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graphic press. The result is of varying value, of course. It is often commonplace, dull, empty. It is sometimes violent and vulgar. It is frequently beautiful and delightful. There are many purely decorative posters, printed in soft and gentle tones, which are a delight to the eye both in design and in color, and which now give a zest to every chance ramble through the streets of New York. Consider, for example, the striking and suggestive poster "From Chaos to Man," printed by the Springer Company. Consider, again, the "stand of bills" which Mr. H. L. Bridwell devised to announce the coming of the Lillian Russell Opera Comique Company; note the tenderness of the tints and the fastidious grace of the design; and confess that here is a brilliant mural embellishment of a new kind. Akin to this and due to the same firm, the Strobridge Company, were smaller posters for Mr. W. H. Crane and for Mr. Francis Wilson, delightfully decorative in their simple lettering.

"That there is a character in American design which is hardening into style, I think every one who has had much to do with American designers will agree," wrote the lady who is the chief of the Associated Artists, a year or so ago; and Mrs. Wheeler went on to declare that this American style seems to possess three important qualities: "First, absolute fidelity and truth, as shown in Japanese art; second, grace of line, which perhaps comes from familiarity with the forms of the Renaissance; and third, imagination, or individuality of treatment." In its own way the American pictorial poster has felt the influence of this movement forward; and it can be called to bear witness in behalf of Mrs. Wheeler's declaration, just as her own embroideries and textiles can, or the La Farge and Tiffany stained glass, or any other latterday development of the art instinct of the American people.

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under Japanese influence. So it came about that he and other artists employed by the Strobridge Company, and by the other lithographers who sought to rival the earlier firm, evolved a new style of poster, lithographed like M. Chéret's, effective and picturesque like his, and yet composed according to formulas different from his. In the ten or a dozen years since the first posters were put on stone here in the United States, there has been developed a form of mural decoration wholly unlike anything which existed before-unlike the Parisian, as I have just asserted, and unlike the American woodcut which preceded it and made it possible. The new work is founded on a thorough knowledge of design, of the harmony of color, and of the technical possibilities of the litho

Brander Matthews.

THUMB-NAIL SKETCHES.

"STRANGE TO SAY."

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VAST network of iron rods and girders overhead; long spirals of white steam rising through the gray smoke from a score of locomotives panting and puffing as if impatient to be gone; avenues of railway-carriages in yellow, brown, and black; hurrying, pushing multitudes jostling one another; tired-looking travelers at the end of their journeys; hopeful-looking travelers braving the possibilities of the unknown; luggageporters, in caps of flaming red and blouses of blue, staggering under Brobdingnagian loads; parting messages drowned in the babel of sounds; shrill, warning whistles of departing trains; the clanking of iron wheels on the turn-tables-then,

suddenly, as Soon, however, his mood changed, and as we if by magic, were crossing the trestle over the Hollands-Diep the multitude he began a sort of sermon upon life, delivered, has vanished. it seemed to me, in order to show his familiarity Guards run with the English tongue, and apropos of nothalong the ing. "As t'e eye of t'e morninck to t'e larg, as lines of car- t'e honey to t'e pee, or as garrion to t'e fulture, riages, slam- efen such iss life undo t'e heart of mangind." ming doors This was profound, but ere long it became and turning also tiresome, as I endeavored to show him pothe brass keys. The door of litely, by extracting a yellow-covered Tauchone second-class carriage at nitz of one of Bret Harte's latest stories from the end of the line is open. Into my shawl-strap, and burying myself therein this I pitch my rug and valise, and scramble in after them; the guard slams the door, screams out a hoarse word, and the long train glides out of the Rhijn Spoorweg Station at Rotterdam on its way to Paris.

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A person who was curled up in the corner let his feet down upon the floor and helped me to stow my valise in the racks, and, when this preliminary was settled, produced a cigarcase, and inquired in tolerable English if I affected tobacco. We exchanged cigars. His was excellent, while the one from my case wasan ordinary three-center that I had purchased in Amsterdam. Still, he did not complain. I could see inthe dim light of the winter

evening that he was short. He could hardly have been five feet in height, but the feature that most impressed itself upon me was his head, which was entirely out of proportion to his body, and surmounted by a fanciful traveling-cap.

Between the puffs of his cigar, which he consumed furiously, he informed me that he had been in America, in New York, several years before; indeed, he was a great traveler, I fancy, for he had some sort of yarn of half a dozen countries to relate, in his queer English, which was broken with as fully queer French and Italian. He longed for "gompany," he said, and was delighted that we were to be traveling companions. While he was rather inquisitive, there was nothing in his questions at which one could take offense; indeed, he was quite as amusing as voluble, and all I had to do was to listen quietly, with an occasional "Yes" or "No" for politeness' sake.

quite a transparent subterfuge, for it had become entirely too dark to read. He had curled his legs up under him, and I fancied and hoped that he might be preparing to go to sleep. He made me nervous with his drone, and with his immense head with the ridiculous cap perched upon it. It seemed as if I could not keep my eyes away from him. We were slowing up at a small station, and finally, with a grinding of the brakes, stopped altogether. There came a pounding noise of feet on the roof of the carriage, a crash, and then a lamp was thrust into its socket overhead, and the footsteps passed on.

My companion looked positively hideous in the dim yellow light of the lamp overhead, which feebly illuminated the carriage. Where I knew his eyes to be were two huge, black patches, from which now and again came a flash, and his cheek-bones stood out with ghastly prominence. As the train gathered. momentum his singsong voice rang above the noise of the swiftly moving wheels. "Gomplain nod vith the fool off t'e shordness off dy time. Rememper-" Confound the man! Was I to be annoyed with this sort of thing all the way to Brussels? "Vishest dou to haf an obbortunity off more wices" I turned in the seat, and, resting my head against the cushioned side, pretended to close my eyes as if to sleep. Of no avail. Still the hissing s's rang upon my senses with maddening reiteration I fancy that in spite of my nervousness I must have dropped off to sleep for an instant, for a touch awoke me, and, starting to my feet, I found that my companion had moved to the seat exactly opposite my own, and with his hand upon my knee, a large, bony hand it was, with enlarged joints, and nails bitten to the quick,-had thrust his face forward until it was not more than six inches from my own. He was still chanting his infernal proverbs: "Not life a telusion, a zeries off mizatventures, a bursuit off ewils linked togedder on all sides-"I thrust him away from me with an exclamation of disgust. "In heaven's name, man, what ails you? I wish you would oblige me by stopping your infernal gabble!"

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"Softly, friend," he said, leaning back against the cushions. "You are a younk man, and I am an alt man. I haf seen moch off t'e vorld. T'e t'oughtless man pridleth not his tongue; he speaketh at random; and is gaught in the voolishness off his own vords."

"What do I care what you have seen!" I exclaimed petulantly, now thoroughly exasperated. "Have the goodness to keep to your own end of the carriage, and I will keep to mine."

In a moment I was sorry I had spoken so harshly to the man, and the more I sought to justify my words, the more inexcusable did they become. He had really done nothing at which I could take offense. The garrulousness of age, and the very natural desire to exercise his knowledge of the English language-I began to cast about in my mind for some means with which to soften and undo in a measure that which I now considered my extreme irritability; but, at the same time, I had no desire to stimulate the now happily pent-up flood of proverbs to renewed activity. I gave a sidelong glance toward the corner to which he had retired, and where he sat with his legs drawn up under him, motionless save for a certain nervous activity of his two thumbs, which revolved one over the other. I could not tell whether he was watching me, for his eyes were invisible in the deep shadows made by his overhanging eye

brows. Upon second thought I determined to let well enough alone, and, lighting my little pocket-lantern, hung it to the hook at my shoulder, and attempted to read; but I was unable to fix my mind upon the story. Over the left-hand corner of the book I held, those long, bony, large-jointed thumbs tirelessly, incessantly revolved. Hold the book as I might, I could not drive the impression from my mind. I was forced to count the revolutions of those dreadful thumbs. My mind was fully made up to seek another compartment at the first stop we made. Still the thumbs turned and twisted, their size exaggerated in the light from above. I fell to counting their revolutions, almost unconsciously at first. He seemed to have a system-nine times outward toward me, ten times inward toward himself. Again and again I counted-always the same, with a maddening regularity. On we sped through the night. It was raining now, and huge drops chased one another down the window-pane. The "rackety-tack" of the wheels, the easy swaying of the carriage to the left and then to the right, and the turn and twist of those immense thumbs- I closed the book in despair, and was in the act of thrusting it into the shawl-strap, when with the rapidity of a thunderclap there

came a grinding crash, and the carriage left the track, and, after bumping along over the sleepers, fell upon its side. My companion was thrown upon me.

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He grasped me with his long arms, and wound his legs about my body. We were shaken about like pills in a box.

There was an in

terval of silence, then the hissing of escaping steam, and shrill screams, all of which I heard in my struggles to escape from the octopus-like grasp of my companion. At length I succeeded in breaking away, and with a strength incredible and incomprehensible to me now, I forced the door above my head (for the carriage was lying upon its side) just as a number of men came up with lanterns. We soon had the little Frenchman, or whatever he was, out of the wreck, which was not a very bad one, only two carriages having left the track in consequence of a spreading rail. He was quite insensible, but when we got him to the flagman's hut, some distance down the track, he came to himself, and we speedily discovered that he was only a bit shaken up. However, to my extreme embarrassment, he threw himself upon his knees at my feet, hailed me as his deliverer, and called me by many other highfalutin names. His gratitude was boundless, and in vain did I explain to him with all the emphasis at my command that I had done nothing to earn it. He would hear nothing of the sort, waved away my explanations as "motesty," "prafe motesty," and, to my dismay, insisted upon embracing me at intervals.

I will not dwell upon the uncomfortable details of the rest of the journey to Paris. Suffice it, that I was unable to escape from my bête noire until I reached the Gare du Nord, where I succeeded in eluding him, it is true, but only

for seven sweet days, after which blessed period he found me, and, embracing me in a paroxysm of joy, took up his lodging in the building where I had my apartment and studio-a huge, rambling brick building in a quarter somewhat frequented by paint

ers. Then followed a period upon which I look back with a shudder; days when I kept my studio door (which at intervals resounded with that hated, timid knock) locked and barred even to my best friends, fearing the entrance of my grateful

bête noire. I remember the unreasonable shudder of disgust I felt one night when I had gained the court in fancied security, only to meet him coming in the opposite direction, feel the grasp of that horrible hand upon my arm, and hear the hissing s's in my ear. I could not work; it was out of the question. My picture, which I had intended for the Salon, was barely begun. My bête noire showered delicacies upon me. The concierge, for example, who did my cooking, would bring me game out of season when I expected a chop, until at last I forbade him to receive the things from "la tête énorme," as he styled him. I fancy the villain lived well in the interval.

Each morning expensive cut flowers were left at my door by the florist, who refused to carry them away, saying that he had been ordered to leave them, and had no further knowledge in the matter. So there they stayed in the hallway, heaped up against the wall as if for a tomb in Père La Chaise, until swept away by the concierge, with semipious ejaculations. Can you imagine my position, then, with such unmerited gratitude thrust upon me? Finally I determined to end it all, and wrote to London, asking a friend to look me up quarters, as I would leave Paris at once. Carefully, but with a great show of carelessness, I let the concierge understand that I would attend the opera that evening, in order to cover

my outgoing. I intended to take the night train for Boulogne, thence go by boat to Folkestone. Finally we arrived at Boulogne. The night was a stormy one. Overhead the moon struggled with ragged clouds. It had been raining, for the pavement was wet, and the long lines of yellow gas-lamps were reflected prettily. There was a rush of the passengers toward the boat, which lay rocking and plunging at the jetty, and when we reached the gangplank the mail-bags were already being taken aboard, and a huge derrick was creaking and groaning as the deckhands hoisted some heavy cases over

the side. I hugged myself with delight, thinking that I had escaped from my admirer.

For an instant I fancied I saw the pallid face and shrunken figure of the little old man among the crowd already gathered upon the deck, and I sickened at the thought that my long and tiresome night journey had been endured for naught. Determined to know the worst, I jumped down from the plank to the deck where the face had appeared in the glare of the electric light, only to see it vanish over the companionladder leading below to the freight deck. I could not be sure that it was my bête noire, but I was bound to follow the figure and to satisfy my fears. Groping my way among the piled-up luggage and boxes, I reached a clear space only to feel strong hands grasp me from behind. I heard a scuffle, the arms were wrenched from about my neck, and, turning, I saw the little old man being forced up the gang-plank to the pier by two muscular-looking fellows. Before I could well collect my senses, the bell clanged noisily, the gang-plank was drawn up, and with increasing speed we left the jetty. I could make out a number of people seemingly struggling with some one under the brightly gleaming electric lights, and I fancied I heard a scream; but in less time than it takes to read this we had passed beyond the end of the jetty, with its final red and green lights, and were on our way across the Channel. In looking over the papers at breakfast one morning several days after my arrival in London, I came upon the following:

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LUCKY CAPTURE.

On Wednesday night last, as the express-boat from Boulogne for Folkestone was about to leave the jetty, a person of singular aspect was observed by the officers acting in a manner fitted to arouse suspicion. He was seen to scrutinize the faces of the passengers, and finally to follow a gentleman on board the steamer, where he secreted himself in a dark passageway, from which he leaped upon the back of the unsuspecting traveler and attempted to strangle him. Doubtless he would have succeeded in his murderous purpose, but for the vigilance of the "sergeant de ville," who promptly called assistance, and after a severe struggle with lean strength, succeeded in placing the nippers the assassin, who seemed to be possessed of hercuupon him. Taken before the police, he was unable to give an account of himself, and acted in avery violent manner. It is thought that the author of many mysterious crimes has at length been secured.

LATER. The individual captured on the Boulogne boat on Wednesday proves to be a certain exalted personage of unsound mind who made his escape from a private "maison de santé" at The Hague. The sergeant de ville has been handsomely rewarded for making the capture of the unfortunate, who, in company with four keepers, left for The Hague this morning.

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George Wharton F

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A MOUNTAIN EUROPA.

IN TWO PARTS.- PART I.

PICTURES BY E. W. KEMBLE.

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S Clayton rose to his feet in the still air, the treetops began to tremble in the gap below him, and a rippling ran through the leaves up the mountainside. Drawing off his hat, he stretched out his arms to meet it, and his eyes closed with delight as the cool, soft wind struck his throat and face and lifted the hair from his forehead. About him the mountains lay like a tumultuous seathe Jellico Spur, stilled gradually on every side into vague, purple shapes against the broken rim of the sky, and Pine Mountain and the Cumberland Range racing in like breakers from the north. Beneath him lay Jellico Valley, and just visible in a wooded cove, whence Indian Creek crept into sight, was a miningcamp-a cluster of white cabins-from which he had climbed that afternoon. At that distance the wagon-road narrowed to a bridle-path, and the figure moving slowly along it and entering the forest at the base of the mountain was shrunk to a toy. For a moment Clayton stood with his face to the west, drinking in the air; then tightening his belt, and grasping the pliant

body of a sapling that grew within reach, he swung himself from the rock. His dog, stirred from sleep by the crackling branches, sprang after him. The descent was sharp. At times he was forced to cling to the birch-tops till they lay flat upon the mountain-side.

Breathless, he reached at last a boulder from which the path was easy to the valley below. With quivering muscles he leaned against the soft rug of moss and lichens that covered it. The shadows had crept from the foot of the mountains, darkening the valley, and slowly lifting up the mountain-side beneath him a long, wavering line in which met the cool, deep green of the shade and the shining bronze where the sunlight still lay. Lazily following this line, his gaze rested on two moving shadows that darted long, jagged shapes into the sunlight and as quickly withdrew them. As the road wound up toward him, two figures were vaguely visible through the undergrowth. Presently a head bonneted in blue rose above the bushes, and as they parted for an instant Clayton's half-shut eyes suddenly opened wide and were fixed with a look of amused expectancy where a turn of the path must bring rider and beast into plain sight. Apparently some mountain

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