to HENRY A. PARSONS, Jr., Editor and Publisher. NIL DESPEKANDUM. Two Dollars per Annum. VOL. XII. RIDGWAY, ELK COUNTY, PA., TIIUESDAY, AUGUST 31. 1882 NO. 28. The Tryst. There was not a cloud in the deep bine sSy, Nor a foaming crest on the sea The winds were asleep, in the arms of the deep, And their breath came noiselessly. The soft sweet rays of the harvest moon, The heaving waters kissed, And the light was shed on the Abbey head, And the tombstones that watch the quiet dead. And in calm I kept our try The blank black sky, and the blank black sea, Blent in the angry night ; The wild winds met, where the waters fret, In a belt of luminous light. They thundered along the hollow strand, Where the rain like a python hissed And near and fur, from rock and scar, Rang the mighty challenge of Nature's war, And in storm I kept our tryst. White, weird and ghastly crept the fog, Over river, and moor, and coast ; Each fast-moored boat, on the harbor afloat, Loomed like a threatening ghost. The sea lay muttering sullenly, Under the veiling mist j And the buoy-boll ring, with its ominous tongue, Where the tido on the lip of the rock was flung, j Ana m gloom I kept our tryst. For while holy grief and loving trust. With mo kept watch together, I reckon not, I, of sea or sky j , Onr hearts hold tranquil weather. So I know, in the royal right of love, ' I may claim you, and I list j Bo my hand may reach, in its Bilent speech, To the spirit grouting where each meets each, In faith I kept our tryst. All the Year Hound. A WOOING 3Y PROXY. She is leaning back in a deep crim son chair, with a white dress sweeping in long shining folds about her. She is talking to two or three men with . mat rauier weary grace ne has grown ' accustomed to see in her, and which is ! so different from the joyous smiles of the Jeanne de Beaujen whom he had . loved so long ago. He is watching her ;from the opposite Bide of the salon as he stands beside his hostess, and he tells himself it is for the last time. He is going to lier presently and he knows just how coldly she will raise the dark eyes that once never met his without conressing that she loved him. He Knows just what he will say and what she will answer, and there is no need of haste in this last scene of his tragedy. "A man should know when he is beaten," he is thinking, while he smiles yaguely in reply to Madame DeSoule's commonplaces. "There is more stu pidity than courage in not accepting a .defeat while there is yet time to retreat with some dignity. For six weeks I have shown her, with a directness that has, I dare say, been amusing to our mutual friends, that after ten years' .absence my only object in returning to jParis is her society. She cannot avoid meeting me in public, but she has iBteadily refused to receive me when I call upon her or to permit me a word ,with her alone. I have been a fool to forget that all these years in which I have regretted her she has naturally despised me, but at least it is not just jof her to refuse me a hearing." The :monent he has been waiting for is come. The little court about her dis perses until there is but one man be side her, and she glances around with a look of mild appeal against the con .tinaaace of his society. De Palissier has escaped from his hostess in an instant, and the next he i3 murmuring, with the faintest sus picion of a tremor in his voice, " Will Madame De Miramon permit me a dance?" " Thanks, M. De Palissier, but I am not dancing this evening," she replies, with exactly the glance and tone he expects. " Will madaine give mo a few mo ments serious conversation ?" and this time the tremor is distinct, for even the nineteenth century horror of melo drama cannot keep a man's nerves quite steady when he is asking a ques tion on which his whole future de pends. "One does not come to balls for serious conversation " she begins, lightly.! "Whjere may I come, then?" he in terrupts, eagerly. , "Nowhere. There is no need for serhJus conversation between us, M. De , Palissier," she replies, haughtily, and rising she takes the arm of the much- ' edilied gentleman beside her and moves faway. It is all as he has prophesied to him- ' self, and yet for a moment the lights ' swim dizzily before him and the pas- sionate sweetness ot that btrauss waltz the band is playing stabs his heart like a knife. For a moment he does not realize that he is standing quite mo tionless, gazing, with despair in his eyes, after Madame De Miramon's 'slender white-clad figure, and that two ,or three people, who have seen and heard, are looking at him with that amused pity which sentimental ca tastrophes always inspire in the spec tators. Some one touches his arm presently with her fan, and with a start he comes to himself and recognizes Lu cille De Beaujen, the young sister of Madame De Miramon, whom he re members years ago as a child, and with whom he has danced several times this winter. "And our waltz, monsieur?" she asks, gayly. " Do not tell me you have forgotten it. That is evident enough, but you should not admit it." "Mllle pardons, mademoiselle," he mutters, hurriedly. " I am very good to-night," she says, putting her hand on his mechanically extended arm. "Though the waits is half over, there is still time for you to get me as ice." So they make their way through the salon, she talking lightly .and without pausing for a reply, while he, vaguely frateful to her for extricating him torn an awkward position, wonders also that she should care to be so kind to a man whom her sinter has treated with such marked dislike. The refreshment-room Is almost empty, and she seats herself and mo tions him to a chair beside her when he has brought her an ice. " Do you think, M. le Marquis, that it was only to eat ices with you that I have forced my society so resolutely upon you?" she asks, with a look of earnestness very rare on her bright, coquettish face. " I think you an angel of compas sion to an oia inena or your child hood, Mademoiselle Lucille " .. " It was compassion, but more for my sister than for you," she says, graveiy. " Your sister!" he echoes." bitterly, " It has not occurred to me that Madame Do Miramon is in need of compassion and yours is too sweet to be wasted " Chut, monsieur," she interrupted. " i orget that I am as fond of pretty speeches as most young women and think of me only as Jeannie De Mira mon s sister, who believes that much as she loves her. you love her even more For the second time this evening De Palissier forgets possible observers and clasps both the girl's slender hands in his, as he murmurs, unsteadily, "God bless you I" " 1 ou forget that we have an audi ence, monsieur," she says, withdraw ing her hands quickly, but with smile of frank comradeship. "I have a story to tell you, and not much time to tell it in. Years ago, when Jeanne left her convent on becoming fiancee to M. De Miramon, she met you at her first ball, and you loved each other. It was very foolish, for you were a cadet of your house and only a sous-lieuten ant, ana Jeanne had not a sou, so both the families were furious ; but all would have ended as well as a fairy tale if you had been reasonable. Jeanne met you time after time in secret, and promised any amount of patience, but hue wouia not run away and marry you in defiance of her parents ; so you tormented her with doubts and shamed her with suspicions until she dreaded those se cret meetings almost as much as she longed for them. At last, after making a more violent quarrel than usual, you exchanged from your regiment at Versailles to one in Algiers, and left her no refuge from the reproaches of our father and mother but to marry M. de Miramom. He might have re fused to marry her after hearing her confess, as she did, that she had eriven her heart to you, and that only vour desertion had induced her to consent to their marriage. But he did not; he had a better revenge than that. He married her, and for eight years he tortured her in every way that a jeal ous and cruel man can torture a proud pure woman. He opened all her let ters, he made spies of her servants, and not a day passed that he did not make some mention of your name. Our pa rents died within a few months of the marriage, and I was at my convent. There was nothing to be done with her misery but endure it, knowing that she owed it all to your impatience. Can you wonder that she is unforgiving?" He is leaning on the small table between them with folded arms and down-bent eyes, and he is very pale, even through the bronze of ten African summers. " I loved her always " he says, al most inauuiDly; then pauses; nor does he finish his sentence, though she waits for him to do so. "You loved her? You could not have wrecked her life more utterly if you naa natea her. can you wonder that she has grown to fear the thought of love that has been so cruel to her as yours and her husband's? Monsieur my brother-in-law died two years ago jou is so gooar continues .Lucille, fiercely. " Since then Jeanne has been at peace, and she shrinks with absolute terror from disturbing the calm which lias come to her after such storms. She fears you, she avoids you. because shall I tell you why ?" She can Bee his lips quiver even under the heavy mustache, but he neither speaks nor raises his eyes. one loves you," murmurs .Lucille. just aloud. lie lifts his eyes now and looks at her dumbly for an instant, then, rising abruptly, waiKS away. "Jiaties beaux yeux, mon Dieul" she thinks, witli a thrill of wonder that Jeanne should have had the courage to refuse him anything in the days when they were young together. lie comes back presently. " My child," he says, very gently. " do not try to make me believe that, unless you are very sure, for if I once believe it again, I I " lam as sure as that I live that Jeanne has never ceased to love you. and that you can force her to confess it if you will make love to me." "I? You? You are laua-hino- at me!" with a rush of color into his dark i ace. "Do you think bo ill of Jeanne's sister?" she asks, softly. " Pardon. I am scarcely myself, and I cannot imagine how " "Jeanne will not receive you be cause she knows her heart and is afraid of it. She fears that you will destroy the hard-won peace she values bo highly. But you are wealthy, dis tinguished, the head of your name a very different person from what you were ten years ago, and she can find no reason for refusing you as my suitor if I consent, and as my chape ron she must be present at all our meetings. You begin to understand? Make her see that your love is not all Jealousy; make ber remember make ler regret." "But, forgive me, when one has loved a woman for ten years," with a faint smile, "there is no room la one's heart for even a pretense at loving an "; If there were, monsieur, I atiould never have proposed my plot," i he re plies, with dignity.: "It is because I have watched you all these weeks, and know that your love is worthy of my sister, that I trust you. But it is not with one's heart that one pretends. Eiflnt it is with you to consent or de cline "Decline!" he echoes, with a pas sion none the less intense for its quiet ness. " Does a dying man decline his last chance of life, however desperate it may oer The next week is full of bitter surprises to the proud and pa tient woman, whose pathetic cling ing to her new-found peace Lucille so weu understands. Though it is long since she has permitted herself to re member anything of the lover of her youth except his jealousy, she has be lieved in his faithfulness as utterly as she dreaded it, and when she receives De Palissier's note asking the consent of -his old friend to his love for her sister, the pain she feels bewilders and dismays her. With a smile whose cynicism is as much for herself as for him, she gives the note to Lucille, ex pecting an instant rejection of the man whose motive in pursuing them they nau uom so misunaerstooa. nut with a gay laugh, "Then my sympathy has Deen without cause," the girl cries, " By all means let him come, my Jeanne. It cannot wound you, who have long ago ceaseu to regret mm : out he Is the best parti in Paris, and tres bel homme for his ago." It is quite true there can be no ob jection to the wealthy and distinguished aiarquis de .Falissier If .Lucille is will ing none but the pain at her heart which she is ashamed even to confess to herself. So a note is written fixing an nour lor his nrst visit, ana Jladame De Miramon prepares herself to meet the man whom she last saw alone in all the passionate anguish of a lover's quarrel. Is this wild nutter in her throat a sign of the peace she has re solved to possess? Thank God! she can at least promise herself that what ever she may suffer, neither he nor Lucille shall guess it. There is a sound of wheels in the courtyard, and she rises, with a hasty glance at her fair reflection in a mirror. His old friend !" she murmurs. scornfully. " I dare say I look an old woman beside Lucille." Then she turns with a look of grace ful welcome, for the door i3 thrown open, and a servant announces: "M. le Marquis do Palissier." j "Nothing could give me greater pleasure than to receive as my sister's suitor the old friend of whom the world tells me such noble things." She utters her little speech as naturally as though she had not rehearsed it a dozen times, and hold3 out her pretty hand to mm. To her surprise ho does not take it. How should she guess that he dares not trust himself to touch calmly the hand he would have risked his life to kiss any time these ten years ? " 1 ou are too good, madame," he replies, very low ; and she reflects that he is of course a little embarrassed. " I am afraid you had much to forgive in inose uays so long ago, but time, trust, has changed me." " It would be sad indeed if time did not give us wisdom and coldness in exchange for all it takes from us," she says, with a quick thrill of pain that he should speak of ten years as if it were an eternity. " Not coldness," he exclaimed, com ing nearer, and looking at her with eyes that make her feel a girl again. it you couia see my heart, you " "May I enter, my sister?" asks the gay voice of Lucille, as she appears from behind the portiere at so for tunate a moment for the success of her plot that it is to be feared she had been eavesdropping. De Palissier turns at once and presses her hand to his lips. "Mademoiselle," he says, tenderly, " I am at your feet." Then begins a charming little comedy of love-making, in which Lucille plays her role with pretty coquetry, and he with mnnite zeal. And the chaperon bends over her lace-work and hears the caressing tones sue tnougnt sne had forgotten, and sees the tender glances she im agined she had ceased to regret all given to her young sister in her unre garded presence. Dear God! how is she to keep the peace she so prays for. if her future is to be haunted by this ghost from her past? She is very pa tient and used to Buffering, but at length she can endure no longer, and not daring to leave the room she moves away to a distant writing-table, where she is at least beyond hearing There is an instant pause between the conspirators, and while De Palis sier's eyes wistfully follow Madame De Miramon, Lucille seizes her opportu nity with a promptness that would have done credit to a Richelieu or a Talleyrand, or any other prince of schemers. "Courage, monsieur F she mur murs, "ishe has been cold to. me ever since your note came. Von would make a charming jeune premier at the Francais, only when you say anything very tender, do re member to look at me instead of J eanne." And she breaks into a lau gh so utterly amused that he laughs too, and the sound of their mirth causes an odd blot in the eoor chaperon's writing. A month has dragged by, wretched ly enough both to the conspirators and their victim, and, like all things earthly, has come to an end at last. Even Lu eijle's energy could not keep De Palis sier to his role if he did not believe that in surrendering it he must give up the bitter-sweet of Jeanne's dailv presence, which, even in its supreme Indifference, has become the one charm of life to him. Madame De Mlramnn arid her sister are Bpendinga week at hef villa nearParis, and De; Palissier, who is to accompany them -on a riding party, has arrived a little late, and finds both sisters already In the courtyard, with some horses and grooms, when he enters. Lucille comes to him at once as he dismounts, with a look of alarm instead of her usual coauetrv. "Do not let Jeanne ride Etoile," she says, anxiously, "bhe has thrown Uuillaume this morning." Madame De Miramon is standing beside an old groom, who is holding 'uo worse ui question, una sne aoes not look at her sister or De Palissier as they approach. .- - "Let me ride Etoile and take my norse to-aay, maaame," ue .falissier says, eagerly. "I should like to master a horse who has thrown so ex cellent a groom as Guillaume." - "So should I," she says, with a hard little laugh, and she steps on the block. "jeannei" cries imcuie. " I entreat you for your sister's sake, She will be terribly alarmed," De Pal issier says, hurriedly. " Then you must console her. The greater her alarm, the greater your de-' lightful task, monsieur," and she looks at him with a defiant pain in her eyes like a stag's at bay. "I shall ride Etoile." " Then I say that you shall not," he answers, putting his arm across the saddle, and meeting her eyes with a sudden blaze of command in his. For an instant they gaze at each other in utter forgetfulness of any other presence than their own. then she springs from the block and comes close to him. - "I hate you! she gasps, and turn. Ing, gathers up her habit in one hand and runs into the house, swiftly fol lowed by De Palissier. In the salon she faces him, with a gesture of pas sionate pnae. " .Leave me!' she says. "I forbid you to speak to me." lie Is very pale, but the light of tri umph is in his eves, and like most men. uemg triumphant, ne is cruel. " by do you hate me?" he asks, imperiously. " I beg your pardon," she stammers. dropping the eyes which she knows are betraying her. " I should have said- " l ou should have said. ' I love vou.' " he murmurs, coming close to her and holding out his arms. " Docs it hurt you that I should know it at last, I who have loved you all theso years? ' uui .Lucille," she lalters. moving away irom him, out with eyes that f . . . ... . . slnno and lips that quiver with bewil dered joy. ".Never mind Lucille," cries that young lady, very cheerfully, from the doorway. " It has been all a plot for your happiness, my Jeanne, which would never have succeeded if you had known your sister as well as she knew you. To think that I would be con tent with the wreck of any man's heart ! jt done! when my day comes, '"Like Alexander, I will reign, And I will reign alone.' " Harper's Weekly. Treeless Regions. The steppes of Asia are the grand est of all in extent and perhaps the most varied in character; for not only are the vast areas of that nearly level and treeless country which lie along the northern and northwestern side of all the great central elevated mass of that continent usually designated as steppe, but a large part of that central region itself is described under that name by recent eminent geographical authorities, so that we may include in the various forms of steppe existing in Itussia and Central Asia the grass covered plains of the lower regions, and the almost entirely bren valleys lying between the various mountain ranges which are piled up over so large a portion of high Asia. Absence of trees is the essential feature in both the "steppe" and the "high steppe," as theso regions have been and may perhaps with propriety be designated, but the lower regions are in large part well covered with grass, and suitable for occupation by a pastoral people, de pendent chiefly for the means of suste nance on their flocks and herds, while the higher valleys are almost uninhabitable, very sparsely covered with a Bcrubby vegetation, and both too cold and too dry to offer any at fractions except to the adventurous geographical explorer, who has still much to accomplish on the great plateau of high Asia before its topog raphy and natural history will have been anything like satisfactorily made out.Jeven in their most general fea tures. The vastness of the area which may be designated as a steppe on the Asiatic continent is almost overwhelm ing. .Nearly half of the 18,000,000 square miles which Asia covers is es sentially a treeless region, and perhaps a half of that half belongs to the high- steppe division, in which cold and dryness are the predominant character istics. From the fact that the steppes of Russian Asia have been longer known and more written about than any others in the world, the term steppe has been most ordinarily applied to similar areas in other countries. This is es- ecially the case because such a use of he word has been sanctioned bv Hum boldt, who was the first to draw popu lar attention to this variety of surface as a feature of importance in physical geography. In North America, where the treeless regions occupy so large an area, and where many of the physical conditions so closely resemble those prevailing on the Asiatic continent, the use or me term steppe has never been introduced among the people. Here, in fact, the character of the surface and distribution of vegetation over it, as well as its climatological peculiarities, have all been more satisfactorily and fully made out than in Asia, in spite of the fact that the latter country has been bo much longer an object of sci entific study. 1 PMNCES9 OF ROMANCE. Tk. St.ry f Ike Wld.tr of th. Lut Elector f Hem. The London Telegraph says: Of the strange life stories that may be gleaned from that portion of the " Al- manach de Gotha" dealing with dynas tic and personal facts, few are more romantic than that which has just been concluded by the demise of Gertrude von Hanau, the widow of the last elector of Hesse. Her titular descrip tion.taken from the German civilstands- register, or official obituary record, is in itself the skeleton of a three-volume novel. It runs as follows: "Gertrude, Princess of Hanau, Countess of Schaumburg, neeFalkenstein, divorcee .Lehman." This interesting personage, who died a snort time ago at 1'rague. in her sev enty-seventh year, was the daughter of a weu-to-ao wine merchant established at Bonn about the commencement of the present century. Endowed by na ture with extraordinary personal at tractions, she. had several offers of marriage while still in her teens, and oestowea her hand, some fifty- eignt years ago, ..upon a young I'russian paymaster called .Leu- mann, then serving in the Seventh lancers, a regiment Quar tered at Marienwcrder, in West Prus sia. Shortly after ber union to this person she paid a visit to her parents in her native town, and during her stay with them made the acquaintance oi ijreaencK William, electoral prince of Hesse and a captain of Prussian cavalry in garrison at Bonn. The young officer, who had quitted his father's court in consequence of quarrel with the reigning elector's "friend," Countess Reichenbach, and was, oddly enough, notorious for his disapproval of princely peccadilloes, ieu uesperateiy in love with "Mrs, Captain Lehmann," and soon proposed to make practical recantation of his high principles in her favor,. by carry ing her off from her husband. The fair Gertrude, however, promptly gave him to understand that her views were exclusively matrimonial. She was, in deed, already a wife, but suggested to ins sercno nignness that her husband, Lehmann. was a sensible and manageable fellow, open to reasons of a certain sort, and that in all proba bility a uttie juaicious persuasion would convince him of the expediency of parting with his handsome spouse for a consideration. Negotiations were opened between the husbands in esse and in posse, resulting in a hard cash transaction, whereby Lehmann became the happy possessor of $75,000. Having lucnei,eu uus comiortauie little com- ucusauon ne proceeuea to institute a divorce suit against his wife upon the plea of " incompatibility of tempera ment,' ana as soon as the degree of scUeiuung had been pronounced. fier- trude Falkenstein, ex-Lehmann. was led to the altar by her " all-serenest " :j i. - f . . . siuiur, who a iew months later con ferred upon her the title of Countess von Schaumburg. The wedding took place in the autumn of 1831, the year in which popular discontent with the elector William's regime in Hesse com pelled that singularly dissolute poten tate to nominate his son co-regent a step which practically amounted to his ibmeation in favor of Frederick Wil liam. Frau von Schaumburg. there fore at that time in the zenith of her beauty had not long to wait for the position and power to which she had aspired when she resolved to part from the husband of her girlhood's choice. who, by the way, had been compelled to throw up his commission in the Prus sian service by his brother officers, and vanished into dishonorable obscurity with the price of his infamy. When she took up her abode, however, in the Hes sian capital her new mother-in-law, the electress an aunt of the present Ger man emperor refused to sit in the same box with her at the court thea tre, whereupon Frederick William gave orders that his mother should thenceforth not be admitted to that place of entertainment. Toward the end of the year the aged electress, ig noring her son's prohibition, paid a visit to the theatre one evening, and was enthusiastically cheered by the au dience upon her appearance in a pri vate box. This demonstration was continued in the streets when she left the house, and led to the populace being charged by the elector's body guard, with drawn sabers, at his se rene highness express command. The Hessians never forgave their elector for giving this barbarous order. By causing his subjects to be riddon and cut down for cheering his own mother a venerable and deeply respected princess Frederick William utterly destroyed his popularity in the realm of his ancestors. Between 1831 and 1850 Countess Schaumburg bore her hut. band seven sons and two daughters. Early in the latter year she was created Princess of Hanau by the emperor of Austria, on tho elector s death in 1875 she inherited the whole of his enormous fortune, invested in state securities and railwcy stock, which will be divided among her eight surviv ing children, the youngest of whom is a lieutenant in the Fourth regiment of Austrian lancers. Flaying for Their Fingers. The Malays have at all times been addicted to gambling. In those davs. in Ceylon, they would " play away the ends of their fingers " over the draught board. They would sit down with a fire burning, whereon was set a pot of wainui or sesame on, while beside it lay a small hatchet with an exceed ingly sharp edge. The loser placed his hand upon a stone, and the winner chopped off a joint, when the mutilated finger was plunged into the boiling oil and thereby cauterized. Some men, fond of the game, but unskillful or un lucky, had every finger shorn of its tip. Ali th Ytar Round. Coronations. The present czar of Russia, attei having announced that his coronation would take place with great pomp a( Moscow, in the middle or August, sud denly postponed the ceremony to an indefinite period. Several reasons werd alleged for this singular decision. It was said that the health of the czarina was such as to make it necessary to postpone it. It was declared that the czar was unwilling to mark the occa sion with concessions as to Russian land, which the peasants expected and demanded.';- Finally it was gravely whispered that the czar feared to be crowned, lest such an event would give the .Nihilists an opportunity to attempt his UfeTThe latter surmise is a very likely one. It Is known that the author- it ies of Moscow h av e plainly told the czar that if he was crowned in that city they could not answer for the preser vation of order or for his personal safety. Preparations to attempt the czar's life - have been detected in the ancient capital of Muscovy ; and more than one plot to murder him on the lay of coronation has been unearthed. It may be that the Czar Alexander III. will never be crowned. But this is merely the omission of a traditional, but after all, an empty ceremony. It aoes not aaa at all to a monarch s au thority to rule to be crowned. It is merely a matter of historic pomp and pageantry; it confers no new right or prerogative. Many sovereigns have reigned through long periods and have aiea uncrowned. Coronation is, indeed, a very ancient as well as a very imposing rite. It is' known, for instance, that Solomon was crowned with great display; and it is probable that the Assyrian and Egyp tian kings were all crowned. Corona tion, too, in almost every country and period has been a sacred as well as a political ceremony. The head of the sovereign has been anointed with oil. which signifies his consecration to the Bervice of God as well as of the state. The old Saxon kings ot England were wont to be crowned, not at Lon don, but in the ancient and august cathedral of Winchester, or in that lovely riverside town, Kingston-on-Thames. Since the time of the Nor man kings, however, the sovereigns of England have always been crowned in Westminster Abbey ; and since the time of Edward the First each sov ereign has been crowned on the same throne, beneath which rests the "Stone of Destiny" brought from Scotland by the great Edward It was formerly the custom in Eng land to date the reign of a king from the day, not of his accession, but of " his coronation. Between these two events the sovereign was called "Lord of England," not king, which title he only assumed after he had been duly crowned. This was the case both with Richard the Lion Hearted and his brother John. Various reasons have served to cause from time to tune the omission of the ceremony of coronation. It is said that Napoleon III. never dared to be crowned, for fear of some ca tastrophe similar to that which the present czar is now threatened. Na poleon I. had no such fear, and was crowned with great magnificence at Notre Dame. The ceremony of coronation is still kept up with much state and grandeur in nearly every monarchy in Christendom ; but a king is just as much a king with out it as with it. It is the oath which every sovereign takes at the moment of his accession which endows him with the right and the responsibility of ruling over his Bubjects. Youth's Companion. How the Chinese Make Dwarf Trees. We have all known from childhood how the Chinese cramp their women's feet and so manage to make them keepers-at-home; but how they grow miniature pines and oaks in flower pots for half a century has always been much of a secret. They aim first and last at the seat of vigorous growth, endeavoring to weaken it as much as may be consistent with the preservation of life. Take a young plant say a seedling or cutting of cedar when only two or three inches high, cut off its tap-root as soon as it has other rootlets to live upon, and re plant it in an earthen pot or pan. The end of the tap-root is generally made to rest on a stone within it. Alluvial clay is'then put into the pot, much of it in bits the size of beans, and lust enough in kind and quantity to furnish a scanty nourishment to the plant. Water enough is given to keep it in growth, but not enough to excite a vigorous habit. So, likewise, in the application of light and heat. As the Chinese pride themselves on the shape of their miniature trees, they use strings, wires and pegs and various other mechanical contrivances to pro mote symmetry or habit or to fashion their pets into odd, fancy figures. Jefferson's Monnment. The new monument granted by Congress to mark the grave of Thomas Jefferson, at Monticello, Va., will be shaped in accordance with a memo randum found among the papers of the deceased. It will consist of a cu bical die of granite four feet square, on which is set a granite obelisk about eleven feet in height, the whole stand ing on a granite platform, composed of two stone steps, each nine inches in height. The height of the monument will be eighteen feet. The following inscription, in sunken letters, will be put upon the obelisk: : Her. wa fcori.it Thomaa Jefferaoa, antkor of; :th. Declaration of Amtrlcan Independence, of: :th. aututa of Virginia for religious ttiom,: :and father f th. CnlT.rsity ot Virginia. ; ........ On the die will be inscribed: Bora April t, 1T4S, a 8. Died July 4, 1IM. Theee words were penned by the great statesman for his epitaph. The Dead. The dead alone are great, While heavenly plants abide on earth Their soil is one of dewless dearth But when they die a mourning shower Comes down and makes their memorree flower With odors sweet, though late. The dead alone are dear. When they are here strange shadows fall From onr own forms and darken all Bat when they leave ns all the shade Is round our own sad footsteps made And they alone are dear. The dead alone are blest When they are here clonds make their day, And bitter snow-falls nip their May ; Bnt when their tempest time is done The light and head of Heaven's own sru Brood on their land of rest. -i i HUMOR OF THE DAT. j William Tell had an arrow escape. ( Gum Arabifj The language talked by a toothless pasha. The bachelor's refrain a lass I Thel maiden's refrain ah men. If the mosquito would only stay to. hum but they do not; they stay to sing. "Yes," said a farmer, " barbed wirt fences are expensive, but the hired man doesn't stop and rest every time hehas to climb it." A woman who waits for her hus? band to return from the lodge has au! object in view, and more than likely another in hand. . ' Stoves are supposed to be a some what modern invention, but thej Egyptians were warmed by Alexande the Great B. C. 300. " They tell me you have had some, money left you," said Brown. " Yes,"i replied Fogg, sadly, " it left me long ago." Boston Transcript. "Prisoner, this is the third time this year that you have appeared before this court. AVhat has brought yotr here now, eh?" " The police, sirl" This bit of conversation, which wej find in an exchange, is both timely and expressive: "I think this ice creami tastes a little cowy," said he. " Minej tastes bully," said she. A lad who had been bathing was in the act of dressing himself when onej of his shoes rolled down the rock and disappeared in the water. In attempt-; ing to rescue it he lost the other one also, whereupon contemplating his feet with a most melancholy expression,! ho apostrophized: "Well, you're a nice1 pair of orphans, ain't you ?" Their house in the country was raised a few feet from the ground,' and Tommy, to escape a well-deserved whipping, ran from his mother and' crept under the house. Presently tho father came home, and hearing where' the boy had taken refuge, crept under to bring him out. As he approached' on his hands and knees, Tommy asked : " Is she after you, too?" . A French photographer boasts of having been able to catch the impress ion of a flying bird. There is nothing at all wonderful about that. A man who has no scientific attainments whatever, without any effort on his part, caught the impression of a flying bat. It was a very clear .impression. He was offering a resolution at a ward meeting when the accident occurred. " Guess we're all right now 1" puffed the old gentleman as, mopping the perspiration from his forehead, he reached the steamboat landing with his wife, just in time to be too late ; " guess we're all right." " Guess we're all right, do you ?" rejoined she, catch ing a glimpse of the steamer as it ap peared around a bend in the river ; " guess we are all right ! Well, I guess we're all left." And so they were. Detroit Free Press. TIIE jESTIIETIO YOUNG LADY. There was a fair maid named Louise, Who, for handy-work, (minted a frieze; 1 he room waa quite big, Vet ah. cared not a 61 This zealous, aesthetic l.onise. But, alaa I for th. Lady Louise Who worked at ber task by degrees The atyle of that day Had long passed awuy Ere ihe'd come to the end of her frieze! So, in time, to the group at her kncea (The grandchildren whom elio would pleas.) Sue raid: " Twill Improve It, I'm sure to remove it " And that waa the end of her frieze 1 Joel Stacy, in ot A'ieholat. Progeny in Whose Telns Flows the Blood ortne rive itaees. " Now. if I told vou t.hn rriH fa.. that I saw human beings in whose veins now tne biooa or ail the five races into which mankind is divided, you wouldn't believe it, would you? And you would say I never carried a little hatchet, using mild language, wouldn't you?" said a well-known histrionic gentleman, just returned from the bandwieh Islands, to a reporter. " No, I would not believe it," was the frank reply. " Well, here s the case, and it is a genuine one: The present Mrs. Brown, of Honolulu, was born in the Hawaiian kingdom. Her father was part negro and part American Indian, and her mother a native Hawaiian woman. In Mrs. Brown's veins, therefore limvui the blood of three races the negro, the1 maian nna tne juaiay. bo far so good," eh? Mrs. Brown's first. lniHlinnl uroal a Chinaman; and a daughter by that,' marriage, now the wife of the Kev.; Dr. Lyman, a clergyman at Hilo, united in her veins the blood of four the yellow or Mongolian being added to her moiner s mixeu lire blood. Now Mrs. Lvman is the mother nf rtiiMran' - . ..V4V4 by a Caucasian father, and doesn't that 1 At ...... uiukb uiese innocent uttie ones carry a very mixed kind nf Urvul uniting v. umviufj, OV to speak, all the colors white, black, red, yellow and brown ?" San Fran cisco unronicie. In 1870 the value of nil tlm mon1. clothing manufactured in tho TTnioi States was $147.000.000., In 1RR0 $125,000,000 worth was made in the five cities of New York, Philadelphia,- viuiagu, jjuatuu uuu viuuanau.
Significant historical Pennsylvania newspapers