Rensselaer Republican, Volume 19, Number 19, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 13 January 1887 — Page 7

ONE AT A TIME. Ost step at a time, end that well placed. We reach the grandest height; Ono stroke at a time, earth’s hidden stores Will slowly come to light; ■One seed at a time; and the forest grows J Ono drop at a time, and the river flows Into the boundless sea. c One word at a time, and the greatest book Is written and is read; ' Ono stone at a time, and the palace rears Aloft its stately head: OmMow at atinuK,. and. the tree’s cleft through, And a city will stand where the forest grew A few short years ago. One foe at a time, and ho subdued. And the conflict will be won; One grain at a time, and the sand of life Will slowly all be run ; One minute, another, the hours fly; “ One dav at a time our lives speed by Into eternity. One groin of knowledge, and that well stored, Another and more on them, And as time rolls on your mind will shine With many a garnered gom Of thought and wisdom. And time will tell, 'One thing at a time, and that done well," Is wisdom's proven rule. —Golden Days.

HER FALSE, WICKED PRIDE.

BY ETHEL STEVENSON.

“Milly, who were you driving with in the Bow yesterday?” I do not reply, “What’s the matter, dear? You are blushing like anything!”,—- u v .- y. - I bite my lips savagely. My husband ‘rises, and comes over to, my chair. “Milly. dear,” he says, “you are afraid to tel) me!” “I’m not!” I cry, indignantly, though I know very well his words are true. “Then why don't you tell me at once?” “Because I don’t choose!” “Then I must tell yon. I met Depworth yesterday, and he asked me did I not object to your driving with " “What business has he to interfere?” I interrupt. “He did not interfere,” says my husband, quietly; “he merely cautioned me that Mrs. Fleet was not a nice companion for you. She is in one of the fastest sets in London. She is not a nice woman. You hear me, Milly?” Yes, I do hear him, and am at this very moment making up my mind to speak to Mrs. Fleet the next time 1 meet her.

“Now, darlimr, kiss me,” my husband says, kindly; but instead, I hurry from the room, and slam the door behind me. ♦ * ♦ * ♦ * *• ♦ I’do pot see my husband again that day until about 7 o’clock. I have refused to come down to lunch, and have remained all day in my bed-room, reading—or rather pretending to read. Seven o’clock strikes, and startles me; and at the same moment the gong sounds. Why on earth has not Parker come to dress me? Then I remember vaguely having given her leave to go out. It is too late to dress now; but I am tired of myself—tired of sitting up here alone, so I go down as I am, to find that Douglas has brought home a couple of friends to dinner. I dart a look of anger at him as I make some lame apolosy for my costume. His friends .are two rather good-looking young barristers. At dinner I talk and laugh incessantly, studiously avoiding, however, exchanging a word with my husband. He does not say much,'but sits silent and abstracted at the foot of the table. He is annoyed more than he. .cares to show at my behavior, and in this to-nightT take a wicked delight; so I talk on. and presently manage to get up some joke on Mr. DepWorth. My husband’s brow is darkening; and in 'another moment I have both bis guests in a roar of laughter at something I say about his clerical friend. (Mr. Depworth is a clergyman.) “But you ought to have seen him one Sunday morning," I say, keeping up their amusement. “lie writes his sermons with a lead pencil, and as he turns the leaves over, his fingers always get perfectly black after a while. Well, that Sunday I thought I should have died of laughter. It was one of those dreadful hot days, you know, and he drew his hand across his forehead, and left five dirty finger-marks on ——” “Milly,” thunders my husband, for the first time his anger getting the better of him, “I will not sit and hear you making iun of Depworth! He is a good man and I won’t have it!” The two young men exchange glances. I am very angry, but I only laugh, and after .a.few.ffi.oments rise from-the table. .

As I leave the room, I catch my hus-ban-d’seye. It is full of yearning. Already he has repented his hasty words to me—my well-deserved repropf. I leave the room laughing; but as I ascend the wide stone staircase, my eyes fill with scalding, remorseful tears. I think that if Douglas were here now, I -would acknowledge my fault and implore his forgiveness. lam near repentance now. But a few moments and the feeling passes. Angry, revengeful thoughts fill my mind. I remember that my husband has scolded me before his friends, and that I hate him! It is in this frame of mind that I go up to my boudoir, and lying down on a couch, try to rest. I close my eyes, but it is scarcely surprising that I Can not sleep. Douglas is coming up stairs. He enters the room; and, treading on tip-toe for fear of waking me, crosses the room, leans over me, and kisses me. A yearning comes over me to put my arms round his neck, and ask his forgiveness; but whilst I am wavering he departs, leaving me, as he thinks, asleep. When he is gone I go to bed. - I do not know how long after it is; but at all events I am not awake when he comes up. When I open my eyes in the morning, with that unpleasant feeling that something has happened, which invariably comes to the drowsy brain after anything disagreeable has happened the day before, I miss him, and, on inquiry, learn from my maid that he went out early. Breakfast is ready, and the tea getting cold. Shall I wait, for him? No; I decide not, so I sit down to my solidary breakfast, feeling very much inclined to cry. I have almost finished when the door opens and Douglas enters. “I went to Covent Garden," he says, apologetically, “to get these flowers for your hair to-night.” “I am not going to the ball to-night," I return ungraciously. - "Not going?" “No.”

That is all. we say to each other; but as I leave the room he calls me back. “Well?” I ask. “Won’t you stop while I eat my breakfast?" He speaks half wistfully, half disappointedly. I linger at the door. My better nature urges me to humble my pride. I know that by a few short words I might be as happy as I was before this quarrel arose. I hesitate, approach him by a few inches; th'en my mood changes, and I say, coldly: “I am very busy. I am afraid I cannot stay. ” 1 “Very well,” he says, sighing heavily; “but before you go take this paper” (handing me a copy of a society journal). “There is a paragraph in it which will interest yon.” There is something in his tone as be

present state of my feelings, irritates me. So I say. coldly: “Thank you; I don't care to see it.” I leave the room; but directly I hear him go out I return stealthily and fetch it. I open it and begin to read, and have glanced through two or three paragraphs, when I come to this (the context is about some fancy ball): . “Mrs. Fleet was there, of course. She appeared as Venus. Her dress excited a fair amount of remark, beine something in the style of the ‘Madame Favart’ Venus a white satin body, cut square—very square —and Lpced down the back; no sleeves; white satin petticoat, very short. Mr. Fleet did not attend. He—” So this was the sort of woman I wanted to make my friend! My husband is right; but again my false, wicked pride makes me think if Mrs. Fleet were to come to call on me now I should ask her to lunch. I won’t say the first word. Jf he chooses to ask me to make friends again, perhaps I might; but humble myself I will not! With these bad, rebellious thoughts in my mind I go about my housekeeping; but nothing goes right. I am cross; cook is cross. I scold; cook is pert. I give her notice. After this achievement I betake myself to the drawing-room, and begin to work some crewels, I am working a flower, but thinking of something verv different. I am thinking how disagreeable everybody is—everybody but me—and how infinitely—- “ Surely something looks wrong! What on earth—oh!” —■— '.7 •’ ) And then follows a naughty little word I have often heard the boys use at home. I have done a rose blue! I take up my work, and, dashing it to the floor, trample it under foot; and then suddenly, and quite unexpectedly even to myself, I burst into tears, and realize, for the first time, that since yesterday morning I have been perfectly miserable. I begin to wish my husband would come in and see me; perhaps he would pity me. I am finding out that I cannot live without his love.

The hours pass on. No Douglas. He does not come to dinner. Is it any wonder? Have I made his home pleasant to him to-dav and yesterday? This is the first time lie has ever failed to come to dinner. Perhaps he will begin to spend his evenings out —at music-halls or theaters. But this thought is too dreadful; Ido not think he would do that. Oh, if only he would come home! How cross I was to him at breakfast, and he so kind! All that evening I sit alone in the draw-ing-room, doing nothing, only thinking—thinking miserable thoughts. Nine o’clock!

If it had not been for iny odious pride, I should be dressed now for Lady Inglestone’s ball. How happy I might have been! Presently I hear the hall-door open and slam. It is my husband coming in’ to dress. My heart throbs loudly as I hear him coming up the stairs. I am crying again. As he passes the door I give a great sob. I hear him pause for a moment, but only for a moment; he passes on. I rush to the door. “Douglas!” I cry, piteously. “Douglas!” If he hears me, he does not answer, and with a great, hoarse cry, I sink upon the floor in an agony of grief. Half an hour passes, and then he descends, and leaves the house. He is gone. “Oh, I did think he would come in before he went!” I -wail, with a great tearless spb. “Oh, Douglas, Douglas!” I cannot cry now. I can only sit still, with a fierce grief gnawing at my heart. So I stay on, watching and waiting. Twelve o’clock, One, two! I hear them all strike. lam the only one up in the house. The servants have gone to bed hours ago. I rise and pace the room, and as I do so, I catch sight of my face in the mirror over the mantelpiece. I almost start, it is so white and haggard. It frightens me. My eyes look wild and strange, and gleam in their tearless brightness with a curious light. I am frightened, the house is so silent. The cld’ck, as though taking advantage of the stillness, ticks its loudest. I find myself counting the moments as they pass, marked by its loud longue. the fire is dying out. The embers, one by one, assume a dead, dull red, and ever and anon fall lower in the grate, with a noise which seems to make every nerve in mybodystart outinaffright.— I am tired, worn out now with sheer inability to weep, and begin to nod my head lower and lower, when, suddenly, 3 o’clock strikes, and brings the dews of terror once more out upon my forehead. Douglas will be home soon. Oh, the thought is joyful! I have never longed for him as 1 long now. I fancy I can see him dancing. At this moment I might be happy, and with him, but for Hush! What is that? One of the windows is being steadily, stealthily shaken! I start up, wild with alarm. Yes; some one is trying to get in. I do not scream; something prevents me. lam sick with terror, yet I glide quietly from the room into the passage, and there, in the clear, white moonlight, I distinctly see the dark outline of the figure of a man opening the window from outside. . For a moment my fear gets the better of me. I cannot see, feel, or think. lam perfectly dazed. Suddenly a thought comes to me. The words seem whispered in my ear. He is in my power! . I rush forward, and, with all my strength, give him a push. I see him reel, clutch convulsively at the woodwork of the window, and fall, pro?elled by my murderous hand. As he falls, catch a glimpse of his face. Oh, Heaven, it is my husband! , « • * « ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ I stand still as I am, unable to realize anything. There is a mist before my eyes, a dull throbbing in my ears; but my mind is a blank. • The cold night air blows in, and makes the hairon my forehead flutter wildly in the draught, but I scarcely feel it; lam dazed. I try to think, but cannot. Days—weeks —years seemdo pass as I stand, feeling, thinking, knowing nothing. All the time I mutter aimlessly to myself, “I have killed him!—l have killed him!” but the words to me mean nothing. And so the long minutes come and go. I have not stirred a muscle; my hand—the hand which gave that murdering push—is still extended. lam leaning forward, as I did then. My eyes are fixed on space, vacancy, with a deathlike stare. “I have killed him!" - I speak the words but do not hear them. “I have killed him!” And then suddenly I realize what I say. My voice becomes a wild, despairing shriek. Then follows explaining thought—thought not expressed even to myself; but it has dawned upon me that my husband has forgotten his latch key, and has climbed up by the pear tree, and I have killed him—l have, killed him! Oh, am I, too, dying? My arms relax and fall to my side; I reel, and seem to fall into an abyss of bottomless blackness.

“Milly! Milly, darling, speak to me! Oh, can she be dead? Milly, speak to me! Milly!” ; My hnsband’s voice! I open my eyes slowly, and gaze bewilderedly into his great, tender, frightened eyes—eyes now full of inexpressible thankfulness. “Douglas!—oh, Douglas!" " Yes, darling; I am hen-!” “But—but aren’t you dead?" And I shudder convulsively. “No;" and a half smile broke upon his handsome face. “What put that into your head? I only came in just now, and found you lying here. Oh, darling,” he adds, “when I believed for a moment that you were dead, 1 thought I should go shad!” “And didn't you forget your latch-key, and climb through the window, and—and didn’t I push you down? Oh, Douglas, has it only been an awful dream? Are yon really here?" “Yes, darling; only a dream,” Only a dream. I put my arms around hie neck, and kiss him as I have never kissed him before. It seems too good to be true, to have him here in my arms, when I thought to see a shattered But that is tod awful, and I burst into tears. “Forgive me, Douglas! I have been so miserable! I am so sorry!” “So have I, Milly! Kiss me!*’ And so we make it up. We kiss again with tears. Then I tell him of these two wretched days—how unhappy I have been, then of tny dream. Only a dream! Is it possible that the life-time of agony I passed through as I stood in the calm, cold moonlight, gazing out into vacancy, awful, palpable vacancy, should, after all, have been but a dream?

The Old Soldier’s Defense.

Circuit Judge McCallum, of lowa, began his career at the bar characteristically. His first case was before a justice of marked morality, who was extremely harsh with criminals. The weakness of the old puritan was his veneration for veterans of the war, all of whom he esteemed as unrewarded heroes. McCallum had fought four years. His client was a thief. “The only thing I can do for you, ” said McCallum, after having gained the man’s confidence, “is to implore the mercy of the Court. When you go on the stand tell the whole truth.” The man had stolen a cow, killed it, sold the hide and taken the carcass home to his family, which was really suffering for the necessaries of life. The prosecution, with a Jong line of witnesses, had made out a perfect case, and the brow of the justice was draped in ominous frowns when the prisoner was called. The latter did as directed by his attorney, concealing nothing—from the almost starving condition of his wife and family to the dressing of the stolen beef. “Now, your honor, ” said McCallum, “the defense has no witnesses. My client is guilty. He has hidden nothing from this Court. It is the first time he ever transgressed the laws. He was inspired to do wrong by that instinct which we even admire in brutes.” Then, turning to the prisoner as if the fact had nearly escaped him, McCallum said: “By the way, you were a soldier in the late war, were you not ?” “Yes, sir.” “Weren’t you at Gettysburg?”

"Yes, sir.”.. “So was I. And you were in other historic battles, fighting for your country, while your wife and family suffered from want at home?” “Yes, sir.” The prosecution at this point saw the way the case was drifting and attempted to ridicule the “old-soldier defense,” as the prosecuting attorney named it. The effect on the old justice was to arouse all his loyalty and indignation. “Enough of this,” said he, bringing his hand down on the desk in front of him with a thundering thud. “No soldier, no man who has shed his best blood for his country, not even if he be a criminal, can be reviled in my presence. The prisoner is discharged. And, sir, when you are suffering for the necessaries of life again come to me. ” - The joke was too good to keep. McCallum told the justice one day that the old soldier was an ex-Confederate, but never again did' McCallum practice in that court.— Chicago News.

A Case of Generosity.

A little negro boy used to loiter around Millionaire Armour’s stables in years gone by. His clothes were in tatters, his kinky hair peeped through a rent in his hat, and his feet were strangers to comfortable stockings and shoes. The king of the pork packers took an interest in the lad, and one day he called him into his barn and asked him why he didn’t go to school. The boy replied that he didn’t have any money. . ■ “Well, would you go if you had the money ?” asked the rich packer, placing his hand on the boy’s head. “Oh, golly, yes; I’d go to-morrow?” was the quick response. A few days later the boy started for an educational institution located in a small town in Maryland. Armour’s money was in the pockets of the lad’s new clothes, and a letter of introduction to the principal of the school, written by the packer himself, was in his valise. Years passed. The student grew' to the stature of a grenadier, he became proficient in his studies, and was at last chosen captain of a military organization made up of fel-low-schoolmates. The student, whose name, by the way, is Forest, never forgot his benefactor. Letters passed between them at regular intervals, the packer accompanying his missives with handsome remittances. During his last vacation the student came to Chicago to visit Mr. Armour and, the friends of his youth. He presented the packer with a portrait of himself, and the night before he left the city to return to his college he indicted a most touching letter of gratitude to his benefactor, which contained, among other things, this singular passage: “When I return to school ! go not like the bonded slave, but like Caesar to the Senate Chamber.” Armour cut this passage out of the letter, and, pasting it on the back of the negro’s portrait, had the picture framed. He then gave it a position on his office desk, where it still remains.— Chicago Herald. ■ ..., - It is said that a clean kitchen was George Eliot’s favorite sitting-room. We are left in doubt as to whom she invited when she wanted to really and truly enjoy‘herself.

TERRIBLE DISASTER.

Two Trains Running at High Speed Collide Near Tiffin, Ohio. A Score or So of Victims Mangled and Boasted In a Shocking Manner. [Tiffin (Ohio) special.) One of the most horrible and heartrending accidents ever chronicled occurred on the Baltimore and Ohio Road near Republic, about eight miles east of here, at 2 o'clock Tuesday morning, through the collision of a freight and the Erie express. An unknown number of persons, estimated at fifteen or seventeen, perished, and several others were badly hurt. The names of the killed, so far as they are known, are: C. P. Bradley, of Washington, D. C.: burned to death. Joseph Postlethwaite, aged 57; on hie way from West Virginis to Chillicothe,, Mo.: burned to death. Spencer Postlethwaite, aged 18; son of Joseph; burned to death. Henry Postlethwaite,aged 11; son of Joseph; burned to death. Fireman William Fredericks, of the express train. George Pearce, express messenger; burned beyond recognition. M. H. Parks, of Washington, D. O.; burned to death. Mr. Ballard, from New York State ; burned to death. Mr. Ferguson, of Bloomdale, Pa., an old man; missing and believed to be dead. Grant Mansell, of Milwaukee, Wis.; missing and believed to be dead. George Sipapson, of Milwaukee, Wis.; missing and believed to be dead. Some half a dozen persons were injured more or less seriously. At 1 o’clock a. in. an east-bound freight train, in'charge of Conductor Fletcher, pulled out of this city, expecting to side-track at the Scipio Biding to allow the east-bound express to pass. ‘After the passenger train hod gone the Conductor, being without special orders, exercised his own judgSient and determined to pull out, inasmuch as he had half an hour to make the switch at Republic, a little less than five miles distant, before the arrival of the express from the east, due at. that point at 2 o’clock. The night was bitter cold and much difficulty was experienced in keeping up steam in the engine. Finally, at a point half a mile westof Republic, the train came to a standstill, being unable to move farther. Just hero was made the horrible mistake which resulted in the loss of so many lives and the destruction of thousands of dollars’ worth of property. Although the conductor must have known that he was encroaching dangerously near the time of the express, he did not send out the signal until after his train had come to a standstill and he found it impossible to move farther. He then started forward with the lantern himself. At this point there is a sharp curve, and Gon ductor Fletcher had not proceeded more than the length of twenty cars when he saw the headlight of the approaching express rounding the curve not more than forty rods distant, and running at the lightning speed of sixty-three miles an hour. Horror-stricken with the knowledge that a frightful accident could not be avoided, he flashed his light in the face of the engineer, Lem Eastman. The latter at the same moment saw the light of the freight engine, and, giving a wild shriek of the whistle for brakes, he reversed his engine and jumped for his life, crashing through the window of the cab, carrying glass and sash with him, and alighted in a heavy snow-drift. He escaped serious injury, his hurts being confined to a slight wound upon the knee As Eastman realized the danger, he called to his fireman, William Fredericks, to save himself. The latter was engaged in stoking the fire. He raised up and hesitated a moment to glance forward, as if to estimate the danger. This was fatal, as at that instant the crash came, and poor Fredericks was pinned and crushed by the mass of the wreck. The effect of the collision can be better imagined than described. The engines of the two trains reared into the air like a pair of enraged living monsters, and then settled down upon the track driven into each other until the cylinders touched. The force of the impact jammed the baggage cars into the tender of the fast train, the express edr into the baggage car, and the smoker into the express car. In loss than five minutes from the moment of the collision, and before any organized effort at rescue could be made, the fire of the overturned stoves communicated to the woodwork,' and the flames leaped high in the air, the roar mingling with the cries of anguish of the imprisoned victims to whom death in its most terrible form was a horrid presence. The trainmen and uninjured passengers were powerless, and could no nothing to rescue the sufferers. .

JOHN ROACH.

The Famous Ship-Builder on His Death-Bed —Afflicted with Oancer. [New York special.] It is known that for some weeks John Roach, the ship-builder, has been confined to his residence in gradually failing health. According to his own desire, that his friends should not be needlessly alarmed and apprehensive of the etfect upon him of learning the real nature of the disease from which he is suffering, his family and physicians have been reticent in regard to his condition. Mr. Roach. however, —new realizes fully the impossibility of recovery, and the reason for concealment no longer exists. In view of this fact, a representative of Mr. Roach’s family has made the

fpllowing authoritative statement of his condition. “Mr. Roach is beyond the reach of mediical help save in the alleviation of his sufferings, which have long been incessant and intense. His disease is epithelioma, and its development has been very similar to the case of General Grant, the location, however, being the roof of the mouth instead of the throat. All efforts to arrest its progress have failed, and only his powerful constitution has sustained him so long. He has never seen a well day since the entire nervous prostration consequent upon his assignment eighteen months ago. From that crushing blow he could not rally, and the cancer began to develop last January. In March an operation was performed, in the hope that the disease might be eradicated. In the summer the trouble returned, and it became evident to the physicians that there was no hope. Mr. Roach is now failing gradually, his agony relieved only by anodynes.” Ship-building on the Delaware was made famous through John Roach, and who also may be said to have built the. city of Chester, Pa.; at least, he has been instrumental in making the city what it is to-day, a great ship-building metropolis. Mr. Roach was born in Ireland, but was reared in America, in the city of New York. Prior to his starting in business on his own account he was a common workman in the Allaire Works. At this place he soon advanced himself, through his adaptability to business, to the position of foreman, after which he establrehed himself in business with a very small capital, but his old

employer’s recommendation assisted him to a moderate credit, and his natural force soon gave him prominence. In 1867 he was financially able to purchase the Morgan Iron Works, for about $400,000, and in 1868 the Neptune Works, for $150,000; and two years later the Franklin Forge, for $125,000, and also a large property at Chester, Pa., where he subsequently put in operation the extensive works known as the Delaware Riv r Iron, Ship-building and Engine Works; of which corporation Mr. Roach was the President and owner. He is the builder of numbers of vessels for the United States Government.

TRAIN-ROBBERS SENTENCED.

Wiltrock and Haight Get Seven Years in the Penitentiary, and Weaver Gets Five. [St. Louis telegram.] The sensation of the day in the Criminal Court was the sentence if Wittrock, alias Jim Cummings, the now famous express robber, and his accomplices, Haight and Weaver. The appearance of the prisoners in court was a signal for a general tip-toeing and stretching of necks by the audience. The prisoners entered pleas of guilty to the charges against them of larceny from u railroad. The State recommended the full extent of the law, seven years, for Wittrock and Haight, and five for Weaver. While this dialogue was in progress Wittrock stood with one hand carelessly thrust in his trousers pocket, and as the suggestions of the Circuit Attorney dawned on him a look of disgust spread over his features, which he mode no attempt to conceal. Weaver appeared to be the most “chipper” of the party, and to all questions answered promptly “Yes, sir,” as if it was a pleasant duty which he thoroughly enjoyed. Wittrock was then sentenced to seven years in the penitentiary and to pay the costs of the prosecution. Haight was the next to be disposed of. and during the ordeal he exhibited signs of a nervous collapse He turned pale and trembled, but when ordered to take a seat recovered at once. Weaver took his medicine without any outward sign of emotion, and his sentence, in accordance with the suggestion of the State, was made five years. Wittrock made several humorous refereiices to the curiosity displayed by the spectators, but his sole desire was to get to the • pen ” as soon as he could. A dramatic incident occurred just as the jail door closed behind the robbers. A tall, slender young man in a blue shirt was standing against the screen talking to two ladies in the “cage,” “There is Fotheringham,” said Haight to Wittrock, as they haltmi near the guard’s desk. ■Wittrock looked intently at the young man in the blue shirt, and said: “By , I believe it is.” “Yes, it’s him,” asserted Haight. By this time the irons had been removed ftom Wittrock’s. wrists, and walking hastily to the young man in the blue shirt, he extended his hand and said: “Fotheringham; old boy, I am glad to see you. I did you a wrong about two months ago, but I hope you don’t bear me any hard feelings.” “None at all,” said Fotheringham; “although you took advantage of me when we last met.”

TRADES UNIONS.

The American Federation of Labor, Its Objects and Aims. The President and leader of the Executive Board of the American Federation of

Labor is Samuel Gompers, of New York, who is Second Vice President of the International Cigarmakers’ Union, and President of the Workingmen’s Assembly of New York. Mr. Gompers is an Englishman by birth, and is now in his thirtyseventh year. He worked as a cigannaker from his fifteenth year until he was called on to give his time to the official conduct of his union. He has been a prominent promoter of the plan of federation, and though himself a Knight of Labor, an opponent of amalgamation. He was twice President of the first Federation, and has long been a prominent officer of his own union. Whether the labor organizations should be amalgamated into one large body, or should form a federation in which each may retain its autonomy, is one of the subjects that have most seriously engaged the thought of the labor leaders. The tendency of the trades unTbffs has been toward a federation; and the tendency of the Knights of Labor toward an amalgamation.

Five years ago a loose sort of federation was formed by several trades-unions which maintained its existence, but was never strong enough or definite enough to exert any great influence. Another movement was begun early in the year, by other trades-unions than those which formed this loose federation, to effect a more influential and definite general organization. This resulted in the recent meeting" at Columbus, Ohio, of delegates from twentyseven national and international tradesunions, who effected an organization which supersedes the former federation. The new organization, under the name of “The American Federation of Labor,” comprises most of the better-organized unions, sueh as the Typographical Union, the Federation of Miners and Mine Laborers, the Cigar-makers’ International Union, the Brotherhood of Carpenters and Joiners, and the lron-molders of North America. The twenty-seven labor organizations already thus united claim a membership of about 350,000. The double purpose is to preserve the autonomy of every trade organization, and at the same time to devise a way where one trade can come to the rescue of another. It is a problem not unlike that which the founders ot the Federal Government had to solve. The trades-unions, like the States, insist that every one knows best how to manage its own affairs; every one is jealous of any interference by any other one; and yet all recognize the necessity of combined action.' The fundamental idea of the Federation is that no trades-union shall abridge the liberty of another. To quote from an explanation of the movement by one of its chief promoters: “The carpenters axe better judges of all questions affecting their hours of work or their rate of wages than the cigarmakers or the printers or the miners can possibly be. The first condition of healthful organization, therefore, is that the carpenters shall have a union of their own, and that they shall suffer no dictation from any other union. At the same time there are certain problems which all trades-unions have in common; for the whole labor world must pull together in the general effort to uplift the laborer.”

SIOUX CITY’S SENSATION.

One of the Men Indicted for Parson Haddock's Murder Tells What He Saw. [Sioux City special.] Paul Leader, one of the nine defendants indicted for murder and conspiracy in the Haddock case, has made a statement of bis connection with the tragedy. Leader is proprietor of the Milwaukee House* in connection with which,until recently, he ran a saloon, was closed a few weeks ago by abatement orders. He is a German* but speaks English fluently, a man of fine address and of considerable property. He admits that he was present at the scene of the murder of Dr. Haddock, but declined to make a statement over his own signature. He said he was willing to tell all he knew save only mentioning names, as that would involve others. Leader’s verbal statement is as follows: “I was near the spot on Water street at the time of the killing of Dr. Haddock the night of August 3. I was not in the crowd on the corner of Water and Fourth streets, just in front of where the shooting occurred. A few minutes before the shooting, myself and a friend, whose name I decline to give, entered Junk’s saloon. There were a number of persons inside whom I recognized. Among them was H. L. Leavitt, the variety showman, whose confession has been published. Just inside the door John Arensdorf was standing talking with Alderman Grady and Street Commissioner Scollard. Shortly afterward a man entered, and said that the buggy had come back. (The man was “Bismarck’ and the buggy contained Dr. Haddock.) Leavitt and others went out, and Still others joined the party going up Fourth street toward Water. The livery stable is on Water street, one-half block south of Fourth street. My friend and I followed at some distance, walking quite leisurely. I knew something was up and walked along to see, but it never entered my head that there was to be a shooting or Oven a serious affray. We came upon the crowd at the corner of Fourth and Water streets.” “Do you kiiow who were in the crowd?” “Yes. We stopped long enough to see who were there, but I don’t want to give names.” “How many were there in the crowd?” “There were at least fifteen." “Was John Arensdorf there?” (With emphasis.) “John Arensdorf was not in that crowd.” “Did you see Leavitt?” “I did. He was standing there with the rest of the crowd. My friend and I were there only a few moments, and, seeing that there were so many, and that there would likely be trouble, we started down Water street. We had walked just about half a block and were looking across the street into the livery stable. We thought the preacher was still in the stable. Suddenly we heard a revolver-shot, and I whirled about and looked toward the corner where we had passed the crowd. I saw two men standing in the street. One staggered forward and fell. The other turned and ran north on Water street. There was nobody else in the street, either before or behind those two men. They were at least twenty-five or thirty feet from the corner where the crowd was. Of he man who turned and ran was a little over medium height, not heavily built, and about my size. He wore lightcolored trousers and a flat hat. It may have been a straw hat Almost as soon as the shot was fired the crowd at the corner ran away, and my friend and I ran south toward the lumber yards." Leader resisted every effort to draw from him the names of the persons at the corner. The statement of Leader is significant. He is on the most intimate terms with Arensdorf, and is regarded by the defense as “solid.” He has declined every overture of the prosecution. His statement, in all its allegations, intimations, and spirit, tallies exactly with what has been hinted J>y the friends of the defense as its theory. It is simply an alibi for Arensdorf and the fixing of the act of murder on Leavitt, while the “explanation of innocent presence will be attempted in behalf of Leader and the other conspirators. . Leader’s description of the man in the slreetwithlight-colored trousers and a straw hat clearly indicated that Leavitt is the man on whom it is proposed by the defense to put the shooting.

ALFRED TENNYSON.

Poet Laureate of England. For several weeks past the press and literary people generaJly have been discussing Tennyson’s lust poem, “Locksley Hall Sixty Years After.” It is not generally known that Alfred Tennyson is nearly eighty years of age. He was born August 6, 1809, at Somersby, a village in Lincolnshire, about half way between Spilsby and Horncastle. He was one of the twelve children (of whom seven were sons) of the Reverend G. Clayton Tennyson, LL.D., rector of Somersby and vicar of Grimsby. Alfred was taught the rudimentary subjects partly at home and partly at “Cadney’s village school.” Alfred Tenny-

son’s first verses were written upon the model of Thomson’s “Seasons.” In 1828 he went to Trinity College, Cambridge, and in 1829 gained a gold medal for a poem on Timbuctoo. He publish d his first volume of poetry about this time, and in 1832 his second volume was published' by Edward Moxon. The story that “Locksley Hall” was based upon personal experience is said to have not the slightest foundation. In the year 1850 he was married to Miss Emily Sellwood, and in the same year succeeded Wordsworth as poet laureate, and produced on the day of the funeral of the Duke of Wellington (November, 1852) his immortal “Ode.”

Quite Sure She Was Right.

'“Who was that tall gentleman your daughter was walking with last evening, Mrs. Wiggins?” “I don’t know exactly, but he’s a literary man and lives in Chicago. I know he must be well off, too, for he knows such a. lot about nice horses." “Are you sure he’s a literary man?” “Oh! yes, he said he was a bookmaker.* Miss Hvbbie (a fair Bostonian)—l suppose you learned the language before you came to this country ? New York dude— Bai Jove, don’tcherknow, why—er—what—er nawshunawlity d’ye f awncy I belong to—er? !\Jiss Hubbie —It’s difficult to say. I’ve not. yet beenio Europe, but I thought for a foreigner you managed the most difficult language in the world with skill. New York dude —Thanks, awful much! I’m very much beholden to you. Neveb expect a lawyer to mind his own business. A lawyer draws pay for minding the business of other people. Pans out well—Good milk.