodding on,
worn, hot, and racked with the bitter.
ness of impotent suspense,
Miss Myrtoun and her gandmother
had never gone through a gayer Lon
don season, and Hyacinth had never
been a more brilliant figure of beauty
and triumph. At balls, at dinners, at
fetes of all kinds, her fair face showed
up, with its radiant smile and quick
glances. Even her grandmother took
to flattering her upon her appearance.
The interest she showed in Egyptian
affairs delighted the old lady too, for
she herself came of a military family,
and her granddaughter’s lack of en-
thusiam about such matters had al
ways been a disappointment to her.
But now Hyacinth read the Times to
her by the hour—how the troops were
ordered here and massing there, Gen.
eral Lord Wolseley sent out in cow.
mand, and the Mahdi gathering hosts
of followers, and so on, and so on.
“I wonder why Jack Ainslie didn’t
go into the army, grandmamma ?” she |
asked.
“Ob, my dear! Of course not,” |
answered the old lady. “You know |
as well as I do that oldest sons never
do. It was proper for Henry to go.
And John Ainslie couldn’t possibly
fight, either.”
You've known them both since they
were boys, granny 2°
“Since they were little chaps in
sashes and shoulder knots. Their
father was one of my oldest friends.
Nice little chaps they were, too. Hen:
ry was such a dear boy. I’ve seen a
great deal of him every year down at
Stepley, when you were with your Un-
cle James. He has always been so
good about coming to see me, and dear
old General Spencer never tires of teil-
ing me about him, and of his pride in
him, and plans for him. I meant to
have him a great deal at the house
this spring, but it hasn’t seemed to
come to pass, and you never seemed to
take to him particularly.”
Hyacinth wondered afterwards that
among all the fancies of those fleet
days she had had no moment of con-
cern for Ainslie’s safety. She thought.
of him always as mastertu!, resolute,
successful, The domination of his in-
dividuality so impressed itself upon ber
that to picture its force as arrested or
struck down never occurred to her.
Thus it wae a blinding blow when one
morning early in August a servant of
Lord John’s came, with a troubied let-
ter from his master, to say that he had
just received a cable from Alexandria.
Henry was badly wounded in the shoul-
der, and had been sent home immedi-
ately on a ship just then returning.
The ship was due that very day—his
friend bad delayed cabling on purpose
—and be was starting at once for Porls-
mouth to bring him up to London.
“Henry led the charge,” said the last
line, “which won the day.” Poor Hy-
acinth! She had lived through such
a tumult of emotion during the next
four-and-twenty hours that her pulses
were like a throbbing eugine within
her, beating her to exhaustion with its
throes. What should she do? What
did she want to do? She had not
thought that the decisive time would
come 80 800m ; but now she knew, with
an undoubting premonition, that Ains-
lie would come to her at once, and her
brain was ina whirl. Finally, from
sheer weariness of thinking and feeling,
she deliberately let go the helm, and
tried to gain time and rest by letting
herself float listlessly upon the waves
of excitement and doubt that seemed
surging about her. She was numb,
and tired, and incapable of judgment,
and to be purposeless as a fatalist for a
little while would be a blessed ease.
On the following day a note was
brought her. It only said :
“Hyacinta,—I am ia London, My
wound is recovered sufficiently for me
to be about. Have you anything to
say to me ? Yours always,
H. S. AiNsLig.”
To Hyacinth it was as if an aching
strain were suddenly eased when she
read the littlenote. The turmoil with-
in her quieted, and the storm rolled
away. She held the slip tight in her
hand. A party of people were lunch-
ing with her, and she was pledged to
some engagement with them afterwards.
“Pardon me a moment while I an.
swer this,” she said, and sat down with-
out any assurance of what she was go-
ing to say, but at once the words
seemed to flow of themselves,
“Dear CAPTAIN AINSLIE” (she wrote)
—“We are so glad that you are at
home again, and well. My egrand-
mother is away for the day, and I have
an engagement for the next three hours
but I shall be at howe at five o'clock.
“Very sincerely yours,
“Mary Hyacinta Myrroun."”
She glanced it over while the talk-
ing and laughing went on about her,
laughing herself and joining in some
joking fun, and then just
before she folded it, she took up
the pen again, and added a few scrawl-
ing words :
“Why should I not tell you now? 1
am yours utterly—with all the love of
my heart. HyaciNtn.”
Never did she forget the blissful
waiting of that afternoon ; the way the
sunshine engoldened the air, the
smooth freshness of the breeze, the per-
fame of the shrubs in the park, the
bright looks of the people, as she drove
home alone through a beautiful, happy
world of her own, She would not have
had the moments hurried for a gift of
treasure. To her enchanted senses
they seemed to pass with as tender
a grace as the petals of a
flower fall. Still as one walking in a
strange but dreamed of place, with
suave yet hesitating movement, and
smiling half-shut eyes, she went into
the drawing-room to await her lover.
There was a window, the balcony,
the lounge where she had rested and
heard the band, thedoor through which
he had come to her. And then Hya.
cinth remembered, and was glad that
she wore the very dress. Would he
votice it? Would those gray eyes gaze
down upon her with the same yearn-
ing, absorbing gaze as on that day?
Oh, she would be true to him! She
would grant him every gracious gift a
woman holds in her keeping for the
man she loves, and he should see that
though she bad given her faith im pul-
sively, it would not lack in every stead-
fast quality he might hope for. She
knew this stranger as she had never
known any one before, and she could
not be shy, for love had cast out every
other thought but love, and would
prompt the words and iooks that
would please him best, and best con-
vince him of the enduring truth of the
miracle it had worked for him in her
heart. Ah, surely he would not be
late ?
At twenty minutes before five Cap-
tain Ainslie was announced.— Harper's
Weekly.
—Clergyman (examining a Sunday
school class)—¢ ‘Now, can any of you
tell me what are sins of omission 2”
| ated.
Small Scholar—¢Please, sir, they’re sins
you ought to have committed and
haven’t.”
The Great Commoner.
Henry Clay's Failure in Securing the Presidency
Did Not Break His Heart.
mat
Kansas City Times.
“It is not true that Mr. Clay's defeat
broke his heart,” says Mr. Stewart, an
old Virginian, who was familiar with
the great statesman of the country in
his early days. “I drove down with
Mr. Filmore to see Mr. Clay a few
days before he died. He was pertectly
cheerful and {ree from biiterness, al-
though he still took a keen interest in
politics, He expressed a keen regret
tuat Mr. Filmore had not been renomin-
In some respects John Quincy
Adams was one of the most rewarkable
men of the day. When he was chair-
man of ‘the committee of ways and
means I was a member of that commit-
tee. We two used to be in the commit-
tee room long before the other members,
and no matter how busy the old wan
was he was always willing to put down
his work and talk. Such an encyclo-
paedia of information I have never
seen. But my memory links me with a
still older time. When I was a boy I
often dined with my father at Monticel-
lo. Jefferson was a lonely man, the
beauty and purity of whose family rela-
tions have recently been made known by
his niece. Yes. he was peculiarly a
modern man. It was he who gave
shape to the French revolution, though
deploring its excesses.
“I succeeded to his trusteeship in the
University of Virginia, and a few years
ago in looking for some old papers of
the university, I found a paper by him
on education, which appeared to me so
valuable that I embodied it in my re-
port. I afterwards sent a copy to a dis-
tinguished educutor, who also said that
nothing wider, more comprehensive,
more in accordance with modern views
of education had ever been written.
“No, I did not like John Randolph.
If he was witty, his wit always left a
sting. But he did not always have the
best of it. Daniel Sheffey was a Jittle
Dutch shoemaker from one of the west-
ern counties, whom some one had taught
to read. He afterward studied law and
became one of the most prominent men
in the state. He and Randolph were in
congress together. Randolph was in-
tensely aristocratic and felt no small
contempt for the Dutch shoemaker. One
day Sheffey made a fine speech, in which
he showed no small degree of humor.
This was more than Randolph could
bear. He got up in the most elaborate
mapner and began to compliment Shef-
fey on his convincing logic, his weight
of argument, but added. ‘But let my
honorable friend keep out of the field of
bumor, in which he is not fitted to
shine.” Quick as a flash Sheffey was on
his feet. ‘The honorable member is
right,’ he said, ‘and as he never trenches
on my province I will never intrude on
his’ ”
The Atlantic Sea Bed.
Proceeding westward from the Irish
coast the ocean bed deepens very gradu-
ally ;in fact for the first 530 miles the
gradient is but 6 feet to the mile. In
the next 20 miles, however, the fall is
over 9,000 feet, and so precipitous is the
sudden descent that in many places
depths ot 1,200 to 1,600 fathoms are en-
countered in very close proximity to the
100 fathom line. With tke depth of
1,800 to 2,000 fathoms the sea bed in this
part of the Atlantic becomes a slightly
undulating plain, whose gradients are
so light that they show but little altera-
tion of depth for 1,200 miles.
traordinary flatness of these submarine
prairies renders the familiar simile of
the basin rather inappropriate. The
hollow of the Atlantic is not strictly a
basin, whose depth increases regularly
toward the center. it is rather a saucer
or dish-like one, so even isthe contour
of its bed.
The greatest depth in the Atlantic
bas been found some 100 miles to the
northward of the island of St. Thomas,
where soundings of 3,875 fathoms were
obtained. The seas round Great Britain
can hardly be regarded as forming part
of the Atlantic hollow. They are rath-
er a part of the platform banks of the
European continent which the ocean has
overflowed. Anelevatin of the sea bed
100 fathoms would suffice to lay bare
the greatest part of the North Sea and
join England to Denmark, Holland,
Belgium and France. A deep channel
of water would run down the west coast
of Norway, and with this the majority
of the fiords would be connected. A
great part of the Bay of Biscay would
disappear ; but Spuin and Portugal are
but little removed from the Atlantic de-
pression. The 100 fathom line ap-
proaches very near the west coast, and
soundings of 1,000 fathoms can be made
within 20 miles of Cape St Vincent,
and much greater depths have been
sounded at distances but little greater
than this from the western shores of the
Iberian Peninsula.— National Maga-
zine.
General Eckert, Who Will Become
President of the Western Union.
There is little doubt that General T.
T. Eckert is to succeed the late Dr. Nor-
vin Green as president of the Western
Union Telegraph Company. General
Hckert has been vice president since 1881
and has been virtually president for the
last five years. He was born at St.
Clairsville, Ohio, in 1825. He learned
telegraphy in 1849, beginning at the
bottom of the ladder, and made such a
reputation for ability in that field that
at the breaking out of the war he was
summoned to Washington and placed in
charge of the military telegraph of the
Department of the Potomac, with the
rank of captain. In 1862 he was pro-
moted to the rank of major and given
charge of the military telegraph at
Washington. In 1864 he was chosen
Assistant Secretary of War and after-
ward made brigadier general. He re-
signed his Secretaryship to accept the
position of Eastern superintendent of the
Western Union. In 1875 he was presi-
dent of the Atlantic and Pacific Tele-
graph Company. He organiz d the
American Union Telegraph Compan
with Jay Gould in 1879. In 1881 Mr.
Gould became the' largest owner in both
companies and consolidation followed,
which made General Eckert general
manager ‘of the Western Union Com-
pany. He is regarded as the mest vig-
orous. straightforward and able practi.
cal telegraph man of the day.
The ex- |
Ee ———————————— ee)
The World of Women.
What Makes a Woman ?
Not costly dress nor queenly air ;
Not jeweled hand, complexion fair;
Not graceful form nor lofty tread;
Not paint, nor curls, nor 8 lendid head :
Not pearly teeth, nor sparkling eyes ;
Not voi e'that nightingale ontvies;
No breath as «we tas eglantine ;
Nut put y vem, nor fabries fine ;
Not ali th stories of fashions mart;
Nr yetive blandishments of art 3
Not one, or all of these combined,
(an make one woman true, refined.
Tix not the casket that we prize.
But that which in the casket lies !
These outward charms that please the sight
Are naught unless the heart be right.
Long gold chains, with pearl work,
suitable for lorgnettes or watches, are
being adopted.
Mrs. Blaine will spend the summer
in Europe and will be accompanied by
her youngest daughter, Hattie.
Miss Marguerite Merington, who wrote
Mr. Sothern’s play of “Letter-blair,”
formerly taught in the Normal College,
New York city.
Corselet belts of ribbon, ornamented
with small cabbage bows, are to be had
in all colors. They are especially nice
for young girls.
Sleaves are growing shorter. The el-
bow sleeve is the prescribed length for
advanced designs from which some of
the first spring importations are to be
made.
Shoes grow more and more pointed
and foot doctors rejoice. Figures would
fail to compute the misery and suffering
and bad temper that are caused by nar-
row-toed shoes.
The narrow black velvet ribbon with
colored edges has come back looking
just as it did in the early sixties. Even
the baby rlbbon has colored edges.
Thescarlet-edged black is pretty on
children’s hats,
The very wide revers, known as the
“Empire,” are most effective on house
dresses of scarlet, pink or blue crepon,
and, though made of blazk satin, no
other portion of the gown needs to be of
the sombre shade.
White petticoats of very thin, fine
lawn are quite the rage. Some of the
newest are several inches shorter than
the black silk petticoat. They are elab-
orately ruffled and puffed, and trimmed
with lace and embroidery.
Mrs. Robert Louis Stevenson is a
portly, gray-haired woman, who was a
grand-motber when she became Mr.
Stevenson’s wife. She is a remarkably
clever woman, a talented writer and
a chatty and cheery conversationalist.
Many of the dresses now being made
are adorned on the skirt with three frills
--a style of trimming which will com-
mend itself to very tall women. Violet
and purple are both fashionable colors,
und the combination of purple and
brown is quite new.
Whenever a velvet belt or girdle can
be worn it is as:umed, and if a velvet
rosette does not finish it, then a quaint
dull gold or silver buckle is worn.” The
velvet used for these belts 1s not the rib-
bon, but the velvet sold by the yard,
and which should be bought cut on the
bias.
The handsomest cloak for an elderly
lady, who does not wish black velvet,
is black peau de-soie, the lustreless
black satin. It is made in broad, flat
box plaits reaching to the floor, with
some superb jet on the bodice, and with
its full sleeves makes one of the quietest
but most elegant garments imaginable.
The tall girl is to have another season.
Let the midget look up, dress her hair
on the top of her head and stab it with
a sword handle ornament ; High heels,
striped dresses and up and down lines of
trimming will help too. But pnt on a
belt or trim the hen: of the dress with a
darker band, and she will lose just that
much of her apparent altitude.
Very few flowers are worn in the hair,
mostly little crescents and stars of real
or artificial brilliants and pearls. I
have lately seen in the shop windows
some exceedingly pretty mother-of-
pearl crescents, which are charming for
young girls. Everybody will be de-
lighted to hear that none but the least
fashionable wear birds in their hats and
bonnets.
Whipcord is the favorite material
whereof the tailor-made gowns of many
young women are composed. Like all
material connected with a “horsey” out-
fic it has the merit of being extremely
durable and looking exceedingly neat,
especially if worn with rather a smart
waistcoat. As this material was former-
ly only used for riding breeches or
groom's clothes, its sphere of usefulness
seems greatly extended.
Among the general rules to be observ-
ed by those who aspire to stylish ele-
gance of appearance, the first and most
important is that all effects must tend to
widening the shoulders by means of
large, full sleeves and lace diapings
over the shoulders and across the breast;
and the second is that equally strenuous
efforts must be brought to bear to do
away with all protuberances about the
hips by means of most carefully fitted
princess gowns worn over equally well-
shaped corsets and undergarments.
In viewing the latest importations
one cannot belp being impressed with
the prevalence of green. This seems to
be the favorite color and enters into al-
most every combination in some form.
Certain shades of green combine beauti-
fully with almost every fashionable tint,
and a dark dress is tastefully toned up
by the additon of the effective green
combination. Brown and green—pale
green and a yellowish bronze, moss
green and ivory, marine blue and bronze
green, are all effective combinations.
Beside the stylish and ladylike tailor-
made coats, with their gracefully gored
skirts en suite, redingote effects will
multiply continually from this time to
the summer season. These particularly
for matrons, will take the place of many
of the cumbersome street costumes now
worn, as no wrap of any description is
needed, or indeed looks weli above a
redingote dress. The modern redingote
manipulated by French hands, and
much in its effect like a princess gown
open in front, has lost its original severe
appearance through the addition of
waistcoats, wide revers going over the
shoulders from belt to belt, girdles,
cape collars, pocket flaps, ete. Upon a
few of the new models a suggestion of
panier-like draperies appears.
“4,
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