people, yet she is inclined to cast slight shadows on their fresh hopes by talking to them about the uncertainty of happiness in this world, and the temporary nature of youth and earthly love. They do not instinctively go to her with their joys or sorrows, but she is the first to know of their bodily ailments, and her sympathy and helpfulness in times of sickness render her invaluable in the family. Her quaint, slow, bowed figure moving up the church aisle on Sundays is a part of the service, and every one treats her with consideration and respect.

Dreadful as is the amorous old man, the Frenchily dressed, withered old coquette is more dreadful still. I once saw an old man playing with a painted picture book like a little child. Sad, but not so sad as the gayly bedecked old lady with her plumes and her furrows, talking of conquest.

Not to be mistaken for this type is the old lady who has made it the business of her life to preserve her beauty. A vain beauty she has been, no doubt, but with a good heart, full of love for life and all its pleasures, and she has been worshiped as a maiden and a wife, and she has not failed as a mother, though one would not select her as typical mother. She loves her ease too well for that, and she is too anxious about the preservation of her complexion to display that zeal of self-sacrifice which one associates with the maternal quality. She is fond of her children, and kind and often over-indulgent, but she leaves their care to the nurse. As they grow older they become the parents and she the child. Were she not so amiable and sweet she would seem selfish. Her children pet her and praise her, as her lovers and husbands have done before, and she is as gratified with their admiration and as flattered by their compliments as if she had never before been praised.

Even after the last trace of her beauty disappears the charm of her tasteful personality lingers, and she holds the attention of the public by that peculiar spell which hangs about a woman who has been an object of love and admiration

for many years. Some women absorb love as they go through life, and give forth its suggestion even into old age, like the perfume which dried rose leaves exhale.

Not so fascinating but more useful is the dear old lady who has never been a success in life until she became a grandmother. She was a commonplace girl, an onlooker at all the pleasures of her time. Her marriage was prosaic and devoid of deep sentiment. She neither felt nor inspired a strong passion. Her life was full of dull hardships and disappointments. The arrival of her children filled her with anxious cares and maternal worries, and she never knew positive happiness until as a prematurely old lady she welcomed the advent of her first grandchildren. She lived to see her children comfortably settled and the hardships and trials of her life are fading in the background of her memory. has become famous for her pickles and her cough syrups. Her broad lap is the home of all the children and the young mothers consult her with the appearance of the first toothing symptoms.

She

She knows the age of every one in the neighborhood, and somehow all the bits of news float to her, but she is kindhearted and free from malice, even if a bit too talkative.

Her face is round and rosy and her forehead always shines. She throws her head well back and looks at you squarely through her spectacles as she tells you her age, expecting you to be surprised. But you are not, even if you appear so. Her broad figure is unsteady in its movements and she has great trouble in mounting stairs, or stepping into a carriage. She is rather proud than otherwise of her stiff joints, which make her an object of solicitude to younger people. She has never known the pleasure of attracting attention by her youthful charms, and it is a secret satisfaction to her to be noticed and cared for on account of her age and failing strength. She is a born grandmother, and in this sphere she has found the real happiness she missed in every other. For her age has no terrors. All hail to her.

Ella Wheeler Wilcox in Ex.

"A wife should be as a queen in her own household," a woman once said to me and I heartily applauded the sentiment of the remark. But I could not help wondering as I looked at her, if it were possible for even a queen to retain the respect and loyal devotion of her subjects if she made a practice of appearing before them daily in disreputable slippers, a dingy wrapper, and hair in curl papers. And who could blame the royal consort if he gradually became disenchanted, or grew intolerably weary of being confronted morning after morning, by a frowzy-headed divinity behind. the coffee urn. Perhaps my look betrayed something of my thought, for she said, half-apologetically, "I always try to get into something decent before anyone comes in, but I am late this morning."

Her majesty, it was evident, reserved. her regal robes for state occasions. Ah me, the pity of it.

Another woman, whom I know well, a frivolous creature, perhaps, and not always to be trusted, remarked, "I wouldn't let any human being of the masculine persuasion, not even the milkman or the Chinese vegetable vender, see me with my hair in curl-papers. And the friend to whom she spoke replied with fervor, "Nor I. It is a duty we owe to our sex to always appear at our best when there is a man about. Besides I should hate to be ashamed of my own image in the glass. As for going down to breakfast in a wrapper-when I am too ill, or too lazy to dress, I take my morning meal in the safe seclusion of my own room, or go without."

This reminded me of a remark which I once heard a man of excellent taste and judgment make concerning "wrappers." I was going to repeat it here, but forbear, because it was so much more forcible than elegant. And this brings me to my subject-the eternal fitness of feminine apparel, and the unlimited pa

tience and skill and labor that goes to the construction of even the simplest gown.

The Influence of Dress in Business Life

"Adequate and becoming apparel makes a stronger impression on the person it clothes than on any who observe it," writes Mr. Thomas B. Bryan in The Saturday Evening Post. "If every business man now going about his affairs in garments which are a little below the reasonable standard of presentableness could be clothed with those which fully meet this requirement, the business world would feel a sudden and unaccountable impulse of no mean proportions."

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The Plaything of a King.

The Emperor of Germany has a toy that would gladden the heart of the most exacting boy. It is a miniature frigate, a fullrigged three-masted war-ship, fifty-five feet in length, drawing but four feet of water, and having a capacity of thirty tons. The ship is an heirloom in the imperial family of Germany, having been presented by William IV., King of England, to the present German emperor's great-grandfather, Frederick William III. It gave the reigning monarch his first taste of life on the wave, and in his boyhood days one of his favorite amusements was to sail on the watery Potsdam, in company with his brother Henry, in this tiny man-of-war. At a distance the ship's dimensions are very deceptive, but a man at the rail or a boat moving alongside soon brings out, by contrast, the smallness of the craft. The frigate can be sailed in the same manner as the largest ship, but the crew must be Lilliputians in size and scanty in number; a seaman of ordinary build would be totally out of place on the yards of this vessel. He would probably be in grave danger of bringing the spars down to the deck with his own weight. "Royal Louise" is the name of this kingly toy; she was christened after Prussian Queen Louise. The little frigate was built on the Thames River, at Woolwick, England, in 1832, and was towed down the river and across the North Sea by a steamer to Hamburg; from this place a flat barge floated her up the Elbe and into the Havel at Potsdam, where she still remains. May Woman's Home Companion.

* *

Success or failure is more a matter of character than of cash, more a case of doing than of dollars.

*

In the studio of Miss Anna Morgan, Chicago, the art of expression is taught, or, perhaps, I should say, developed technically and individually, The student is encouraged to be himself-to express himself in his own way. He is trained to think definitely and to act naturally, The chief end and aim of all teaching should be to free the organization from artificial restraint, assumed, imposed, or inherited, and give the real self a chance to act, and in this school, the work is, as it always should be, principally that of elimination, a weeding out of acquired faults to make room for natural graces. For, strangely enough, it is true that our awkwardness in speech and manner, when not the result of prenatal misfortune, is always acquired.

"The House of Egmont," Molly Elliott Seawell's new novel, soon to be published by Scribners, will be dramatized. William Young is to arrange it for the stage. It will be remembered that it was this playwright who dramatized "Ben Hur."

The

John Drew and Nat Goodwin, at the Marquam Grand, have been the sole redeeming features in local theatricals. It is one of the mysteries why this beautiful little theater, the Marquam Grand, is kept dark the major part of the time, or opened principally for the production of disgusting farce comedies. crowded houses that greeted John Drew and his excellent company and the rapid sale of seats that always follows the announcement of a first-class attraction should, it would seem, prove to the management that the people of Portland appreciate the best in dramatic art, and will patronize that in the most liberal fashion.

Annie Pixley, the Portland actress, made a fortune out of "M'liss," and now the play is to be "revived the coming season upon an elaborate scale and with an excellent cast." The role of "M'liss" will be played by Nellie McHenry and Frank Losee takes the part of Yuba Bill in which he was, of old, so successful.

The organization known as the Actor's Fund of America, decided recently to establish a home for "aged and infirm actors." Twenty-four thousand dollars were subscribed in less than as many hours. Mr. Al. Hayman, with characteristic generosity, gave a check for ten thousand dollars as a beginning. course, the home will be located in New York, that Meca of the profession.

* *

Of

Paderewski's profits from his American tour this year amount to nearly two hundred thousand dollars. In London, where he went from here, he gave only a limited number of concerts. At an entertainment given by William Waldorf Astor, for playing two numbers he received one thousand guineas. The Polish pianist is now 34 years of age and doubtless at the height of his power. Though why genius should suffer a decline with the lapse of years is not quite. clear to me. A writer of musical news has this to say of Paderewski:

"It was generally believed that Paderewski would live and die without remarrying, although he might have won the hand of almost any woman he ever met. Last year, however, he surprised his friends by being quietly married to a woman whom he had long known in Paris. His wife is some four or five years his senior, and, although an accomplished woman, is neither beautiful nor a musician. Among his most intimate friends it is believed that she won his heart by her long and constant devotion to his crippled son, whom she had cared for many years."

MCLOUGHLIN AND OLD OREGON. By Eva Emery Dye.

A. C. McClurg & Co., Chicago.

Old Oregon!

What memories and ghosts arise at the sound of that name! Astor, Bonneville, Lewis, Clarke, McLoughlin, Whitman and Benton live again by the magic of these two words. Cities, mills and railroads disappear and in their places are once more the virgin forests and unbroken prairies, disturbed only by wild animals or an occasional hunter and trapper.

It is hard to realize that less than three-quarters of a century ago Oregon was the ground on which the Hudson's Bay Company (powerfully intrenched and with almost unlimited resources,) and the vanguard of the great army of immigrants from the East were fighting their first battles for supremacy. Sometimes the battles were bloodless-and sometimes not, but every inch of ground was contested and the question of possession finally became a serious one, threatening international complications.

The author terms her book a "chronicle," but she has made every page speak, and the narrative reads like a thrilling romance. Old Dr. McLoughlin, governor of the Hudson's Bay Company, is the central figure, of course, and stands out from the others-commanding and collossal. Mrs. Dye here proves beyond question his goodness of heart and his generosity, even to those opposed to his company's interests. The old doctor reigned like a feudal baron at the company's headquarters, old Fort Vancouver, and dispensed his hospitality with a lavish hand. The description of the life here is particularly interesting -the departure and return of the trapping parties, the Christmas festivities, the Indians trading bales of furs for ammunition and supplies-all make pictures bright with color and fascinating in detail.

The "chronicle" begins with the year 1832 and is carried up through the intensely exciting period between that year and 1857, when the good doctor breathed his last at Oregon City. The Whitman mission and massacre, the Cayuse war, the settlement of French Prairie, the controversy over the boundary (which came so near causing bloodshed), are only a few of the dramatic incidents which Mrs. Dye relates with much force in this volume. Few there are who can make history seem a part of today, but she brings back the past and the scenes live before you.

In addition to its literary value, the volume is a fine specimen of the bookbinder's art and will appeal to the lover of the beautiful as well as the student.

The people of Oregon are under deep obligations to the author of this work, which must have required a vast amount of labor and research. From the first lines to the last her enthusiasm never flags, the narrative goes on with everincreasing interest-almost breathless at times—and it is safe to predict that when the future collector of history looks fondly over his treasures none will appeal to him more strongly than "McLoughlin and Old Oregon," by Eva Emery Dye.

THE KLONDIKE STAMPEDE.

By Tappan Adney.
Harper & Bros., Ñ. Y.

The Klondike excitement has now become a matter of history. The feverish rush is over and development is going on in a business-like way. The historian now has data and facts hitherto unattainable which will serve to guide the future investor or prospector.

Those conversant with affairs in Alaska had long known of rich deposits of gold at different points, but it was not until early in the summer of 1897 that news was telegraphed broadcast of the

wonderful strikes on Bonanza and Eldorado creeks. Then the stampede began that has had no parallel since the memorable discovery in 1849. People in every walk of life seemed to lose all power of reason, let lucrative positions, mortgaged homes and joined the goldcrazed mob. This wave of humanity broke upon the shores of Alaska and the portion that reached the Klondike soon spread itself over the face of the country. Finding nearly all the creeks near Dawson taken up, the gold-seeekers tramped to new and untried regions and new strikes and reports of strikes brought eager stampedes from the older camps. This movement is constantly going on, and will probably continue until the greater part of that vast territory will have been explored.

The author was sent out as special correspondent of Harper's Weekly and he gives a very readable description of the country and his experience therein. Starting from Skagway he and his party went by the way of Chilcoot Pass down the lakes, shooting the dangerous White Horse Rapids, and eventually reaching Dawson. From here he visited the different creeks where the mining was in full operation, and we have illustrations from photographs showing the men actually washing out the gold. These illustrations are especially fine and with the author's thoroughness the reader will get a clear idea of life near the Arctic Circle. He describes in detail the routes, cost of outfits, mining laws and everything necessary for the "stampeder" to know, and all is set forth in a graphic manner that convinces one that Mr. Adney got his information at first hands.

There are many books written on the Klondike, but none are so comprehensive and practical as this. It will be of value as a book of reference, for it gives the history of all the discoveries, including Cape Nome-that unique mining camp situated on the wind-swept

beach.

The publishers have here a book, with its fine paper and binding, and wealth of illustrations, of which they may well be proud.

MEN WITH THE BARK ON.
By Frederic Remington.
Harper & Bros., N. Y.

"Men with the Bark on die like the wild animals, unnaturally-unmourned, and even unthought of, mostly."

These sketches are of the type of man supposed to be indiginous to certain sections of America-fearless, generous to a fault, reckless of life and limb, rough as to exterior, but at heart as chivalrous as the knight-errant of old. Mr. Remington knows him well; has rode with him, camped with him, has "summered” and "wintered" him, and his drawings are so intense and full of action that one at first sight might mistake them for photographs.

One chapter of the book is devoted to the personal experiences of the author in the Spanish-American war and is told. in his own way, which, like his drawing, is inimitable. The other sketches are of the camps of the volunteers previous to their embarkation for Cuba, and the frontier life of the regular army.

The author shows his real literary ability in the "Story of the Dry Leaves," which is as poetic in its conception as the "famine," in Hiawatha. Authors are often like artists in this respect: They sometimes persistently follow lines of work which the public does not applaud. The Late Bernard Gillam was finally forced to give up work on serious lines and take up caricature, and Mark Twain, like his "virtuous man," finds himself lonesome if he is not humorous. We can forgive Mr. Remington, however, for the particular field he delights to work in would be barren without him. His sketches with both pen and pencil will be prized in the future as illustrating a type which, like the beaver and the buffalo, is becoming extinct.

A TRIPLE FLIRTATION. By the Abbey Press, N. Y.

This book was no doubt designed for the summer-girl, that human butterfly who makes her appearance with the advent of hot weather and ice-cream sodas. The author does not take us into his confidence, but he may have meant this to be a manual for amateurs, who, after