Daily Wabash Express, Terre Haute, Vigo County, 24 January 1886 — Page 3

WW IN Ml ill

«t

By CHAELOTTE M. BBAEME, Author ot "Dora Thorne.','

CHAPTER XI.

Captain Gresham sprang forward to lift the flowers which Mi&i L'Estrange had dropped. "Nay, she said, "never mind them. A Ireeh flower is very nice. A flower that has once been in the dust has lost its beauty."

There was no trace of pain ia the clear voice it was rich and mupical. Philippa L'Estrange, seated in the bright sunshine, heard the words that were to her as a death-warrant, yet made no sign. "I have not yet met with my ideal," Lord Arleigh had said.

Captain Gresham picked up some of the fallen flowers. "A dead flower from your hand, Miss L'Estrange," he observed, "is worth a whole gardenful of living ones from any one else."

She-laughed again that sweet musical laugh which seemed to come only from a happy heart: and then she looked round. The Duchess of Aytounand Lord Ar'eidi were still in deep converse Miss L'Estrange turned to Captain Gresham. "I have been told," Bhe said, "tlint there are some beautiful white hyacinths here they are my favorite powers. Siii.ll we find them?"

He was only too pleased. She b»le a laughing adieu to the duchess, andemilrd at Lord Arleigh. There was no Knee of pain or of sadness in her voice *r f*ce They' went away together, and Lord Arleigh never even dreamed that she hsd heard his remarks.

Then the duchess left him, and he sat under the spreading beech alone. His thoughts were not of -the pleasantest nature he did not. like the general belief in his approaching marriage it was fair neither toufcimself nor to Philippa— yet how was he to put an end to such gossip?

Another idea occurred to him. Could it be possible that Philippa herself shared the idea? He would net believe it. Yet many things made him pause a» think. She certainly evincrd great preference for his society she was never so liappy as when with him. She would give up any engagement, any promised gayety or pleasure to be with him. Shedrceeed to please him she consultsd him on most things she teemed to identify htr interests with his I!i(t all thu might he the result of their oUl ftiendship—it wight have nothiug to do vi-h love..

Could il be :GtBible tbut ihe still remembtJt^ the thildith liuiiitn.e iLat pawd between tl:ciu—that she ctmijidc-r-ed either herctllf or him bound by a foolish tie that neither if them had coutrackd? Could it be possible that she regarded herself asecgsgsd to him? The bare idea of it teemed absurd, to him he could not believe it. Yet many little things that he could not explain to himself made him feel uncomfortable aid anxious. Could it be that she, the most beautiful and certainly (he most popular woitien in London, cared so much for him as to hold him by so slendeT a tie as their past childish nonsense

He reproached himself for the thought vet, do what he would, he could not drive it away. The suspicion haunted him it made him miserable. If it was really so, what was he to do?

He was a gentleman, not a coxcomb. He could not go to this fair woman and ask her if it was really true that she loved him, if she really cared for him, if she held him by a tie contracted in childhood. He could not do it. He had not sufficient vanity. Why should he think, Philippa, who had some of the noblest men in England at her feet—why should he think that she would renounce all her brilliant poospects for him Yet, if the mistake had really occurred—if she really thought the childish nonesense. binding—if she really believed that he was about to make her his wife—it was high time that sIk -was undeceived, that she knew the truth." And the truth was that although he had a great liking, a kindly affection for her, he was not in love wilh her. He admired her beauty— nay, he went further he thought her the most beantiful woman he had ever seen, the most gifted, the most graceful. But he was not in love with her—never would be. She was not his type of woman, not his ideal. If she had been his sister, he would have loved her exceedingly—a brotherly affection was what he felt for her.

Yet how could he go to this fair woman with the ungracious words that he did her, and had no thought of mar-

not lc

DuL

looked

His face flushed hotly at the ,„ere was something in i) rhich his whole manhood rose in llion. Still it must be done fit be no such shadow between his—there must be no such fatal

je hated the thought! How he ihe idea 1 It seemed to him most _ily, most ignoble—and yet there ihS no help for it. There was one gleam comfort for him, and only one. She so quick, so kean, that she would be to understand him at once, without sntering Into any long explanation, words would suffice, and those words tust choose a* beet he could. If it possible, he would speak to her to-

7

il.-*

the sooner the better—and then all (ertainty would be ended. It seemed to i, as he pondered these things, that a „foud had fallen over the

Bunshine.

In

his heart he blamed the folly ol that'good gentlte mother who hid been the cause of all this anxiety. "Such matters are always best left alone," he said to himself. "If I should ever have children of my own, I will never interfere in their love affairs."

Think as he would, ponder as he would, it was no easy task that lay before him— to tell her in so many words that he did not love her? Surely no man had ever had anything so ungracious to do before.

He looked round the grounds, and presently saw he the center of a brilliant group near the lake. The Duke of Ashwooa was by her side, the elite of the guests had gathered around her. She— beautiful, bright, animated—was

3 talking,

'•vcould see, with ker usual grace and ,A ^t struck him suddenly as absurd beautiful woman should oare— ile said she did care—for him. all over. He longed to

Kt»rty toSton?iSeS'St SraMHIn WoTh2»p«ri.tl MW.!

ol Aihwood, although he did it .HS-Sfff jbflXj with a frown on bis face and an angry should like a beautiful Juliet Juliet

Ibok in his eyes. Each one seemed to consider that he had some special right to be by the side of the beautiful Miss L'Estrange and she, as usual when he was present, saw and heard no one else.

It was high time the world was disabused. Did she herself join in the popular belief? He could net telL lie

at the bright face the dark eyes

met his, but he read no secret in them. "Philippa," he said, suddenly, the water looks very tempting—would yoa like a row?" "Above everytmng else she replied. And they went ofl in the little pleasure boat together.

Philippa lay back languidly, watching the shadows of the trees. Suddenly an idea seemed to occur to her. She looked at Lord Arleigh. "Norman," she said, "let the boat drift •I want to talk to you, and I cannot while you J|e row \g."

He re8te %|i 1 volls, and the boat drifted undt "he ar^opipg braflches of a willow tree. jj.e never forgot the picture that then presented itself—the clear, deep water, the green tiees, and the beautiful fare looking at him. "Norman," she said, in a clear, low voice, "I want to tell you that I over heard all that you said to the Duchess of Ayt ua. I could not help it—I was so near to you."

She was taking the difficulty into her own hands. He felt mo3t thankful. "Did you, Philippa! I thought you were engrossed' with the gallant captain." "Did you really and in all truth mean what yon said to her?" she asked, "Certainly you know me well enough to be quite sure that I never say what I do not mean." "You have never yet seen the woman whom you would ask to be your wife?" she said.

There was a brief silence, and then he replied— "No, in all truth, I have not, Philippa."

A little bird was singing on a swaying bough just abevethem—to the last day of her life it seemed to her that she remembered the notes. The sultry silence seemed to deepen. She bro*e it. '•'But, Norman," she said' in a low voice, "have you not seen me?'^

He tried to laugh, to hide his embarrassment, but it was a failure. "I have seen you—and I admire you. I have all the affection of a brother for you, Pibilippa and then he paused abruptly. "But," she supplied, "you have never thought of making me your wife? Speak to me quite frankly, Norman." "No, Philippa, I have not." "As matters stand between us, they require explanation," she said and he saw her lips grow pale. "It is not pleasant for me to have to mention it, but I must do it. Norman, do you quite forget what we were taught to believe when we were children—that our lives were to be passed together "My dearest Philippa, pray spare yoursBlf and me. I did not know that you even remembered that childish nonsense."

She raised her dark eyes to his face, and there was something in them before which he shrank as one who feels pain. "One word, Norman—only one word. That past which has been so much to me —that past in which I. have lived, even more than in the present or the future— am I to look upon it as what you call nonsense?"

He took her hand in his. "My dear Philippa," he said, "I hate myself for what I have te say— it makes me detest even the sound of my own voice. Yet you are right—there is nothing for us but perfect frankness anything else would be foolish. Neither your mother nor mine had any right to try to bind us. Such things nevet answer, never prosper. I cannot myself imagine how they, usually so sensible, came in this instance, to disregard all dictates of common sense. I have always looked upon the arrangement as mere nonsense and I hope you have done the same. You are free as air—and so am I."

She made no answer, but, after a few minutes, when she had gained her selfpossession, she said— sun is warm on the water—I think we had better return and, as they went back, she spoke to him careletely about the new rage for garden parties. "Does she care or not?" thought Lord Arleigh to himself. "Is she pleased or not? I can not tell the ways of women

A

he watched her, there seemed to

herself uno"bserved, the light died out of her face? He was uncomfortable, without knowing—haunted by a vague suspicion he could not explain, by a presentiment he

v$ould

If the report of their approach..age were allowed to remain nger uncontradicted, \then 1 be in honor compel.1 jo fulexpectation and th„ he had tion, no desire to do. The only dfore .was to speak plainly to

not understand—compelled against •afejuwill to watch her, yet unable 'to detect anything ih her words and manner that justified his doing so. It had been arranged that after the fete he should return to Verdun House with Lady Peters and Philippa. He had half promised to dine and snend the evening there, but now he wonaered if that arrangement would be agreeable to Philippa. He felt that some degree of restraint had arisen between them.

He was thinking what excuse he could frame, when Philippa sent for him. He 1 oked into the fresh young face there was no cloud on it* "Normal?," she said, "I find that Lady Peters has ask-id Miss Byrton to join »s at dinner—»ill you come now? It has been a charming day, but I muBt own that the warmth of the sun has tired me."

Her tone of voice was so calm, so unruffled, he could have laughed at himself for his suspicions, his fears. "I am quite ready," he replied. "If you would like the carriage ordered, we will go at once."

He noticed her going home more particularly than hfe had ever done before. She was a trifle* paler, and there was a languid expression in her dark eyes which might arise from fatigue, but she talked lightly as usual. If anything she was even kinder to him than usual, never evincing the least consciousness of what had happened. Gould it have been a dream? Never was man so puzzled as Lord Arleigh.

They talked after dinner about a grand fancy ball that Miss Byrton intended giving at her mansion in Grosvenor square. She was one of those who believed implicitly in the engagement between Lord Arleigh and Miss L'Estrange.

rtgueur

white satin, and glimmer of pearls." "I am quite willing," returned Philippa. "Juliet is one of ines. How many have?" "Only one, if I can so manage it, replied Miss Byrton—"and. that will be Lord Arleigh."

aBimA 0

are inscrutable. Yet a strange idea ^^t came to heir was the dull ecfio of her haunts me—an uncomfortable suspi-

0WQ

(jggpair.

cion." That night, while the sweet flowers

Biept

him no trace of anything light- little birds rested in tbe deep shade of the hearted mirth and happiness aL ut her. trees—While the night wind whispered She laughed and talked she was the cen- low, and the moon sailed in the sky— ter of attraction, the life of the fete, phillippa L'Estrange, the belle of the When he spoke t® her she had a careless season, one of the most beautiful women est, a laughing word for him yet he iu London, one of the wealthiest heircould not divest himself of the idea that esses in England, wept through the long there was something behind all this, hours—wept for the overthrow of her Was it his fancy, or did the dark eyes hope and her love, wept for the life that wear every, now and then an expression iay in ruiHS round her. of anguish? Was it his fancy^or did it gjje

my favorite heroBomeos will you

She looked at him as she Bpoke shook his head laughingly. "No —I yield to no one in reverence for the creations of the great poet," said he "but, to tell the truth, I do- not remember th»t the character of Borneo ever had any great charm for me." "Why not?" asked Miss Byrton. "I can not tell you. I am very much

It was a miniature lake, tall trees It was a miniature laice, iau ".rT Tr noble bordering it and dipping their green afraid that I prefer Othello—the noble branches into the Water. The sun shone Moor. Perhaps it is on the feathered spray that fell from the has not any great sculls, the white swans raised their grac^ do not think I could ever ful heads as the little boat passed by, and love. I should make a sorry Komeo

he

Miss Byrton." With a puzzled face she him to Miss L'Estrange. "You surprise me," she said, quietly. "I should have thought Borneo a character above all others to please you."

looked from

Philippa hadjistenea with a smile— nothing had escaped her. Looking up, she'said, with a bright laugh— "I cannot compliment-you on being a good judge of character, Miss Bryton. It may be. perhaps that you have not known Lord Arleigt ell enough. But he is the last person- ths world to make a good 'Borneo. I ow but one character that would suk him.-' "And that?" interrogated Lord Arleigb. "That," replied Philippa, "is Petruchio "and amidpt a general laugh the conversation ended. Miss Byrton was the first to take her departure. Lord Arleigh lingered for some little time—he was still unconvinced. The wretchad, half-formed suspicion that there was something hidden 'beneath Philippa's manner still pursued him he wanted to see if she was the same to him. There was indeed no perceptible difference. She leaned back in her favorite chair with an air of relief, as though she were tired of visitors. "Now let us talk about the fete, Norman," she said. "You are the only one I care to talk with about my neighbors."

So for half an hour they discussed the fete, the dresses, the music, the different flirtatiops—Philippa in her usual bright, laughing, half-sarcastic fashion, with the keen sense of humor that was peculiar to her. Lord Arlesgh could not see that there was any effort in her conversation he could Let see the least shadow on her brighiness, and at heart he was thankful.

When he was going away, she asked him about riding on the morrow just as usual, He could not see the slightest difference in her manner. That unpleasant little conversation on the lake might never have taken place for all the remembrance of it that seemed to trouble her. Then, when he arose to take his leave, she held out her hand with a bright, amusing expression. "Good-night, Petruchio," she said. "I am pleased at the name I have found for you." "I am not eo sure that it is appropriate," he rejoined. "I think, on the whole, I would rather love a Juliet thazi tame a shrew." "It may be in the book of fate that you will do both," she said and they parted, laughing at the idea.

To the last the light shone in her eyes, and the scarlet lips were wreathed in smiles but, when the door had closed behind him and she was alone, the haggard, terrible change that fell over her young face was painful to see. The light, the youth, the beaut, seemed all to fade from it it grew white, stricken, as though the pain of death were upon her. She clasjjed her handsas one who had lost all hope. "How am I to bear it?" she cried. "What am I to do?" She looked round her with the bewildered air of one who had lost her way—with the dazed appearance of one from beneath whose feet the plank of safety had been withdrawn. It was all over—life was all over the loye that had been her life was suddenly taken from her. Hope was dead—the past in

which

she had lived was all a blank—he did not love her. She said the words over and over again to herself. He did not loVeher, this man to whom she had given the passionate love of her whole heart and soul- he did not love her, and never intended to ask her to be his wife.

Why, she had lived for this! This love, lying now in ruins around her, had been her existence. Standing there, in the firtt full pain of her despair, sherealiied what that love had been—her life, her hope, her world. She had lived in it she had- known no other wish, no other desire. It had been her all, and now it was less than nothing. "How am I to live and bear it she asked herself again and the only answer h(

under the light of the.stars, and the

wag 0f

really happen that when she believed knew n0 fear but she did tremble and

quail

hours.

dauntless courage—she

before the future stretching out before her—the future that was to nave no love, and was to be spent without him.

How was she to bear it? She had known no other hope in life, no other dream. What had been childish non sense to him had been to her a serious and exquisite reality. He had. either forgotten it, orgbad thought of it only with annoy anil ®be had^ made it the very corner-fj ie of her life.

It was not only a blow of the keenest and cruelest kind to her affections, but it was the cruelest blow her vanity could possibly have received. To think that she who had more admirers at her feet than any other woman in London, should have tried so hard to win this one, and have failed—that ber beauty, her grace, eer wit, her talent, should all have be?n lavished upon him, and lavished in vain.

Why had she failed so completely? Why had she not won his love? It was given to no other—at least she had the consolation of knowing that. He had talked about his ideal, but he had not found it, he had his own ideal of womanhood, but he had not met with it. "Are other women fairer, more loveable than I am?" she asked herself. "Why should another win where I have failed?"

So through the long houis of the starlit night she lamented the love and the wreck of her life, she mourned for the hope that could never live again, while her name was on the lips of men who praised her as the queen of beauty, and fair women envied her as one who had but to will and to win.

She would have given her whole fortune to win his love— not once, hut a hundred times over.

It seemed to her a cruel mockery of fate that she who had everything the world could give—beauty, health wealth, fortune—should ask but this one gift, ana that it should be refused her.

She watched the stars until they faded from the skies, and then she buried her face in the pillow and sobbed herself to

[7b be ontinued tn the Sunday Etcprttt.]

PflffS

THE EXPRESS. TEBBE HAWTB, STOJDAY, JAiTWABY 2 I860.

THE FAMILY FRIEND/

How tbe People of Different Agta Have Kept Warm. Stove is derived from the Saxon stofa. One of these sources of domestic infelicity, however modified its iorm, is merely a fire-place inclosed on all sides, the air entering from below and carried off, as in a common grate, by a vent. The general principle is, first, to employ the fuel-in the most advantageous manner for heating the external part of tlje stove, and, secondly, to keep within the room, as much pf the air so warmed as is consistent with wholsomenesa and cleanliness.^

A fixed stove (stuba) was used in the time of the Boman empire for heating baths, and in Germany and Scandinavia for baths and hothouses. In the Middle Ages they were generally constructed of brick or tiles, sometimes of slate or steatite (soapstone), and used for warming dwellings. They were huge structuies, sometimes occupying the whole side of a room, and in Scandinavia their broad, flat surface was the sleeping-place of the household. The fire was kindled at the bottom, and the heat and smoke passed through various flues before reaching the chimney. These stoves were economical of fuel, a matter of much importance in some parts of Europe. In the homes of the rich they were sometimes faced with porcelain or highly ornamented, tiles. Many will remember, no doubt, a porcelain stove of this description exhibited in the Swedish department exhibited at the Centennial exposition in 1876. They have ovens, and flues for cooking, and need to be re rienished with fuel but once in twenty-

!our

One of-the first attempts at making a stove of iron was that of Cardinal Polignac, in France, in the early part of the eighteenth century. The Polignac fireplaces, so called, were constructed with hollow backs, hearths, and iron jambs to economize the heat. In 1816 Dr. Desaugliers, of London, modified these fireplaces to use them for coal instead of wood. But neither these nor the Holland stoves ever became popular in England owing to the strong prejudice in favor of open fires.

Dr. Franklin's stove, invented in 1765, ^was a great improvement on all that had preceded it. The principle of its action was the same as that of the air-tight stoves introduced many years later. Indeed, it would have been air-tight had it been possible at that time to make the castings sufficiently close-fitting. About 1775 Franklin invented several other stoves, among them two for the burning of bituminous coal. One of these had a downward draught and consumed its own smoke the other had the basket grate or cage, with movable bars at the top and and bottom, which, after being filled and kindled at the top could be inverted, and so made to burn at the base. Betwen 1785 and 1795 Benjamin Thompson (Count Bumford) "devised seyeral improvements in stoves, ovens, etc., all intended to aconomize fuel and heat.

Previous to 1825 the use of stoves, generally of the box pattern and of very rude construction, was confined to stores, hotel barrooms, school houses and churches in the cities and larger towns. Country churches were not usually warmed, but the older women carried their foot-stoves, and the men protected their feet with leather overshoes, "boges." In the residences of some of the more tftealthy city families, cannel and other English coal, ge*erally referred to at that time as "sea coal," was burned in imported grateii-Ss in Bumford stoves lined with fire-brick. A largej number used the Franklin stove as an open fireplace, burning wood in it. The rest of the world used the capacious oldfashioned fireplacc. The cheapness of fuel, the cheerfulness of an open fireplace and the great weight and rough construction of the stoves in those days, made the latter in but little demand. After the opening of the Erie and Champlain canals, the introduction of river steamboats and the beginning of railroad travel, the facilities for transporting heavy goods were so much increased that the manufacture of stoves soon became a leading industry. These were wood stoves, but anthracite coal, which was gradually coming into use wherever a high degree of heat was required and a strong draft possible, was destined to create a revolution in the business.

The first attempts were failures, and it was not until 1833, when Jordan L. Mott demonstrated that an anthracite fire could be made from nut and pea-sized coals, and established several other facts concerning the laws of combustion, that anthracite coal stoves became saleable. The best cooking stoves manufactured in Albany were of the old ten-plate oval pattern, the oven above the fire. A description of the inventions and improvements in stoves since then would fill volumes. It is doubtful, nevertheless, if any one of them can compare in cheerfulness or healthfulness with the old-fashioned capacious wood fireplaces of our granddaddies. ACTRESSES SCATTER SMILES.

Effective (Methods Employed to Win an Aadience. There ar§ actresses who smile and actresses who laugh. The laugh is the noisiest, but the smile is the most effective. It is universally conceded that nothing is prettier or more charming than tjhe laugh of Bosina Yokes, silvery and tuneful as it is, but the laugh is a feature intended for the whole audience. The actress who smiles always appears to be smiling at some particular person in sbme particular seat, and the oftenershe changes the direction of the smile the more hearts and hands she captures. Olga Brandon is a great smiler. She makes pretty nearly all the men in the house on each night she plays think that they are the particular object of her most ardent affection, and, indeed, that they haye made, each of them, a most decided "mash." It is a great talent in its way, perhaps about all the talent that Miss Brandon has, but it tells on the business.

Miss Sadie Martinot has a good deal of this knack also, and it was remarkable when she was at the Casino to see how many gentlemen in the audience told each other privately how they received the distinguishing mark of a very alluring smile from that rather clever little actress.

Victoria Schelling has tried the same sort of business there, but it does not seem to go so well with her, particularly ab perhaps the best thing she could do at present is to pay attention to ber singing and acting and less to the particular individual effect she may make on certain parties in the audience.

Billie Barlow, who is known in the theatrical world as Mrs. Eveard^ Stuart, is" a good smiler, but nobody has it apparently to a greater extent than Miss Foster, the pretty and very talented Pitti Sing of the Fifth Avenue Mikado, though she scatters her smiles broadcast over the house instead of addressing them to individuals.

The smiles of Miss Fay Templeton, who is missed from the cast of Evangeline at the Fourteenth Street theater, in a minor degree were attractive. Her particular forte walB in selecting ft certain row in the theater and scattering her smiles along the twelve or fifteen seats that they comprised during the whole evening. In this way she avoided anything like jealousy, for the male members of the audience who are smiled at in the first »ct get very angry and very envious it they find the actress who they thought had concentrated all her attention on them smiling to somebody else right afterwards.

Miss Bob#, of Wallack's, hasher mother

ir «. m« fmiHT «iaf* *i Mkik

spp

in the at^dience every night iia different place, and plays and smiles to her, bat nine-tenths of the audience, evidently believe that these attentions are directed to some male friend. It is just as effective, however, as if it were so, and, at the same time, the little actress feels the consciousness of not having compromised herself in the least. j:

NEW YORK HIGH LIFE.

The Folltes and Vices of tbe Idle Rich— The Hodes and the Clubs. ANew York letter-writer says that an unusually mild winter and the early opening of the opera and society have led to some open scandals. One, which is now the talk of New York, seems almost absurd on its face, yet it is gravely related all around that a young married man here drawing great wealth from city lots, came into his private hox at the new Metropolitan opera, some time ago, and in the anie room thereof found one of his friends, a bachelor, and of national and city reputation, in such relations with his wife that a divorce suit ie threatened of proportions to knock society to pieces.

It seems that they are building these big new opera houses with especial reference to the stockholders and the renting of the boxes. In the rear of the box is the disrobing-room, and the parties in question appear to have formed a literal idea of this word. The theory is that, after taking off the wraps, mufls, etc., in the box wiuiout the annoyance of having to go to a cloak-room, the ladies emerge resplendent in their diamonds, powder, bright skins, etc., and receive the staring of hundreds, indeed thousands of glasses from every part of the house. New York society, like society in a good many places, is in a bad way when it has no occupation. These little worlds of rich people, which are partly absorbed in French novels, and where the young husbands belong to clubs and spend the days there playing cards, or at the front win dows ogling each other's passing sisters, have their vices beyond what the poor know. The closed carriage going through the park in the lazy afternoon when the good man is down at Wall street trying to skin his neighbor the shopping excursion, with its attendant restaurant and bottle of champagne the ever constant hanger-on, who has no wife and who admires his friend's wife the disturbances in this situation are natural.

It has been, said that at one of the prominent clubs here thejyoung dudes sit at the front windows with their canes and make worse than uncivil remarks upon the ladies who pass underneath. Some time ago an honorary member was sitting in the list, and he heard a young gentleman sitting n.xt to him inquire: "What would you give for that?'' pointing to a passing woman. Dude No. 2 made as low and impertinent a remark. The stranger looked out of the window and saw his own sister passing. He thereupon knocked both dudes down, and it got into the papers under the name of intoxication at cards.

4

The evils of education in some of our clubs appear in the complete impotence of many of our rich young fellows to know how to address a laboring man or a fellow citizen of any plain degree. The very speech of these young chaps is early affected, and then they wonder that their surrounding citizens do not send them to congress or the legislature. A committee to renovate the colleges and to give them a pure start is among the things desired.

HOW TO WARM ROOMS.

The Draught that Comes From the Cold Side of a Window. Pall Mall Gazette. -,,0f

Frequently the chilly feeling that one experiences from the window-ward side as one sits in a room is caused, not by a current of cold air setting from the window to the fire, but by the coldness of the window itself. For this latter, being kept at a low temperature by contact with the outside air, draws the heat from tbe body, or rather the heat radiates from the body to the window—the temperature of the air in between making no difference in this transference, in accordance with a well-known propertv of radiant heat. For instance, the air a room may be quite hot, and yet a large window, however air-tight, will make itself uupleasantly felt on a cold day, just as on board ship the propinquity of an iceberg is announced by"a lowering of temperature. A screen interposed between the window and any one exposed to its malign influence will often afford great relief, and one reason why rooms so frequently feel more comfortable in the evening is that the cold gla«s is effectually shut off behind the closely drawn curtains and blinds. In countries where the winters are habitually severe the advent of frost is usually the signal for the fixing up of inner windows, the layer of air between these and the outer ones forming an excellent barrier to the escape of heat, owing to its low conductive power. Cold walls also induce a sense of chilliness, but if they are properly built there should be no difficulty in keeping them warm on the inside.

The experiment has sometimes been tried of warming rooms by means of hot air only, but the result has never been good, and for this reason—that, in order to warm the walls to the requisite degree, the air must be far hotter than is healthy or agreeable for breathing. In fact, the principle is wrong the air should not warm the walls, but the walls should warm the air. An open fire acts in this latter way. The rays of heat from it pass through the air without heating it, and produce no effect until they impinge on the walls, furniture and carpet of the room. These, being thus gently warmed, communicate their heat by contact to the air about them and in this way, while the objects in the room are raised to a sufficient temperature, the air is not rendered unpleasant by being overheated. We see, then, that our favorite open fires have much to recommend them, whatever may be said about their wastefulness, and as regards health and comfort they are much better than close stoves, which, though they radiate their warmth, also heat the air in contact with them and are apt to do so to excess.

jf^Stage Craze Among Women."It is

r'*\gular

what a craze is striking

many of the mo3t fashionable women ot New York for the stage. Thow-who have money are gratifying their taste by appearing in amateur theaters, aud every few days we have matinees for charity at which these aspirants appear. The Madison Square seems to be their favorite house, and on afternoons the swellest kinds of audiences are entertained at that theater by amateurs. So far the only person who has attracted any great attention in these representations is Mrs. James Browne Potter, one of the toniest ladies of New York. She has made quite a hit in playing "The. Bussian Honeymoon," and basso well satisfied herself and her friends that it is announced that she will go on the stage professionally next year. Mrs. Potter is of one of the old Creole families of New Orleans, and her debut will undoubtedly be attended with great pomp and show.

Among the promised novelties for spring are dress fabrics of .etamine^with hard-twisted wool cords about the size of a No. 8 cotton, making cross-bars about one-eighth of an inch apart. This fabric will be for combinations with plain etamine, and will be very stylish and effective. Very fine wool batiste in colors will divide popularity with veilings and albatross doth.

SAWYER'S SHREWDNESS.

How a New York Team Driver Laid the Basis of a $8,000,000 Fortune, Senator Sawyer, of Wisconsin, says a Washington correspondent of the New York Sun, is one of the shrewdest politicians in congress, and has had just the training to make him a hard fighter in a political campaign. Thongh bom on the Vermont side of Lake Champlain, the most pf his early years were spent at Crown Point, in New York, then the center of the lumber trade of the lake region. He received there an ordinary common school education, bat stopped school-going early in life to earn the means of supporting himself. He regarded it as a piece of great good fortune when he was engaged by Messrs. Penfield & Hammond, lumoer merchants, to drive one of their teams for $12 a month. Even on this salary he managed to lay by several hundred dollars in the course of ten or twelve years, and in 1847 he took what he had itnd started for the west.

About that time the government vertised a sale of extensive timber lands in Wisconsin territory. Young Saw/er, profiting by his experience with the lumbermen of New York, sent surveyors over the whole tract, who picked the most' desirable lots and macfe memoranda of them. He then offered to give the benefit of his information to some New York land speculators in return for a share in the profit^ and his offer was at once accepted. Meanwhile speculators from Boston arrived on the ground and discovered what had heen done. Knowing that his backers did not have capital enough to get control of the best lands, Sawyer proposed to the Boston parties they join him and his friends and that jOH share equally with them. But they declared that they "would rather have a bare bone and have it to themselves than share with any body else." "However, it was too late for them to have the tand surveyed as Sawyer had done, and the only recourse was strategy.

The sale began at about 11 o'clock in the day. Whenever a good lot was offered Sawyer put in his bid, which was immediately raised by the party from Boston. Much to his chagrin some of the tracts on which he had most set his heart passed thus to the rival speculators. This happened so often that he could not fail to see that he was ^being used as a very convenient cat's paw. Accordingly, at 12 o'clock he asked that the sale_ be adjourned until 2 p. m., as he had important business' to attend to and was very anxious to be present at the auction. This all parties agreed to.

When the sale was re-opened at 2 o'clock Sawyer had a friend fully instructed to bid in the choice lots while-he led the enemy astray. "During the afternoon," said Senator Sawyer, in telling the story the other day, "my man got hwd of about 25,000 acres of first-class timber land, while I had a bad lot of about 5,000 acres left on my hands." The profits from that day's purchase formed the basis of Senator Sawyer's fortune, uow estimated at two millions of dollars. The story as a whole illustrates the shrewd qualities of the man and furnishes an assurance to his political friends that he will not be ousted from his seat in the senate without a shrewdly planned resistance.

The occasion of the senator's recent repetition of the story was his meeting at lunch, the other day, with Mr. Daniel Turner, the father of Boss Turner, the artist. At the time when youBg Sawyer was working for Penfield & Hammond, at Crown Point, Turner was a printer in a town a few miles north of there, and was slightly acquainted with Sawyer. A few years ago, when Turner was appointed clerk of the customs at Alexandria, Va, and the incumbent officer made strenuous efforts to retain his place, Senator Sawyer became one of the strongest advocates of Turner's confirmation, and advocacy which was successful in spite of the vigorous opposition of Boscoe Conkling.

Mr. Turner tells another story of Senator Sawyer, which has'been told before, but is worth repeating. The senator has two children, both daughters, whom he trained to work in the kitchen, as though he did not own a dollar's worth ot property in the world. On a certain Thanksgiving Day, when he considered their education in th® culinary arts about com plete, he told them that he expected particular friends to dinner, and wanted them to expend all their skill in preparing the best and daintiest dishes for his guests. The dinner was prepared and passed along to the satisfaction. When the dessert was served each of. the daugh ters found under her plate a check for $25,000.

Mr. Turner has returned in his old age to his early occupation as printer, and has recently rented an office to suit his needs from one of his successors in the clerkship of customs, who has turned real estate. It may be mentioned here at the end that Mr.-Hammond, lately a representative of New York in the house, is a son of the Mr. Hammond by whom Senator Sawyer was opee employed to drive team.

THE MOONLIGHT.

Some StngnlAr Notions In Regard to Its Effect UpoQ Materials# A subscriber to La Semaines des Constructeurs describes some singular notions in regard to the effects of moonlight upon various materials, particularly those employed in building, which prevail in the French provinces. Several writers in matters of construction, including Viollet-le-Duc, have adveited to the opinion common among masons, that moonlight produces a sort of honeycombing of the surface of a certain kind of stone, "owing," as one of the architects of the last century says, "to the dampness snd coldness of the moon's rays." Violet le Due prefers to lay the damage which incontestably occurs on the south side of buildings constructed of porous stone to the rays of the sun, rather than those of the moon, and explains it by pointing out that the sun's rays often in winter cause violent changes in the temperature of dwrk stone placed in its light, sometimes raising the surface in a few hours from far below the freezing point toj a degree of warmth quite perceptible to the hand so that the south eide walls or columns undergo strains from sudden expansion and contraction which are not felt on the shaded side. 'J'he French country people, however, do not share this opinion. Among the women it is regarded as a well known fact that moonlight is not more injurious than sunlight to the complexion, but that silk and woolen materials are faded more rapidly by the moon's rays than by the brightest sunshine, while the men think it only natural that an agent so powerful in its effects upon these substances should act unfavorably upon stone.* Many of them, indeed, go much farther, and attribute to the moonlight an influence upon iron hardly less baneful than its effect on stone, and many poor farmers, who have no sheds under which to shelter thei wagons and iron tools, build rough screens faoing the south, behind which all their ironwork can be protected from the moonlight. It is still supposed by thousands of French farmers that the rays of the full moon in spring burn the leaves of their growing vegetables but this notion has been satisfactorily explained by the observation that in clear nights in spring the radiation of heat from the leaves'of plants near the ground is often so rapid as to chill them below the freezing point, so that they become curled and brpwn even when the tern perature of the air over them is considerably above freezing and it ia

T»-

Ki

probable that some of the injurious effects attributed to moonlight opm other objects may be accounted for in the same way. Every one knows that dew will rust iron and steel more rapidly than almost any other natural agent and as a screen of any kind interposed between-a a wagen or plow and the sky would, by intercepting the radiation from it, prevent die deposit of dew upon the metal, it can be easily seen that such a screen might, during the clear nights in which dew is formed, serve as a valuable protection to the farmer's tools, without reference to the shade which it would afford from the moon's rays.

Early New York Rich Men. While thns looking at the past I must refer to a list of the rich men of New York presented at a time when William H. Vanderbilt was a clerk. Sixteen millionaires are mentioned, tbe leading names being Petei Lorillard, James Lenox, Peter G. Stuyvesant, William B. Astor and John Jacob, his father, who is rated at $25,000,000. Nearly fifty names are given worth half a million, among whom I notice the Bhinelanders and Boosevelts, but most of the number are entirely forgotten. A. T. Stewart is mentioned in the following manner: "Worth $100,000—is the celebrated dry goods merchant, of Broadway, whose store is the grand resort for the fashionables. Has lately erected a palace near Chambers street at a cost of $100,000 or so—married aMiss Clinch," etc. William E. Dodge is not mentioned, but his partner, Anson G. Phelps, is rated at_ $500,000. Cyrus W. Field is not mentioned, but his brother. David Dudley, is rated_ at $100,000. Bussell Sage was selling groceries and Jay Gould was a clerk in a country store. The Vahderbilf name hss the following flattering notice "Cornel ious, $75,000 of an old Dutch root. Cornelius has evinced more energy and go-ahead-itiveness in building and driving steamboats, and other projects than ever any one single Dutchman possessed. It takes our American hot suns to clear off the fogs and vapors of the Zuyder Zee and wake up the phlegm of a descendant of old Holland." Peter Cooper is also mentioned as "worth $150,000, and the maker of the celebrated Cooper refined isinglass." Most ofv the names, however, if now leublished, would seem new to the reader.

Pho, for instance, would recognije Brandegee, or Bowne, or Glover, or Leggett, or Parish as leading capitalists? And this shows how rapidly evfin men of wealth pass away and are forgotten.

Settling the Temperance Question A group of gentlemen—among whom were ex-President Arthur, his law partner, Mr. Knevals, Tom Pitman, Ira Schafer, John D. TownBend and other well-known New Yorkers—were gathered in a law office on Broadway a few afternoons ago, when the conversation turned upon the temperance question, and each man gave his opinion and experience. They agreed that something must be done to settle our excise muddle, and that, perhaps, they might do it as readily as any one else. The result of their deliberations is worth recording, as it promises a practical settlement of the problem— at least for all except tbe extremists on both sides. Mr. John D. Townsend is to carefully draft an excise bill, which will be presented at the opening of the legislative session at Albany. Its principal features are as fol lows: First, high license, with a view of decreasing the number of our 11,000 liquor saloons and raising their grade. Second, the chemical testing of all beverages by competent authority and the inexorable and severe punishment of all persons convicted of selling adulterated liquors. -Third, the refusal of a license for a saloon within 200 feet of another. Fourth, local option for Assembly districts. This will permit an aristocratic district, like the Eleventh assembly, to banish saloons from its gilt-edged precincts, as its people decree, and, in fact, is a popular provision to which nobody can object. The bill embodying these reforms will be pressed to a vote, and if it does not pass it will at least compel our city representatives to go upon the record

1

Origin of the Steel Pen. This now indispensable article was slowly perfected, and "like most inventions thus perfected, its merits were not at once acknowledged. WheD, in 1810, it first made its appearance in England, it was a piece of sheet steel bent in a tubular form, and cut or filed aw.ay to imitate the shape of a quill pen, the junction of the two edges forming the nib which, of course, extended all Up Ihe back of the pen. It was given away Ss a present, and not for use. It was highlv polished, perhaps gilt or silvered, ind sold for as much as five shillings. In 1824 Mr. James Perry, the founder of a system of education once famous as the 'Perryan' system, took up the steel pen as a practical invention, and bv indomitable energy overcame the difficulties in its construction and the objections to its use. He patented several varieties, and spared no expense to obtain perfection. Hi6 brother informed Mr. Samuel Timmins, ol Birmingham, England, that he paid seven shillings per pound for his steel, and five shillings per pen to the first workmen he employed,' and that for years afterward the price given to his workmen was thirty-six shillings per gross."

Fresh Fashion Notes.

"Bangled" tulle, for dancing dresses, has pendants, like sequins, of gold, silver or pearl, at regular intervals.

Velvet corsages, low-cut, and pointed back and front, supplemented with pretty draperies of tulle and gauze are an innovation for evening toilets.

Ivory white vests, plaited from throat to waist, or- plain, braided with gold or silver,re another feature of fashion, and brighten a dark costume effectively.

Bright red'is exceedingly fashionable for opera cloaks. Some of the newer ones reach quite to the feet, and are open up the back to the. waist so as not to crush the train. i?

Enormous capes and collars, worh upon the cloaks ana coats abroad, are the outcome of the desire to shield the bare nape of the neck, make by wearing the hair on the top of the head.

The high coiffure dressed with flowers or pompons remains the popular style of hair-dressing in Paris, ana will of course obtain in metropolitan circles. A band of black velvet, studded with West India beetles, alternating with gold sequins, is a favorite ornament.

A novel style of hand-bouqr^t, carried at a recent entertainment, w" opposed of five deep pink roses at On. side, the remainder of lilies-of-the-valley, above which hovered three tiny birds mounted on wires. Another was of La France roses, with stems half a yard long.

Worth has decreed that even the palest blonde may wear yellow, but brown is considered a fitting accompaniment for the Titian-colored hair in current vogue. Gray hair should always be brightened by pale-bine and black 4y orange, crimson or the scintillating jets which render many simple toilets a work of art.

Black gauze fans with colored satin sections set in are exqaiBitely painted in watercolon. One that has attracted much attention has a gray satin section, the edges of which appear to be laden

with snow and icicle* hollow in the knot the hollow and pep are five robin red' the most inqaisitivi

i. represents a iol°

Tnside

3

POETRY OF THE PERIOD.

took Up.

Look np, my sotil, not down God's face will smile, not frown. Look oat, my heart, not in To doubt Christ were a sin. Look not still behia', O troubled mind Forward! Thyself fo.gefc Pay thon the debt Of love which thou dost owe •To all men, friend and foe. Trust Go what'er be ide, Faith, Love and Hope thy Guide, And Heaven thy sure reward,

Till then,

Praise thon Lord. As en. Josxph A. TOBBHT.

Beyond Her Power?.

Selections from Sohnbert and Spohr She can very respectably play, And Chopin and Liszt from the score,

On her patient pianoforte And many a Tentonio lay Can sing, with or not with the book. Her talent there's none can gainsay

Bat she never will never learn how to cook.

In German her friends she can floor, And in Frenoh she is also aa fait Against her lingnistical lore 1 am snre that no one can inveigh* She dances aa light as the spray

In that art she no rival will brook.' She's ever so pretty and gay Bat she never will leant how to cook.

Her gowns are from Gallia's shore, And are mode in their ode of the day Her father the bills most deplore

For her very npensive array. She paints and she models in clay In her own ver) beautiful nook, .'Vp And art of all sorts she'll essay:

Bat she never will learn how to oook.

Fair maids, read the moral, I pray: I would win her by hook or by crook I'd give her a chance to say yea.

If she only would learn how to cook. -*—IRambler. The Poetry of Advertising. There 1* a land of bitter fears and wailing,,

A land most like that draar ene Dante kne Where wan-teeai Niobe, with dark robes 1

In sad precasaien moves, brows bound with roe. It is a land peopled by witless mortals,

Compared with whom the virgins five wer* wise And there is writ above it» gloomy portsla:

We did not think it paid to advertise."

There is a land that flows with milk and honey— Not the condensed, nor yet the sorghum strains Each dweller bears a gripsack fat with money,

Bonds, coupons, stocks and various other gains, Happy are theee as at high tide the fishes

No tear doth drown the langhter in tSelr eyes For better luck they have no sort of whishse

The cake is theirs—they learned to advertiso«

4

[Printers' Ciroular. -M'

The Outlook.

0 heart, dear heart, the slow years grow nfore faded, 5.'^ *, Dulled is the music of the world to me,., ,1 No flght is in the wide deep heavens above me, No thrill is in the passionate surging sea. The chords of life are jangled and discordant,^ __ 1 mind me of the music onee they made, And now that life has grown so blank be fore me, I tarn me to the past and seek its shade,

O friend, sweet friend, the great years unrerelenting Have hasted on and robbed us ef our youth Robbed as of many shy and tender graces. Many fond dreams, much of our early truth And left us dregs where„ODce life's wine was leaping The glow, the sparkle, the bouquet, are gone What have we left to keep our hearts from fBilling, As the pale years leap swifter onand onJJjj,,. «_4lorsv-... Only the memory of the hoars departed, ^**^£5 Only the after-glow from off the veers, Only our thoughts grown Under with brooding, And softened by the fall of many tears. 0 friend, sweet friend, life narrows to this treasure, 1 have but one delight—the thought of thee This I shall hold when, drifting from life's harbor I float out on death's shadowy, shoreless ses."--,\ —\Hattie T., Dg Griswold, in Brooklyn Magazine.

A Boston Beauty.

She read to rest her the Zend Avesta, And could talk in Homeric Greek, _~..t She was a maBtar of Zoroaster, 0 •. Kant had wrote a critique. With Emerson, and Parker, and Schleirmacher.

And Baker, and Joseph Cook *. She was familiar, and would almost kill yflr In discussing hem USPSkbpob. She'd give you a spa on pi

And make you dizzy on art She was primmed on theologv acd anthrapolotry, 0-

On Darwin, and Hobbs, and Descartes.) It was almost painful, sho had such a biainful 01 knowledge so far nat of reach It was alnlost intoleiable t-j hsar hor grow( voluble

With her polysyUabjpM speech. She would talk ajtd' gabble on the ruins of. Babylon,

And the excavations in Crete, Switch off on psychology, physics, philology, Coal, carbon, petroleum and peat. She had for her Buitors, professors and tutors

Of antediluvian lore, But she fain would resist 'em and quickly dismiss 'em,

And showed 'em the way to the door. But there came one summer a St. Louis drummer,

And his suit persistently plied, And this St. Louis drummer he wooed and won her

And carried her off as his bride. —[Lynn Saturday Union.

The Bird and tbe Shadow.

Through the blue heavens with sunlight on its wings, The free bird flies and sings Beneath upon the ground its shadow plays Iu endless, aimless maize.

O fool, who only seeetthe shadow blurred, And not the bright-winged bird! And all the years, thine arrows, sqaanderesfi On snoh insensate qaest!

0 oft, though it fee late, thine earth-dimmed •eyes, Where on the darkened skies Still" flash the white wings! main, With that thou mayest attaint —TLondon Spectator, y/

Bat soon dark aatamn-days draw near, And sorrow follows gladness Thsy fade—they die—they disappear, And night for them sheds many a tear

In unavailing sadness

And do efol winds chant dirges o'er thent," As o'er the myriads goqo before them-

Yiit grief not long abides with me To see them thus evanish vt yLt ,,. For, on tbe cheeks of Eulalie, Far lovelier, sweeter roses be,

That time seems looth to banisN That live as in some land Blysian, And at all seasons bless my vision. ... ..-.i'

From a pare heart they spring acd bloom,

A

hrart where love and duty

FoTaught unwertby leave no room, And so they 'soape the common doom Of other roses' beauty -, And theirs is sach as it aye disposes My soul t« loy—celestial roses!

Ambrosial flowers, more fair of hue Than arbntes, ar than daisies, ,s Of apple-blossoms dashed with dew, Or bright carnations' blushes—yon

Have, more than all my praises Oh, may no evil blast, assail yoa, Nor ever blight or canker pale you!

of

\io°! "tick

Ah, never bee or bntterfly "pring ovof fOflM n.. r—- jOttwHf"* Ho sea-shell bears a sofiti dye!

But she,

pOfmr

whose cheeks they besutir, Is fraught with charms still Oh, she—no more!—my «S»g hr-S-iI sing but of her oharming not****®1"®*

Xj

^£*14

If ene shaft re-'

Kooes.

Ia summer-days when brightly bloom Bed roses, ro-. al roses, 1 revel in their sweet perfume Their loveliness dispels my gloom,

My soul to Jojr disposes Like butterflies a'd beee that hover Aboat them. I, too, am their lov. r.

-*0

M*'

JOBTfB.