that the great commercial nations will insist that no one nation shall get possession of the wrecked Empire. Already Russia's railroad in Manchuria virtually converts that Chinese province into a Rusian dependency, while the proximity of the Siberian Railway to all northern provinces will more and more give Russia the commercial supremacy of that region. The influence of Japan and Russia will naturally predominate in Asia, but their rivalry and that of the European nations will probably prevent any one nation from obtaining the lion's share should there be a division after the present insurrection or war-it is impossible to determine which it is, as yetis ended. The United States wants no Chinese territory. But whether we shall be forced to accept some in lieu of an indemnity which a dismembered Empire could not pay, events alone can deter

mine. In any case we shall doubtless insist upon the "open door" policy. The ignorant and bigoted Boxers are making history, and the world will be profoundly affected by it.

Lincoln's Friendship for the South

The persistence with which Lincoln endeavored to bring about the adoption of some plan whereby emancipation with compensation could be effected, shows him up in a clearer light as the greatest friend the South ever had. Within that rough exterior there lay a great heart that beat in sympathy for those who were oppressed by any form of injustice. In many respects Lincoln typifies the best and noblest in man, and the day is not far distant when the South will be as glad, as proud to own him as the North.

Far within the Cascades leaven,
Shining like a northern light,
With proud head held high to heaven,
Stands St. Helens cool and white;
Adams, Hood, Ranier on duty,

Looking down on thee below,
Speak with voiceless grace and beauty,
Mingling lights of sky and snow.
Little cities peep with pleasure,

O'er thy mantles-green and wide;
Thou art great and ruling treasure,
Thou art inspiration-guide;
Airy castles draped with mosses,

Smile and kiss the beckoning sky,
Happy castles! free from crosses,
Smiling oft, as storms sweep by.

O, I deem thee peaceful river,

(All thy beauties I have seen) Fresh and pure as new-mown clover, Fair as any ball-room queen! But thou cans't not hear such prattle; Flatterers' words are stiff and bare, Meaningless as baby's rattle,

When the rattlers are not there.

Hope nor pain nor folly ever,

Break upon thee, grand sublime; Smoothly flowing, winding river, Passing through the round of Time. Like a gull that dips the ocean, Skims the wave and flies the foam, Ever with a calm emotion,

Speaking oft of love and home.

While I speak-a deep commction
(Every joy is crossed by pain,
Foolish thought-that life's emotion
Found thee not. O, smile again!)
Fills the air and roaring surges

Tear thy calm and fling thee wild;
Rapids--man hath called thy scourges
Like the beast-and thou the child.
But the right must conquer ever,
And I see thy form sweep on,
Laughing at the mad endeavor,
For thy life; to me, that's done;
For my vision fades upon thee,

To others now, thy tale thou'lt tell, But my heart will oft embrace thee, Lovely river, fare thee well.

B. Salisbury.

Most women are inclined to be very lenient to any offense on the part of a man which he can make them believe springs from their attractiveness.

Every woman has an ideal husband before marriage, and a very real one after it.

Many a woman who has made a man unhappy for a time by declining his offer of marriage has, afterward, earned his eternal gratitude for her discernment.

To know some women is to know the whole sex. They seem to combine in dazzling bewilderment the virtues and vices, the charms and counter-charms, of all womankind.

A married woman is always wiser than an unmarried one; but it is often the wisdom comes from disappointment, sorrow and discontent.

Men, as a rule, long to be loved only during youth. In mature age they long for power, and their longing is increased in proportion to its acquirement. Their love for women is readily appeased; their love for power is instatiable.

No woman is capable of inspiring so intense and lasting a love as one who thinks she is unlovable.

The man who weds a woman solely because he believes she loves him commits the greatest wrong towards her. She will certainly discover the fact, and will hate him and herself for all future time; him for having deceived her; herseli for incapacity to keep her own se

cret.

woman from insufficient cause, her patience and amiableness increase his irritability and aggravate justice into cruelty.

Many a woman is as remarkable for greatness of heart as for littleness of mind. She can feel deeply when she cannot see clearly, which may be the main reason for her tenderness.

Certain passionate, high-tempered women can never love without a mixture of shrewishness. This is naturally more endurable to lovers than to husbands, who would prefer, for peace's sake, a little less love and a little more amiability.

Junius Henri Browne, in The Century.

What Women Like in Men.

Women, I think, like manly, not ladylike men.

They like honesty of purpose and consideration.

They like men who believe in women. They like their opinions to be thought of some value.

They like a man who can be strong as a lion when trouble comes, and yet, if one is nervous and tired, can button up a shoe, and do it with an amount of consideration that is a mental and physical bracer-up.

They like a man who can take hold of the baby, convince it of its power, and get it to sleep after they have been worrying with it and walking with it until their eyes are tired and they feel as if they had no brains.

They like a man who is interested in their new dresses, who can give an opinion of the fit, and who is properly indignant at any article written against wo

What Is Home?

London Tid-Bits offered a prize for the best answer to the question: "What is Home?" Here are a few bright answers to it which were received:

The golden setting in which the brightest jewel is "mother."

A world of strife shut out, a world of love shut in.

An arbor which shades when the sunshine of prosperity becomes too dazzling; a harbor where the human bark finds shelter in the time of adversity.

Home is the blossom of which heaven is the fruit.

The only spot on earth where the faults and failings of fallen humanity are hidden under the mantle of charity.

An abode in which the inmate, the "superior being called man," can pay back at night, with fifty per cent interest, every annoyance that has met him in his business during the day.

The place where the great are sometimes small, and the small often great.

The father's kingdom, the children's paradise, the mother's world.

The jewel-casket containing the most precious of all jewels-domestic happi

ness.

ances.

Value of a Pure Home.

There is nothing on earth for which one ought to be more thankful than for having been brought up in the atmosphere of a pure home. Such a home may be narrow, and even hard. It may be deficient in material comforts and utterly lack the graceful amenities that lend a charm to human life, but it has in it the forces on which great characters are nurtured. One of our best friends-a man as sturdy as a forest oak-once said to me: "I was the son of poor parents, and from my youth up was inured to self-denial and hardship. But I do not remember ever to have heard a word

woman.

from the lips of either my father or my

mother that was not as chaste as the driven snow." Better such a recollection as that than an inheritance of millions of money.-Central Presbyterian.

*

The Bane of American Homes.

A physician writing in the July Woman's Home Companion speaks in strong terms about two pernicious habits sapping the strength of the nation, claiming that, "Hurry becomes a habit; so does worry. It is as impossible to throw off one as the other. The man who has been in a hurry all his life is no greater victim to the habit formed in youth than the woman who continually worries. Every phase of existence can be turned into some excuse for worry. When worry gets the upper hand housekeeping is an irksome task, and it is sure to poison the whole atmosphere of the home. Children brought up in such a home imbibe it just as naturally as they do other characteristics of their parents, and they grow up in the belief that the world would not progress if they did not give their daily modicum of worry to help it along. Those who do not worry are looked upon as idle and slothful, and yet they often accomplish more than the crowd of habitual worriers."

"The first piece I ever had published I paid for," says Mr. Sousa. "It cost me $25, and that $25 was a great deal of money to me, an awful lot. Of course, the piece did not sell. Some friends of mine with a great big gob of kindness in their hearts bought copies. I think about $4 worth. But the rest of the world, though it was hunting new tunes, paid no attention to the publication of my piece. It had not found me yet, and the fact that I was disappointed in the sale of my music did not disarrange its machinery in the least. The next time I thought I would try Philadelphia. I went up to the publishing house of Lee & Walker and showed my two compositions to the editor, with whom I struck up a friendship that has lasted ever since that day, and that was in 1872, when I was eighteen years old. He played over my pieces and they sounded beautiful. He was a good pianist and I never have been. He made

some kind of a cabalistic mark on them; I suppose it meant O. K., and sent me down to see Mr. Lee. Mr. Lee iked the pieces, but I was a young man, an absolutely unknown young man, and all that you know what they all say. Still the pieces were very nice, and they would publish them, giving me--I held my breath-giving me one hundred

copies of each piece. My railroad fare from Washington to Philadelphia and my hotel bill amounted to about $15, and for that I was to get one hundred copies of each of my two pieces. They would cost the publisher perhaps $7. I thought that was pretty hard. But I accepted. I supposed that the music would be printed right away. It wasn't. After about a dozen letters from me during a period of six or seven months I finally got word that they might get the piece out the following quarter."

"Now that you have made a hit, don't

those pieces sell?"

Mr. Sousa shook his head and pressed his lips together. "The world does not turn back and look for what it once passed by. It wants something new.'

"After awhile I sold my compositions for what I could get, anything from $5 up to $25. The "Washington Post March" and the "High School Cadet March" I sold for $35 each. They made. an independent fortune for the publisher, Coleman, of Philadelphia."

"And all you got out of it was $70?" Mr. Sousa nodded. He did not seem to feel bad about it. He seemed to think it was a kind of a joke on him, of course, but a good joke for all that. Probably he believes there are more marches just as good where they came from. Probably he has got over grieving about it in the last ten years.-Ainslie's Magazine.

There seems to have been a revival of interest in dramatic art in eastern colleges. At Yale there were two notable performances. Harvard has been active and the School of Technology has produced some clever work. Indeed, there is scarcedly an institution of learning in all the East that has escaped the fever for theatricals this year.

* * *

"The Vision of Brother Martin," is the title of Villa's symphonic poem which was performed in Madrid this spring. It is in reality a psychological study of Martin Luther, giving his doubts, his hopes and plans.

A war symphony is something new in music, but an English woman, Miss Louisa White, is attempting it. Her theme is the trouble, past, present, and to come, in the Transvaal, and she is going on bravely with the work. The difficulty that confronts her just now is the uncertainty of how it is going to end.