Democratic Sentinel, Volume 11, Number 15, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 13 May 1887 — THE LADIES. [ARTICLE]

THE LADIES.

A Budget of Breezy Gossip Relating Exclusively to the Fair Sex, Accompanied by Some Notes on the Ever Changing Styles in Feminine Attire. ‘ “Right as My Glove.” “Oh, poverty! where is thy sting?" do you exclaim? Well, we’ll tell you; it wounds most sadly when in the shape of a pair of worn gloves. There is nothing hurts a proud, refined girl like a seedy glove. Pardon us, but it is a loss that cannot be repaired. A tidy, trim girl can rearrange a wellworn frock; she will dam her old piece of necklace; a tarnished hat and its rusty trimmings she can freshen into respectability, and she can even go so far as to manipulate an old pair of boots into good shape; but a pair of disabled gloves breaks her heart as effectually as that mythical straw breaks the camel’s back. A pretty girl’s buoyancy of young spirits is difficult to cast down; they will bubble and froth at the slightest stirring; but a pair of rough-seamed, mended,’ and rusty gloves takes all the sparkle and bead from 'her intoxicating enthusiasm. Again, looking at the question from another standpoint, you must have noticed how a pair of neat, well-fitting gloves smartens up the most ordinary toilet, giving the wearer a corresponding individuality. The other evening, at a club meeting of its limited but di criminating members, a young lady came forward to entertain them with a vocal selection. Her general appearance was not striking. Her dress was a plain, evidently not absolutely fresh, white wool gown. Not an inch of her rounded arm or throat was visible, and, while well fitting in its cut, the draperies were not particularly artistic or pleasing in outline to the observer’s eye. Now we admit that it is not absolutely laid down in the contract that a singer is pakj to look pretty. Of course she must conquer through her ability to charm the ear; but her battle is much more easily won if her audience’s eyes are first captured, any observer of such events readily admits. This young lady came up to the scratch only through the power of her gloves. Her hands were shapely, therefore it was entirely proper to make them conspicuous. They were apparently molded into a per-fect-fitting pair of long Suede gloves in that fresh and stylish new shade of green. There is no pa ore pleasing combination than this new shade of green with white, and her tapering fingers and finely rounded wrists could never have been more fascinating to the artistic eye than so covered, while altogether that perfect pur of gloves gave the requisite flavor to the whole which otherwise could not have arisen above mediocrity. There have been of late chapters written about character in hands. The story of a character is none the less plainly told in the gloves worn. Show me the gloves you wear, and I’ll tell you what you are, is not literal, but plausible. Did you ever take a long street-car ride and spend the tedious time philosophizing over the gloves your fellow-passengers wear? If you haven’t, just try it next opportunity you have. You will find the pastime most edifying. . Perhaps you will see a pair of hands, snug up in the front corner seat, encased in heavy, ordinary-looking, at first glance, dogskins. They are, regardless of splitting seams, held with fingers interlaced. This alone pushes them wtell on the hands, for they seem to have been simply slipped into, the one patent fastening not in use, which shows that the wearer is a man accustomed to gloves, so does so from force of habit; but his mind is so busily occupied he does not give them the attention required to fasten them. Just across, a pair of hands flourishes only one glove, which is handsomely embroidered and very tight in its fit. The bare hand tells that it is not long since the wedding, because that new ring adorning it is ever twisted around and adroitly admired with an unconscious knack of caressing. That one new, shiny glove has bride written upon it as plainly as if it were a white satin bonnet. Beyond is a pair of short-in-the-wrist black silk gloves, covering nervous, bony hands. They tightly grasp the small wooden handle of a cotton umbrella. There is mental, if not bodily, pain expressed in the twitchings of those wrinkled glove fingers. How great the contrast between them and apair of fluffy puff-balls—baby’s plump fists in a pair of silk mittens, just disclosing soft, fat, deeply ringed wrists. You know that pair of worn gloves belongs to a seamstress on the way to her •work. The end of the first finger is ripped, and there is an honorable little bit of nut-meg-grater on the side of the finger that works so hard. Over there is a man who seems intent on hiding his gloves. His elbows are akimbo, andldl of his gloved hands are in his pockets except his thumbs. But they tell the whole story. They are great, stubby, coarse-kidded thumbs. They must belong to the kind of hand that little Jack Horner made sticky with bis own pie in his own corner, grown into a big Jack Horner, with a partiality still for pies, and plums, and all the good things of the world. There is a small pair of hands twitching. You can tell it bases its claims to being aristocratic upon its glqves. Alas! poor hands! The gloves are there, but what sad tales we read in their breaks, rubs and •corkscrews at the tips. But we have wandered a long way from the trials of an unfortunate girl with the pair •of poverty-stinging, worn-out gloves. But we have yet our idea to suggest for the amelioration of her woes. Nearly every day we hear of some wealthy man or woman with so much money they don’t know how to spend. It’s an old idea •to found a picture gallery, endow a hospital ■or asylum, or build a monument; but it would be consummately unique to establish an inexhaustible fund for providing those soul-yearning young ladies with good gloves. Think of the pleasure unmeasurable such a philanthropy would give, the wrinkled brows it would smooth, the heart envyings it would silence: while at the same time hbw its providings would

brighten and smarten up the community at large. All the pretty girls in fresh, snug gloves! We love all of them, and we hereby petition for the fruition of such a consummation. — Annie E. My era, in Chicago Ledger. Mlsg Spangler’s Strange Singularities. One of the “characters” of Euclid avenue is Miss Spangler, the wealthy maiden lady who lives at the comer of the avenue bearing her name, says the Cleveland World. She lives all alone with a servant, a girl who has been in her employ a great many years, in a rather ancient wooden house in the midst of a funereal, ill-kept pine grove. Everything about the place has a “running to waste” look. To the east lies the street and oval park which she laid out over a year ago through her extensive property, but which has never been built up. Miss Spangler herself is a short and exceedingly spare woman, quite indifferent as to her personal appearance, and full of ways of her own of doing things. In tax-paying time she may be seen camping out in the court house for whole days at a time, running over long columns of figures and verifying her extensive tax lists. At noon she does not adjourn to any hightoned restaurant, but simply opens her lunch basket, which has been warming on the register, aud eats her frugal repast alone in silence. Miss Spangler has a great many other peculiarities. I used to see her often riding on the platform of a street car last winter. “What makes you stay outside in such cold weather?” I finally asked one day. “Well, I will tell you why it is,” she replied. “I’m so much pestered by people who want to get some of my money that I do anything to escape their overtures. Now, if I went inside, some girl would come and sit down beside me, and ask for a chance to work for me or get into my good graces somehow.” “That’s because they think you’ve got enough and to spare,” I suggested, trying to draw her out. “Some say you’re the richest woman in Cleveland.” “Oh fc my! no; that’s a mistake. Mrs. Bradford is the richest woman in the city, and I suppose Mrs. S. S. Stono and Mrs. Scranton follow her. ” Miss Spangler is eminently plebeian. No enemy of hers would be so reckless as to charge her with being aristocratic. I often see her picking up kindling in her front yard, or engaged in some other form of manual service. Even now a vivid picture of her looms up before my mind’s eye as I saw her one day last spring. It represents her in the act of crossing the public square with her arms full of asparagus stalks, <he tops of which nearly brushed the telephone wires when she crossed the street. Yet she is not an illiterate woman. She has received a seminary education, and is well informed on a wide range of subjects, including the principal topics of the day. She has a very fine piano in her parlor, and is something of a musician. A Few California Women. Mrs. Mark Hopkins resides in a palatial dwelling on “Nob Hill,” and occasionally gives entertainments, of which she carefully counts the cost, while she preserves the remnants of the feast to be returned to the caterer. The marriage of Miss Hattie Crocker to Mr. Charles Alexander, of New York, occurred at Grace Church at high noon on April 26. In consequence of the recent death of Mrs. Charles Crocker there was no reception. The Crockers are one of the respectable and wealthy families of California.

Better than titles or heraldry is the drinking fountain in the center of the city presented to the citizens of San Francisco by Lotta, and erected in the summer of 1875. The people of the coast rejoice over all the good fortune that comes to this lovely actress, who is now said to be worth over $1,000,060. No coat-of-arms is emblazoned upon the door of Laura D. Fairis residence, but, instead, “Rooms to Rent.” The lady still looks as young as the memorable day when she shot down Crittenden. The late lawyer’s children are residents of San Francisco, and are among the unostentatious, nut wield influence in church and society. Mrs. Crocker is one of the moat generous and charitable women in the Golden State. Her late donation was a valuable library to the city of Sacramento. There seems to be no end of wealth to the Crockers. The widow of the late Matthew Crocker has recently come into possession of $1,000,006, which is the result of her husband’s early investments in Tennessee. Californians are appreciative of the yellow dust, and money is king, while the people who possess wealth, no matter what family disgrace may be attached to their name, are the rulers and autocrats of society. One of the wealthiest women in San Francisco is Mrs. James G. Fair, to whom the courts gave $4,500,000 of her husband’s estate, and it is said she cannot find places enough to invest her enormous wealth. She occupies an elegant residence on “Nob Hill” with her two daughters, the elder grown to womanhood; the younger, a child •of 11, who has just given her first grand fancy dress ball at the Fair mansion. |~;Mrs. Mackay’s late “Musicale” in London, at her mansiop near Buckingham gate, is the interesting subject in society just now. All of the American colony in London attended the concert. Mme. Waddington, Lady Mandeville, and Mrs. Yznaga were among the guests. A notice of Mrs. Mackay’s jewels appeared in one of the late London papers, which said that she was the possessor of the finest jewels in the world. She has a sapphire purchased from a Russian prince which measures four-tenths of an inch in diameter, and cost $159,000. She owns the most valuable emerald in existence; also a pearl necklace worth $100,000; a pair of solitaires whi chcost $425,000; and the most exquisite and valuable corals in the world, except those belonging to the Queen of Portugal.