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Daily globe. [volume] (St. Paul, Minn.) 1878-1884, January 04, 1884, Image 3

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?'. SHERIDAN'S RIDE.
A Boldier'a v'a.lor and Poet's Fame
Linked in the Annals of "War.
James E» Murdoch. Describes the
Hide from Winchester aadTeUs
How Read's Poem Catnc
to Re Written.
[F. A. B. in Philadelphia Press.]
It. was the night before the battle of Cedar
Creek. In tho war IB ■<• at Washington sat
Mi*. Stauton in close conversation with Gen;
I'hil Sheridan.. There were some grave ques
tions* being discusss 1 between them, for the
talk lasted long after midnight. Gen. Thomas
T. Eckerfc, superintendent of military tele
graph lines, was [nan adjoining room watch
ing for sounds of alarm from the front or im
portant telegrams from any of the advancing
armies in the field. A new day was fast ap
proaching the dawn and the war minister
and the general still continued their earnest
conversation. A click of the instrument
caught Gen. Eckert's ear. It was Winchester
calling tho war office. His skilled hand
touched the key in ready response and a mo
ment later the words came:
"There is danger here. Hurry Sheridan to
the front."
' Quick as a flash tho message was handed to
the two men in the n&rcx, room in close con
sultation about the campaign in tbe Shonan
doah valley. Sheridan went to the instru
ment, and there wm a moment of hurried
talk over the wires between him and his heed
quarters, whm Secretary Stanton gave di
rections to Gen. Sckert to telegraph th« rail
road authorities of the Baltimore & Ohio to
clear the road and to at once provide relays
of special engines to toko Sheridan to tho
scene of the coming battle as fast as steam
could carry him. Gen. Eck*rt worked the
\> ;• •• himself, and gave hurried directions to
thi lilroad officials as to what to do in this
emergorcy. While he sat with his hand on
the key perfecting the train arrangements,
Stanton an<J Saoridan bad a few hurried
final words, each countenance bearing the
marks of earnestness, not unmingled
with anxiety. The train schedule was
soon made, Sheridan leSt the war
office, ami was driven to the sta
tion with all poHS»bl<« speed. A panting en
gine had just bucked in as he arrived, and
jumping aboard, the engineer, instructed to
make tho relay houso in the shortest possible
time, pulled the starting-bar, and. away sped
the train. It had a clear track and reached
its destination, thirty miles away, in much
less than an hour. Here an engine of the
main line stood waiting to take him to Har
per's Ferry, seventy miles beyond. There
were no obstructions all the way up. Every
moving train had been side-tracked and every
other precaution taken to prevent accident
to the on-rushing engine bearing Sheridan
to the camp where his army lay. While
this train was making its run all was anxiety
in tho war office. Every telegraph station
reported its progress to Gen. Eckert, and he
to Secretary Stouten, who still lingered that
that he might know when Sheridan reached
his destination.
AT BABPER'S TEBBY.
Three hours passed—dull, anxious hours
to those waiting, every moment of which
seemed laden with lead. Harper's Ferry at
last reports Sheridan's arrival, and a fresh
engine stood ready to take him to Winches
ter, thirty miles up the valley. Not a mo
ment is lost at the hamlet among tbe rocks
when Sheridan boards the waiting messen
ger, and, an hour later, word speeds over the
wires: "Sheridan just reached Winchester."
The run bad been made in the quickest time j
ever known on the rood, and the worn j
and anxious olßJais at tho war office
breathed a. sigh of relief as the click of the
telegraph announced that the journey had
been completed. ,
Eighteen or perhaps twenty miles of turn
pike stretched away up tbo charming valley
that had been made desolate by the torch and
tramp of armies. As that charming region,
clad in tbe garb of Mimaer, lay between the
mountains, its bright colors reflected in the
rays a lieantirul oußshine, it was but a
sad reminder of of the o»«e great granary
that for more tb«Ji threw years at conflict had
furnished untold RuppKw to the Confederate
army. Sheridan hod laid it waste. He had
clinched with mid b«aton Early at Winches
ter, and while he was being carried with all
possible speed back to the seen* of his opera
tions, the tide of battle was ebbing and flew
ing upon a new field, and the fate of the day
hung trembling m the balance. For several
weary, doubtful boors the two armies had
been in deadly conflict. Wh*n Sheridan
•rrived at Winofawter Am roar of aptilory
and the roll of mixketty could be distinctly
heard from the field at carnage along Cedar
creek. Down *£*« vaJiey cam* tha awful din,
echoing louder aad loader through the still
summer air as the battle grew fiercer.
There was but shoiab delay ct Winchester,
the chief town in the lower valley. There
Sheridan mounted his favorite war horse, a
large, beautiful, sinewy, black charger, who
had borne his master through the haat of
many conflicts. He is dead now and his
body has bean preserved, that! men yet to
come may see the animal whose endurance
has been recorded in verse. Through the
town and out over the turnpike which leads
up the Shenandoah, Sheridan rode. Who,
knowing the man, or aught of his character, j
cannot picture the restless rider urging his
horse to the best to reach the field where the
fate of his army was still pending in the
hazard of war? Ho had only covered a few
miles when the moving mass of debris that !
always surges to the rear of a battle field
when the conflict is severe and doubtful, met j
his trained eye and told more plainly than
words what was going on in front. It was a
signal of distress, and none knew it better
than he. The sight fired his heart anew and
only added fresh impetus to his foaming
horse/ He reached the field after a sleepless
night and a terrific journey, and the battle of
Cedar Creek was won.
me. Murdoch's letter.
This is the true story of Sheridan's ride—
might almost say official story. If he did not
stop to gather the stragglers, as a poet's
license has pictured, he did carry back the
tj.le that was floating to the rear, because kia
.'\ence had given fresh stamina to sora*
.; N"ing battalions. The manner of the
m, iis dash and courage, his reputation
and successes, all combined to give heart to
those who had drifted back, believing the bat
tle had been lost. '.'»:.^
I have been sitting face to face to-day, the
whole afternoon, with the man who vouches
for (he above written words. He is a strong,
positive character, just passing, three score
and ten, years crowded with wonderful expe
riences. As he told this story, he warmed
with the fire of the event and his blood was
hot with indignation, for he had just read a
statement that Sheridan got drunk at Win
chester and did not go to the battle field, where
the poet's pen has pictured, him.
"Ah, but I'll pat an end to all cavil about
this story," said he. ".What I have told you
I got directly from Gen. Eckert himself, wha
sat with his hand on the key, arranged and
watched every stage of Sheridan's ride from
Washington to Cedar Creek. He now man
ages the Western Union Telegraph company,
and ml\ bear witness to these lacte. nit l
have a letter from Sheridan. He and I were
then, and are now, friends. "Wh^a I heard of
the ride, I wrete to ask him ab«t it and to
; inquire if I had not ridden the same horso
that carried him up tie valley while with him
_at Chattanooga. Mr. Murdoch soon found.
among his papers. the identical letter which
Gen. Sheridan wrote in reply.
"I need not tell you how highly it is priz;^,".
said th* veteran, "for you will see how care
fully it has been kept through all these
years." . ■" • ..' .-. v •
"Who is there who has read . this country's
history that does not know James E. Mur
doch—til* actor. J-he reader, the.man.' It is
•*• .in* M n> Mils MUTT niiu minimum tun
clinching evidence of tha truthful foundation
of T. Buchanan. Bead's poem. Thousands
who have watched his matchless representa
tion of Hamlet, or .-.-it; under the spell of hi 3
dramatic readings, will be glad to know that,
although be is passing 73, he is still in excel
lent health and spirits. He is a tall, robust
man, with a clean shaven faoa that shows the
brood, distinct lines of his strong countenance
to the best advantage. His wealth of iron
gray hair and his general carriage combine
to make him a very striking character.
"Although an old man when the war was
going on, he spent a great deal of time with
the army in connection with the sanitary
commission and in the hospitals. He was a
favorite at the headquarters of many gen
erals, and witness*! a great deal of the inner
features of army life.
the POEM suggested.
•"The story of Sheridan's ride, above written,
was but a tithe of the good things be told
me. Th ■ recital of this matter naturally led
up to all liie incidents connected with it.
"I was not with Sheridan," he said, "at
this time, but was at the headquarters of
the army of the Cumberland. Soon after
Hie battle of Cedar Creek I came up to Cin
cinnati and was visiting Mr. Cyrus Garrett,
whom wo called 'Old Cyclops.' He was T.
Buchanan Read's brother-in-law, and with
him the poot made his home. The ladies of
Cincinnati had arranged to give me a recep
tion, that finally turned into an ovation.
I had given a great many readings
to raiso . funds to assist their
Soldiers Aid society, and they were
going to present me with a silk
flag. Pike's opera house had been secured,
the largest place of amusement in the city,
and they had made every arrangement to
have the reception a very dramatic event.
The morning of the day it was to take place
Read and I ware, as usual, taking our break
fast late. We had just finished, but were
still sitting at the table chatting. Mr. Gar
rett, the brother-in-law, who wa» a business
man and guided by business habits, came in
while we, were thus lounging. He wore an
air of impatience and carried a paper in his
hand. Ho walked directly up to Read, un
folded a copy of Harper's Weekly, and held it
up before the man so singularly gifted as both
poet and painter.
"The whole front of the paper was covered
with a striking picture representing Sheridan
■ seated on his black horse, just emerging from
a cloud of dust that rolled up from the high
way as he dashed along, followed by a few
troopers.
*' 'There,' said Mr. Garrett, addressing
Read, 'see what you have missed. You
ought to have drawn that picture yourself
and gotten the credit of it; it is just in your
line. The first thing you know somebody
will write a poem on that event, and then
you will be beaten all around.'
"Read looked at the picture rather quizzi
cally, a look which I interrupted by saying:
'Old Cyclops is right, P^ead, the subject and
the circumstance are worth a poem.'
" 'Oh, no,' said Read, 'that theme has been
written to death. There is "Paul Reveres
Ride," "Lochinvar," Tom Hood's "Wild
Steed of the Plains" and half a dozen othor
poems of like character.'
"Filled with the idea that this was a good
chance for the gifted man. I said: 'Road, you
are losii^j a great opportunity. If I had such
a poem to r«ad at my reception to-night, it
would make a great hit.'
" 'But, Murdoch, you can't order a poem
as you would a coat. I can't write anything
in a few hours that will do either you cr me
any credit,' he replied rather sharply.
"I turned to him and said: 'Read, two 01
or three thousand of the warmest hearts in
Cincinnati will bo in Pike's opera house to
night at that presentation. It will be a very
significant affair. Now, you go and give me
anything in rhyme, and I wjll give it a de
liverance before that splendid audience, and
you can then revise and polish it before it
goes into print' Tais view seemed to strike
him favorably, and he finally said: "Well!
Well! We'll see what can be done, and he
went up-stei*s to hii room.
THE POET AT WORK.
"A half hour later Hatfcie, his wife, a brill
iant woman, who is now residing in Phila
delphia, cau« down and said:
" 'Be wants a pot of strong tea. He told
me to get it for him and then he wou Id lock
the door and most not bo disturbed unless
the house was afire.'
"Time ware on and in out talk on other
matters in ttie family circle, we had almost
forgotten the poet at work up-stairs. Dinner
had been announced and we were about to
sit dorwn, wh«n Bead came in and beckoned
me to come. When I reached the room, lie
said:
" *Murdoch, I think I have about what you
want.' He read it to me, and with an en
thusiasm that surprised him, I said it is just
the thing.
"We dinod. and at the proper time Read
and I, v. ith Lhe family, went to Pike's opera
house. The building was crowded in every
part. Upon the stage were sitting 200
maimed soldiers, each with an arm or a leg
off. Gen. Joe Hooker was to present me with
the flag the ladies had made, and at the time
appointed we marched down the stage to
ward the footlights, Gen. Hooker bearing tho
flag, and I with my arm in his. Such a storm
of applause as greeted the appearance, I
never heard before or since. Behind and on
each side of us were the rows of crippled sol
diers, in frcnt the vast audience, cheering to
the echo. Hooker quailed before the warm
reception, and, growing nervous, said to me
in an undertone:
'"I can stand the storm of battle, but thi3
is too much for me.'
'"Leave it to me,' said I; 'I am an old
hand behind the footlights. I will divert tha
strain from you.' So quickly I dropped upon
my knee, took a fold of the silken flag and
pressed it to my lips. This by-play created a
fresh storm of'enthusiasm, but steadied
Hooker and he presented the flag very grace
fully, which I accepted in fitting words.
Murdoch's reading.
"I then drew the poem Read had written
from my pocket, and, with proper introduc
tion, began reading it to the audience. The
vast assemblage became as still as a church
during prayer-time, and I read the first three
lines without a pause, and then read the
fourth:
''Under his spurning feet the road
Like an arrowy Alpine river flowed,
And the landscape bowed away liehind,
Like an ocean dying before the wind;
And the steed, like a bark, fed with fur
nace-ire
Swept on vrith his wild eyes full of firo;
But lo! he is nearing his heart's desire,
He is snuffing the smoke of the roaring fray
With Sheridan only five miles away.
"As this verse was finished the audience
broke into a tumult of applause. Then I
read -frith all the spirit I could command:
"The first that the general saw were the
groups
Of stragglers, arid then the retreating trapps;
What was-done—what to do—a glance- ti !
him both,
And striking his spurs with a terrible oath,
He dashed down the lines 'mid a storm of
hurrahs,
And the wave of retreat checked its course
there, because
The sight of the master compelled it to
pause.
With foam and with dust the black charger
was gray,
By the flash of his eyes and his nostrils' play
He seemed to the whole great army to say,
'I have brought you Sheridan all the way
From Winchester town to save the day.'
"Th« sound of my voioe uttering the last
word had not died away when cheer after
cheer want up from tho great concourse that
shook th« building to its very foundation.
I.«diee wav»d their handkerchiefs and men
their hats, until worn out with the fervor of
tho hour. They then demanded the author's
name and I pointed to Read, who was
sitting in a box, and hs acknowledged the
verses. I* tuch a setting and upon such an
occasion ac I hare been able only faintly to
describe to you, the poem of Sheridan's ride
was given to the world. ■ It was written in
about fch*ee hours, and not a word was ever
THE ST. PAUL DAILY GLOBE, FRIDAY MORNING, JANUARY "4. 1884. •
ciian£*u arwr 1 read it rrom me manuscript,' : j
except by the addition of tha third verse, j
which ream* ■ the ' fifteen mile at&^e of the
ride..
"But there 1* a road from Winchester town,
A goo-l, broad highway, leading down:
And there, thro' the flash' of tiie morning !
light, . ..,..' I
Ajste&d as black as the steeds of night
Was seen to pass as with eagle flight;
As if he knew the terrible need,
He stretched away with the utmost speed; .
Hills rose and fell— his heart was gay, j
With Sheridan fifteen miles away. T '
"This Mr. Read wrote while on his way, j
shortly after I first read the poem, to attend •
a birthday reception to William Cullen {
Bryant. i
"Mr. Read read the poem, thus completed, !
at Mr. Bryant's birthday party. The great j
old man listened to every line of it, and then,
taking the younger poet by 'the hand, said
with great warmth:
'• 'That poem will live a3 long as Lochin
var. '"
Beecher Talks About the Greatness
of the month.
"In Texas I told the people that their state
was big enough for three, and they held tip
their hands in horror and said: *2fo, only
one state.' I said: 'Gentlemen, there are at
least six citizens who will want to be senators
of the United States, and they will be more
powerful than your desire to keep thotstate
in its present form.' In Texas as in every
one of the southern states where I lectured I
was received with more than hospitality—
with cordiaHty, and the managers of the lec
ture tour had no reason to complain. Ido
not '.lustre "to go among a people more friendly.
I spoke in every one of the southern states
through which I passed, and I had not the
most remote conception that I should be so
well received. There are a great many fool
ish people in the south. There are son» in the
north, bat I was surprised and delighted to
see how all the people had survived the see
tioiial feeling. The war and all its issues are
I substantially forgotten, and thoy are busy in
building up again what had been wanted and
destroyed, and" there is now more material
wealth in the sooth than there ever was. I
appealed to audience after audience, if they
could, would they bring back slavery, and
there was not a single instance where they
did not say that they were "delivered from a
great curse and that they would not brin?
it back again. I had no trouble in speaking
I there, and when I told them that I hoped
Gen. Butler would be the Democratic nomi
nee for president they received it with good
nature, as you do. More than that young
men in the south who used to have their liv
ing as pleasure-seekers are now workers.
Manufacturing is springing up so generally
that the attention of political economists has <
been directed to it and they are, going to show j
that untaxed industry in this land can take j
care of itself. I also found in the south great j
interest in schools. They don't fare as well in j
this respect as we do* in the north, but the
wish of the people is for schools and they are
pushing them out in every direction. The i
j prospects of the south are admirable in that !
direction, and I can say the same as regards j
religion. New Orleans is retaining its old i
; ascendancy as a commercial centre.
"As regards the negro, I received testi- j
mony most welcome. The colored psople are j
increasing. The mixture has declined !
through the south: the white folks are whito j
and the black folks are black. We are not !
going to have as much mixture as we need to. j
Education is going on and the southern peo- |
i pie of good sense and feeling are desirous of ;
I having the black people educated. When the !
' colored people own land tisey prosper. ' Tho
white people object to selling it to them, and
for the same reason that peopla m New York j
and Brooklyn do not like to sell land to be i
occupied by an objectionable class. I was!
asked as to my views about social equality. I'(
replied that the . theory of religion was that ;
all men were equal, but that practice indi
cated that social equality should begin at '
home, that men should grow into relation- !
ships that are necessary. The road of the
colored people up to equality is. by intelli
gence, virtue and religion, and they are
traveling on that rood. I believe that they |
have achieved liberty, responsibility and as
much social equality at; in good for them."
AFTERWARD.
[Chambers' Journal.]
O Htrange, O sad perplexity,
Blind groping threagh she night,
Faith f amuj questions ca* there be
An afterwart! of light?
O heavy sorrow, grist and" tears,
That all our hope* destroy;
Bay, shall there dawn in coming years
An afterward of jay!
O hopes that turn to gall and rue,
Sweet fruits that bitter prove;
Is there an afterward of true
And everlasting love?
O weariness, within, without,
Vain longings for release;
Is there to inward fear and doubt
An afterward of peace?
O restless wanderings to and fro.
In vain and fruitless quest;
Where shall we find above, below,
. An afterward of rest?
0 death, with whom we plead in vain
To stay thy fatal knife;
Is there, beyond the reach of pain,
An afterward of life? •
Ah, yes; we know this'seeming ill,
When rightly understood,
In God's own time and way fulfill
His afterward of good.
A NOTABLE PBOOESSION
Of Important and Unique Individuals j
—An Occnltation of Intellect and j
Philosophy.
[Lilian" Whiting's Boston Letter.]
We have had a notable procession of im- ]
portant and rather unique individuals in I
Boston during the past three months, figures
that are marked in contemporary history, j
The first was Protap Chunder Mozoomdar, |
the eloquent representative of the new relig- |
ious refoims in India known as the Brahmo !
Somaj. Then followed Mgr. Capel, Matthew !
Arnold, George Wi j Cable (whose readings
are an entirely original form of entertain- i
ment), Pere Hyacinthe, and Henry Irving.
. Each of these men is in his way of a very .
marked and unique type of individuality., In j
creating them nature broke the mould or de- j
stroyed the plate, and there are no replicas.
Each is * distinctive, and, in different ways, |
great. Babu Mozoomdar, with his message j
of "the Oriental Christ;" Capel, the astute j
and polished prelate; Matthew Arnold, one
of the greatest critical ■ forces in modern j
letters; Pere Hyacinthe, modern Martin i
Luther, an iconoclast and an enthusiast in i
one; Henry Irving, a central and : unique
figure on the stage; Mr. Cable, the greatest ;
original genius of romance since Hawthorne
—all these . figures :; have, since September, ;
passed in procession across the social pano
rama. It is an intellectual occutation, and j
an event as important in the social world as i
an occutation of the heavenly bodies could be :
to the world of science. The conjunction of ,
the appearance of so many remarkable men j
marks as memorable to Boston the autumn
of 1883. ;: ' , . ':;• j
It is interesting to inquire what is the im- i
port. of this occultation and what. message j
these men have ,to bring. That their com- ;
bined offerings are purely intellectual; and
spiritual, rather than scientific and material,
is a suggestive commentary on the age. It is
illumination rather than - analysis .■. that they ; I
bring to the world's problems. 'fi The trend of
the age, whether, for good or for ill, is dis- >
criminative and metaphysical. .' Old ■ truths
are changed in appearance. ,■;• Prolonged: and
profound scientific study and the growth of
poaitiTO philosophy have produced a spiritual;
crisis. ;' Truth. returns, grown 7; strong .by its !
denials, to assert iteolf as a new force. .- There '
is a demand for the seer,' the interpreter, and
one, too, who can present affirmations dra-;
matically.
SJFPOL
[B. L. R. D-ae in N. O. Times-Democrat.}
Margretta came wearily out of the cottage
' door, and «at herself down upon the turf
j seat that Lippo had raised under the one
window that lighted up the darkness within.
She was very tired; she had been spading in
; the tiny garden long before the splendor of
the rose and silver sunrise had flush*! tho ■
j faces of the bills; then she drove the cows to '■
j pasture, and when she came home niado the
i fire and had breakfast nearly ; ready ore
; she went to the ladder and called Lippo.
j He came leaping down from the loftdi-.
I rectiy, and after splashing vigorously at the
1 water, butt appeared at the breakfast table
I glowing and smiling, a drop or two still
I sparkling en his dusky curia
Margretta had but her bowl of soup and
slice of .black bread, but beside Lippo's plate
lay a cluster of grapes and a golden pear,that
Ruffi, the gardener, had given her as she came
up the hill from the pasture.
"Take half, Caro," said Lippo, magnani
mously, as be lifted the fruit; but Margretta
shook "her head. It was pleasure enough for
her to watch his sensuous pleasure in their
perfume and mellow suavity. * He ate them
with the' hearty relish of a child, but when
they were done he gazed at the core he held
in his hand and sighed regretfully.
"What is it dear, are you hungry still?
' asked Margretta, anxiously.
"No," he answered lightly; "but I have to ■
'go to town to-day. ! I should have saved the
pear for my dinner; you know I can't eat dry
bread, Margretta; I would starve first."
But his sister was equal to the emergency.
She was quite used to being his providence.
From tb» cupboard she produced triumph
antly a slice of cheese. "There, Lippo! look
at that I and with a laaf of yesterday's baking
you will not dine badly, I am thinking.
Now, go, my child, get yourself ready for
your journey."
While she cleared away the meagre rem
nants of the meal Lippo went to don his festal
array. It was the cast-off velvet lounging
suit of the count, who came at rare intervals
to the villa, and Margretta had purchased
them from his valet with the price of her sil
ver ear-rings. She shed a few tears at part
ing with them, for they were her only
treasure, excepting her string of pearls, but
she wished to surprise Lippo with the gift on
his name day, and v/hen she saw how beauti
ful he was in the rich, little worn garments
she rejoiced at the sacrifice. Even the string
of pearls must go now, for the lost payment
on the two fields was due, and when they
were bought Lippo would bo free to bring
home a wife at any time.
Heretofore Margretta had always been
j able to meet the payment, but last winter
j Lippo was sick and needed wine and nourish
j ing food, and in the spring one of the oxen
; died so with a little pang Margretta de
cided the pearls must go. Lippo would take
them to town to-day, and old Andrea, who
j lived by the church and who bought the
j peasants' marriage plates and linen chests to
! sell" again to the rich folk from abroad, would
\ give her a fair price for the pearls; enough
j to pay for the two fields and a little over to
! make Lippo a wedding feast when he should
j have a mind to marry.
Lippo came down the steps from the loft,
I dressed for his errand, and Margretta stood
! agaze, as she had done a thousand times since
j his babyhood, lost in admiration of his soft,
j dark beauty; bis long, slender body was so
: lithe and supple, his oval face so smoothly
1 curved, his lips ■wore like a scarlet flower, and
his eyes like stars in the dusk.
He came merrily out ; through the cottage
< garden, picked a crimson carnation, which
' he stuck behind his ear, kissed Margretta,
. and swung gaily off down hill.
That kiss repaid Margretta for all her sac
;' rifices when Lippo was but a toddling baby,
j and she must work early and late to keep the
| two, with no tone for fetes or lovers like
I other girls bod. His little clinging arms and
| caresses had consoled her for everything, and
she haM the dances and kisses of the young
! men am but a feather's weight when balanced
! against the comfort and happiness of her
pretty bambino; -
Now, Margrette had no lovers to repulse.
One does no* rise long, hours before day to
dig,'to weed, to toil uncea«ing>y for twelve
hoars each day, to lira spare and sleep little,
ami yet wtein the smoothnew of youth. Her
hjmds wars coarse and red, her face a
j withered bwinii, her back brood,. and her
f stop hetrry, • though she was but 35.
'il*« years bad dipped by unheeded, while
th» exacting baby was yowing an indolent.,
haKttkt&A awn. So many years Margretta
li*J t#il*d Jb-r Mm Chat it seemed but natural
sUtndarmbA o&ntiaoe to do it
She wmM hare resented a suggestion as
t« hn* larcoeos and want of consideration.
Did not Ltirpo always come at sunset to help
her feeob water np the hill, taking the jar
f ram her as-if she was a prinoesß. And did
be not miner in the evening and take her
j away firom her work, drawing her into the
I gardan among the carnations and lilies, de
claring she worked too hard and must come
oat in tho moonlight and listen to the
i nightingales?
Did that look as if ho were inconsiderate*
And oh saints' days did he not always go
S with her to mass, carrying her book and
j offering her the holy water as if she were
I his sweetheart?
! Were there any other young men who
| treated their sisters like that? No, decidedly,
j she had nothing to complain of in Lippo.
So she went cheerfully about her work all
day, and when the night fell she gazed with
J pride at the clean garden and the heaps of
uprooted weeds. Then she drove the cows
' from pasture, stopping to talk with Ruffi, to
j ask when the count was expected, and
! whether the fruit ripened welL When the
! cows were penned she dashed water over her
brown throat and arms, smoothed her hair,
and retied her kerchief, for Lippo liked to see
J her neat. Then she seated herself to rest and
I wait for Lippo.
She was very tired, she did not' remember
; feeling so tired in all these years; but then
! she was up so early, and the sun had been
I very hot to-day; perhaps she was going to
; have a fever, many of the people had had
I fevers during the summer, but she had no
> tame to be sick; what would become of Lippo
> then? .-;.',.
All her limbs felt numb and dead, but she
' had not the energy to ; stir them;' she hardly
: seemed ta care whether she ever moved at
j aW, and her thoughts grew faint and con
: fused; sic could not think whether it was the
• fire-flies that sparkled up above her; there
| was another name for them she knew but
couldnt remember it, and there they were
: again, flickeriag and glittering in the cedars.
I It was very strange, yet she didn't much care
jto solve it.; Was that a nightingale singing,
jor was it Lippo whose voice came up the
! road? Lippo could sing until one would ■
; weep for the beauty of it, 1 and now the sound
gave her a strange, lost, far-way feeling that
: was like a pang. She dimly felt she must go
[ get Lippo's supper ready, and yet lacked the
; will to move. .
1 Through the gate at last he came, calling
■to ~ her ; and ' saying something she
; could not understand. She tried .to
; rise, but she could not move. The cold sweat
: stood out on her brow from the intensity of
i 1 her effort, yet she sat as still as the marble
I virgin in the church. • r ;:'
! It was ■ all > dim and confused; . Lippo cried
j out. and Ruffi and his wife i came up tho hill,
carried her in aad laid her on the bed, where
■ she lay all night, v: looking :at the ■ lamp \ and
"■. thinking that Lippo had not had his supper.
■ N-ext day; her mind was clearer, and the
physician was brought from the town. He
; shook his head, ■ looked . at ; her - keenly ' and
, r said,";."pafaly«ia.",;- Too ; many. years of hard
/ work and scant ■ food . had caused it, and she
would never walk, probably never speak
.'.again: : Vi . . " •;_ ■
i*; "You must change places with your sister,
'■■ young man," he said; looking from under hi?
lowered eyebrows at Lippo; " 'tis a pity you
did not do it sooner.'.' ;-•■
; ■'• Lippo ; looked very pale and grave, and
, Manrrefta's h**rt sank within her. f SI«
Knew hi ha.l always hateil sick people: his | •
bright, sensuous nature shrunk aghast from j
suffering, even in others; it'fillsd him with I
repulsion. Sho struggle:! hard to speak, to;
• be; his: forgiveness 102* having brought this I
on him. but she could only make inarticulate t
murmurs. j
. Lippo hated himself for this feeling, yet j.
he could not overcome it;'twas part of his j
nature.; When he tended Margretta his flesh !
writhed away from her's; wbsa he kissed J
her, a-> of old, he was filled with the fiercest i
repugnance, full of the animal instinct that |
teaches t'a9 brutes to kill the sick and maimed s
of their kind. 1
Margretta felt somewhat of this, and bit- (
terly grieved that she should have brought |
this trial upon him. She would have been ;
his providence, and now she was his curso. j
What girl would marry Lippo now that he J
bad this l.uitiin in bis cottage? and his soft '
beauty must be marred by the painful, in- j
• cessant labor that had brought her to this, I
She wanted to speak to him, to tell him to
send her away to the almshousa, but could I
only follow him about with sunken,' appeal- t
ing eyes. j
Day by day Lippo became gloomier, more j
discontented. Every day he must rise before !
■ day to fill ten hours with the drudgery and j
coarse labor of the peasant At night when
ho came home the cottage was dirty and un- •
comfortable and the food not cooked, and he
would go sulky and weary to his loft There
he lay and revolved hi 3 project of escape.
The day he sold the pearls a man had, as he
passed along the Via Carlotti singing,
stopped him, asked him many questions, and
said that his voice was as beautiful as the
voices of the great tenors who sang in Rome,
and if he would come and study with him he
would gain in one night more than the price
of twenty strings of pearls. . *
■ He had intended to ask Margretta to sell
the fields and go with him, but now that was
all of no use. He must give up all the beauti
ful life that had opened out before him,' and
Lippo had heard enough of tht 5* -* great
tenors to imagine ite pleasures, la - *uld
have been proud and haughty to tlw chorus )
singers and the servants, and he would have
worn fine new clothes, not the old cast-off
coat of which Margretta was so proud; and
he would have eaten only the dantiest food
and been idle all the day in the sunshine and
among the flowers. Then, too, he was beau
tiful he knew, . and the great ladies would
have loved him; he had never cared for the
peasant girls, but the groat ladies were dif
ferent, with their small soft hands and j
whito skins like lilies. Ah! the lights, the |
perfume, the applause, the soft, dainty, indo- *
lence of the life! And he must give it up j
for this! Must he give it up?
Margretta and himself were almost starv
ing; he couldn't work as hard as she could,
and the two little fields did not keep them; it
would be much better if he went away and
sang and sent Margretta money that should j
give her comforts and some one to wait on j
her. She might miss him, but then he worked ]
all the day and she hardly saw him, and— j
and— ho might as well acknowledge—tc ]
himself— he was going to do a selfish, j
heartless thing.
He rolled about in the straw, and clutched
bis curls; he could not give up that bright,
beautiful life—the alternative was too dark
and dreadful. Margretta would be glad of
it after awhile, when he sent home money. !
If he went at all it was better to go at once, !
The neighbors wouldn't understand, and he i
shrank from the pain of telling Margretta. I
Long before daylight he swung himself j
down from tho window. He shivered a little i
in the cold morning air, and his heart ached ;
when he thought of his sister. He half ;
thought he would go in and kiss her good-i
by, but his courage might fail if he did, and j
by the time the streaming I sunlight woke '•
Margretta he was many miles upon his road j
to Rome. j
She lay there all day—hungry, thirsty and ]
very puzzled. What had become of Lippo?
Maybe he was ill, up in his loft, and needed \
her. She fought with dreadful energy for ',
power to move, to call, but the holy virgin 1
worked no miracle in her favor. She imag- j
mod all manner of explanations of his ab- |
sence, and when Ruffi came in ■in the (
evening she was half mad with fear and *
anxiety.
Rum cama to tall her that the carrier had !
met Lippo in the early morning, hurrying
away from the farm; and had called to him, ;
but he would not answer, and kept swiftly on
hii way.
Andrea said a stranger had talked to Lippo
in his shop and had asked him to come to
Rome, and told him great tales of the wealth !
he should make with his voice. It was on the
road that led to Rome that the carrier had j
met him.
Margretta hardly understood at first; bufc !
gradually the truth dawned upon her. Her j
bambino, her beautiful boy, haddeaerted her—
left her to die alone.
She made no sign; she could say no word;
but she turned her gaunt face and haggard
eyes to the wall.
Padding a Cablegram.
[Cincinnati Times-Star.]
An interesting story is told of a Boston
journalist who, at the time of the Java earth- I
quake, made a two-column article out of a
thirty-word dispatch. He has a rare volume
in his possession which gave an account of a >
former earthquake in Java, with a very ac
curate description of the place, names, etc .
This he simply rehashed, and, as it happened, !
he hit the nail on the head. After a while
several of the papers to whom he sold the dis
patch began to think it strange that he should
have had such a large item almost exclus
ively, and they inquired about it. Dana, of The
New York Sun, asked the editor concerning j
it, and wanted to see the original telegrams.
He was told that they had been given to an
other paper. Mr. Dana again became sus-;
picious, and he was told that a coffee mer- 5
chant in Java had sent the journalist iv ques j
tion 400 words, and he had amplified and !
padded it until he made a veVy vivid and
graphic account. For a while Dana swallowed I
the story, and then began to think it odd that •
a coffee merchant should have such a wonder- j
ful idea of news, and when he finally learned j
the truth he was gracious enough to say that
after all it was well done.
A Beautlful|l<atln Scholar.
[Detroit Free Press.]
"Mother," said a slangy Cass avenue boy at ]
the table when company was present, "this j
butter is O. X., but the bread is N. G., and j
ought to get the G. B."
"Just hear him 1" explained the fond mother; t
"he is such a • beautiful Latin scholar that 1 <
don't pretend to understand a word he says!" j
. How He Fought the Rheumatics.
" [Chicago Herald.]! •
In a Detroit hotel I met a warped, wiggly I
man, who said he had been all twisted up by j
the rheumatics. "Great God he axclaimed, j
"I have gone through a hundred hells. ■ My j
fingers, you see, are pretty crooked,' but once
they were all at right angles; every joint was j
twisted out of true. But the worst was in my '
legs; my knees were the '■ same way,' and in i
my feet all the joints slipped past each other. j
For . four years I suffered .what cannot be
described, every moment praying for death. ■ \
1 My only relief was business, and I kept right :
on; buying timber, land and working camps ]
when I would have given the whole state of \
Michigan: to be in hell,. just for relief. I ■
made 000 one day in a timber trade; it was j
one of my. worst days,and if the $3,000 hadn't j
encouraged me a bit I certainly should ' have
committed suicide. " '." '^^^SBBi
; ' A Hotel or a Fort? .
[Chicago Herald.] ' ,;
On wrirl«g of military titles in the west, a ;
San Fraacisco"journalist is reminded of the ,
! visit of an English lord to Sacramento during :
a seaSon of tho legislature many years ago. :'
His lordship ■ put up at ? the Orleans. His
chaptron iatroduoed '■ him ?> to I Col. J. Y. Me-
Duffy, Gen. .Wright, Commodore Farragut,
Col. v'Gen: v Allen, Adj.. (Jan; Drum/Col. v
:Kewen, " Maj. : Ja*k E'aratmau, CoL Bowie, ,
Gen. James A. HcDougail,* and so ; on, when -
his lordship asked him, ';L*d, is this a hotel'
or is it a blocdv old-^ori?" ..;' .';
WHAT HADE HOI GLAD.
\. [John Boyle O'Reilly.]
He was old and alone, and bo sat on a stone
to rert for a while from the road:
His beard was white, and his eye was bright, \
and his wrinkles overflowed
With a mild content, at the way life went;
. and I closed thy book on ray kuec: <
" I ytill venture a look in this living bo;k," I
thought 'as he j;reei.-'» me.
And I said: " My friend, have yon t:ino to
spend to tell rue what makes you sln.i i*
" Ob. aye, my lad,''-with a smile; " V. ■■. ;;! id
that I'm old, yet am never sad T '
But whyf said" I, and bis merry eye mado
- answer as much as his tongue,
" Because," said he, "I am poor and free
who was rich and a slave when young.
There is naught but age can allay the rage of
the passions that rule men's lives;
And a man to be free must a poor man be,
for unhappy is he who thrives;
He fears for his ventures, his rents and do-.
bentures, his crop.;, and his son, and his
wife; -■
His dignity's slighted when he's not invited,
he fears every day of his life. '
But the man who is "poor, and by aj»e has
grown sure that there are no surprises in
years, . . ■
Who knows that to have is no joy, nor to
save, and who opens his eyes* and his
ears
To the world as it is, and the part of it his,
. ': awi who says: "They are happy, these
birds,
Yet tiiey live day by day in improvident
way— improvident? What were ;he
words
Of the Teacher who taught that the field
lilies brought the lesson of life to a man!
Can we better the thing that is scboolless, or
sine more of lore than the nightingale
em
See that rabbit—what feature in that pretty
■ creature needs science or culture or care?
Send this dog to a college and stuff him with
knowledge, will it add to the warmth of
his hair i .
Why should mankind, apart, turn from Na
tures start, and declare the exchange bet
ter planned!
I prefer to trust God for my living than plod
:' for my bread at a master's hand.
A man's higher being is knowing and seeing,
not having and toiling for more;
In the seiwes and soul is the joy of control,
not in pride or luxurious store*
Yet my needs ,are tho same as the kinglings
whose name is terror to thousands; some
bread,
Some water and milk—l can do without silk
—some wool and a roof for my head.
What more is possess that will stand the grim
test of death's verdict? What riches re
main
To give joy at the last, all the vanities past!
—aye, aye, that's the word—they are
vain
And vexations of spirit to all who inherit be
lief in the world and its ways.
And so, old and alone, sitting here on a stone,
I smile with the birds at tho days."
And I thnnked him and went to my study,
head bent, where I laid down my book
, , on its shelf;
And that day all the page that I read was my
age, ana my wants, and my joys, and
myself.
AH ELYSIUM FOR THE BABIES.

Cored for and ' Entertained While
Their Mothers Are Away at Work.
[New York Sun.]
The memorial nursery for working women's
children is a four story brick building at 275
East Broadway. When a reporter called
there yesterday about twenty, from 6 months
to 6 years old, were in charge of a nurse on
the parlor floor. A dozen other children
were sleeping in the dormitory on the floor
above. The reporter was surprised at tho
cleanliness of the children, and the matron
explained that the clothes they wore belonged
to tho institution. The children, she j said,
were brought there early every morning by
their mothers and many of them were very
dirty and ragged. Their garments were
taken off and<he children were bathed. They
were then clothed in clean garments. "It is
a pleasure," said the matron, "to see toe
comfort which the children derive from the
change from rags and fittbinesa to cleanli
ness and good clothes. Tho nttio ones are put
is cher, of nurses and the eider ones are al
lowed the freedom of the play-room, and on
fine days they play in the large backyard.
About noon they go to the dining-room and
receive a substantial meal. At 6 o'clock they
eat a good supper, and tho babies are fed
whenever they need it during the day. After
supper they are reclad in their own garments
and taken home by their mothers."
"Do their mothers continue to send them
back in a filthy condition?" asked the re
porter.
1 'Some do. But ft would surprise yon to
gee how quickly the true mother perceives
the advantage of one day's cleaning up of
her children, aod the majority bring them
back tbe next day with a marked improve
ment in their appearance, and wherever pos
!jrbl«, with clean clothes on them.
The duerjrJ made for all this care is only
5 cants , per day fct each efcild. This small
charge is made simply to eaeourage the
mothers to believe tbai they are paying for
the care of their children. Mrs. A. R. Brown
is in charge of the numery. The house is the
property of a wealthy lady of this city, who
a few years ago lost her only child, a little
girl 2 years oKL . Tae lady bought the
house for the purpose of founding the insti
tution in memory of her dead child. All ex
penses are paid by her, and it is . the. lady's
intention to endow it with a sufficient fund
for its maintenance after her death. Mrs.
Brown said that for the present the lady
does not wish her name to bo made public.
The nursery was opened on May 21, and now
cares for thirty or forty children per day.
During the summer months the children will
be taken on excursions and to the various
parks for fresh air.
"DOA2T LOOK 'ZAUTLY. EIGHT."
Monte Hatters Which Do Xot Har
monize With the .Eternal Fitness ol
Things.
[Lime-Kiln Club.]
"Dor am seb'ral things dat doar-' look
•zactly right to me," said Brother Gardner,
as he rubix-d his bald head with one hand and
opened the meeting with the other.
"It doan' look 'zactiy right to see one man
wuth $10,000,000 an' anoder wuth only 10
cents (applause by Samuel Shin), but yit if I
wus de $10,000,000 man I wouldn't keer
wheder it looked right or not." [Sudden end
to the applause.]
"It doan' look 'zactly right fur one man to
own a great foundry, while anoder man am
obleeged to work fur him fur $2 a dAy( "Hear!
hear!" from Judge Cadaver), but if I was de
?2 a day man I wouldn't frow myself out of a
job to spite do owner or to please a dema
gogue." [The judge subsides.]
"It doan' look 'zactly right to see one man
hold oflii, all de time, while anoder man has
to shove a jack-plane fur a libin' (great rustle
in Pickle Smith's corner), but he who shoves
de jack-plane has de resyieck of de community
an' keeps outer jail." [Rustle dies away.]
"It doan' look 'zactly right to see fo'ty law
yers rush to defend a criminal who has stolen
money in his pockets, while de offender who
am moneyless am left to dig his way frew a
ten-foot wall wid an ole knife-blade (grins on
a dozen faces); but if I was a lawyer I should
aim my money any odder way except by
sawin' wood. De public doan' look fur any
pertickler display of conscience on de part of
lawyers, an' darfore suffer no disappoint
ments." [Grins no longer observable.]
"It doan' look 'zactly right fur one man to
have a big brick house an' anoder man a
rough bod shanty, but 'long 'bout tax-time
de man in de shanty kin sit on de fence a; f
chuckle over de fack dat tie haint rich.
"It doan' look 'zactly right) to see one man
go pushin' an' sweilin' an' crowdin' every
body else off da sidewalk to let de public
know dat be am a king-bee, but suah men
have to carry de anxiety of bein' in debt to
de tailor an' of dodgin'. de grocer an' of sub
soribin' ?25 to build a church widout a hope
of bein' able to pay 10 cents on the dollar.
"In fack, my friends, dar 1 am heaps an'
heaps o' things dat doan' look 'zactly right to
us ac fust glance, but when ye corae to figger
it up an' divide an' subtract we've all got a
heap to be thankful fur an' to enoouraj^ us
yo gi» up amy m go mawnin'. A man Km
brace his legs an' lay back like a male, an*
kick away at de hull world an 1 halo cbcry
body an' be. hated ia return, or ho kia pick
tip sartin crumbs o' cgnsolasaun, crowd inter
a seat ia da back eatul of ite wogin,'' aa' toko
a heap o' comfort, knowing dat somebody is
wuss off dan himself. Let iisaccuciuLato to
Insuc^." -
: — ■■
11l Tr-iise cf Australian Women.
[Arcbftalrl ForlwsmContoiupvrary H^view.J
T!i:> w!l-"accmlitc*l' '.visitor to Australia
may l:>v hisnconint with having -what'the
Aurcriwuis culLs "a lovely time." . Australian
ladies have a characteristic bright, airy
piquancy. They sparkle as j perhaps not
evea the American Lilly sparkles. Their
"manner"—one finds ouo asking one's -if
bevrildcredly how and whence they set —
for you will find it in the damsel of I re
mote bush township as graceful, frank, deb
onair and winsome as in the Melbourne
girl who may have spent half a dozen years
in European residence and travel. One of
tho finest ladies I have ever met, in every
shade of reflection of that term, was never
outside the colony of Victoria in her life,
except for a short visit to New Zealand.
Australian ladies read. I fancy Gordon and
Gotch could supply some startling statistics
in regard to the number of high-class re
views and periodicals they export to th»
antipodes.
I am happy to say that I never met a blue
stocking in Australia; but I have had the
honor of conversing with many Australian
women of high culture and deep thought on
subjects, superficial thought on which is as the
crackling of thorns under a pot. But you do
not find yourself oppressed by untimely volun
teered frankness of this sort; you have to seek
that you may find. To sum up with a curt
ness and rough, generalization for which
apology is Australian ladies are fairly
accomplished; in modern languages they aro
somewhat weak; ,in music very good, oc
casionally exceptionally so. They all sing,
and many sing welL The most exquisite
flower painter 1 know lives under the South
ern Cross, and her gift is real genius. Vic
toria can boast of as amateur actress in whom
also I ventured to recognize something of the
sacred fire. In physique they are ta'.ler,
slighter, more lithe, shapelier than their fair
congeners at home; their color, save in Tas
mania, is seldom brilliant. The expression is
full of vivacity; the eyes nearly always good
and the head and feet shapely, although uot,
as those of American ladies, exceptionally
small. They donoo.divinely.
- The Editor of The Century.
[Leander Richardson.] .
A pale, slender young man, with a bundle
of books and papers under his arm, lunches
occasionally at the Westmoreland, up in
Union square. Ho has black eyes, straight
features, and a thoughtful face. When he
shakes your hand it is with limp lingers.
When he talks it is quietly and in a softly
modulated voice. One would take him in a
crowd for an overworked amanuensis, or
something of that kind. He is Richard Wat
son Gilder, tho poet, and editor of The Cen
tury magazine. Under his guidance that
periodical has advanced wonderfully, both in
circulation and in quality. It goes wholesale
in England, over the above and widespread
demand for it here. Mr. Gilder is one of the
very few men I know who are fine writers
and skillful managers. No man more deftly
weaves a tender sonnet, and none shows
greater tact in handling a great periodical.
Mr. Gilder succeeded J. G. Holland in tho
editorial chair, and long before the death of
that celebrated writer be did tho bulk of the
actual work in the office. The Century owes
its position at this time to the untiring indus
try and literary discrimination of the pale,
slender young man, who crosses Union Square
nearly every day with his bundle of books
and papers.
Elevated, But Wot in the Kijcht Hay.
[Few York Tribune.]
Tho elevator in a tall down-town building,
had reached the ninth floor, and the boy held
tlie door open for tho venerable passenger to
get out
"Top floor, sir," be said.
"EhT ejaculated the old man, as if jiot
comprehending clearly.
"This is the top floor, sir, as far as we go.
Where did you wish to stop?"
wWhy, I got out at One-hundred-aml
twenty-first street. You ain't there already,
are your
Waiting passengers wondered why the ele
vator did not stop for them on its way down,
bat that boy hardly got his breath till the
old man said to the janitor who showed him
the door:
"I thought it was the elevated road."
For Free Lunches.
A New York reporter has discovered that
the broken food, of which the street beggars
sometimes collect groat basketfuls, is given-*
to the low saloons for the free lunc.'i tables ia
excba»g» for liquor
Daniel WebHtcr't* Disappointment.
[Cor. Cincinnati Enquirer.l
Daniel Webster, it is known, was poor. BEe
had the power to make money, but not to
keep it, for his house was as open as tha day
to melting charity. His only son, a man of
fine intellect and character, but like bis [>ar
ent, of but little wealth, asked of th« Taylor
administration• an office, which no -one
doubted ho was competent to fill. , The re
suit is told in the words of Mr. Webster to
one of his most intimate friends. The con
versation occurred while Taylor was still
president:
"If I were to live my life over again with
my present experience, I would, under no
circumstances and from no considerations,
allow myself to enter public life. The public
is ungrateful. The ma why serves the pub
lic most faithfully receives no adequate re
ward, fin my own history thy.-c acts which,
have been before God, the most disinterested
and the least stained by selfish considerations
have been precisely those for which I have ;
been most freely abused. No, no, have noth
ing to do with politics. Sell your iron, eat
the bread of independence, support your
family with the rewards of honest toil, do
your duty as a private citizen to your coun
try, but let politics alone. It is a hard life, a
thankless life. Still I know it has its compen
sations. There are some green spots, occa
sional cases, in the life of a public man; other
wise we could not live. The conviction that .
the great mass of the intelligent and patriotic
citizens of your country approve of well-di
rected efforts to serve them is truly consoling.
That confidence on the part of my fellow
; citizens I think I possess. I have had in the
course of my official life, which is not a short
one, my full share of ingratitude, but the on
kindest cut of all, the shaft that has sunk the
deepest into my breast, has been the refusal
of this administration to grant my request for
an office of small pecuniary consideration to •, ,
my only son." .r. ' ,
He then straightened himself up, and, with.■ /
conscious dignity, added:
. "I have not deserved such treatment. .I'
■ have served my country too long and too t s»,;
siduously to receive such a slight frotr: tbxr
administration. However, let us say no v
more about it; the whole thing is.. too con- :
temptible to claim from me a * moment's ■■.
thought." .'■■■' „
The American Custom.
[Chicago Tribune.]
The author of "John Halifax, Gentleman,""
has written to her publishers to say that ; sho -
does net wish her name to appear as,it usually:
does, Dinah 'Mulock Craik, but as Dinah
Maria Craik. The fashion of retaining one's.
family surname after marriage is peculiarly
American. . In England they ■ drop it and re- •
: tain the middle name, if they.' havo one. A
correspondent gays: "I must say that I pre- ■•
fer the America^ custom. It is more dis
tinctive. You may not recognize Mary ' Ann )
' Smith, but if you see the name written Mary "
Fitztsimmons Smith, you say at once, 'Why ;
that is old Fitzsimmuus' daughter who mar*'
ried* John Smith.'"
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