b :g; x»:- M- ..... ._... ._._._.._.... -._...~..... -“4 ..._ ,.,,-_____,. _ .- ”__, ’7'2'3 BETTER TO SEE. ”1‘18 better to die, leaving some one behind, Than to live when the loved one is dead; For meinory‘s mission to such human kind Is to plant thorns in love’s crap: hung bed. The one has no thought in deaths mystical trance * Of the leaden winged moments of grief: For time, to the sleeper, is but a star‘s glance, Just a stall: from cternity‘s sheaf. But time to the other eternity seems: ‘Tis an age ere the summons is sent That brings soul to soul as in brief, empty dreams IVhich were bliss with dumb agony blent. ——I"ranklyn W. Lee. Til/TO 1138138 ..+x When I say that for rumor more than a quart-er of a century I have been a verita- ble old maid—an old maid, beyond 'ths shadow of a peradventurc—it will be read- ily understood that very many years have passed since I was a “slip of a girl.” Yet 1 was only a slip of a girl, a small sized, in- experienced miss of 18, when I undertook the rather arduous task of teaching a dis- trict school in an out-lying section of Yer mont, near the New York state line. My school was not so very far distant from my own home, which was in a small Vermont city, but it was far enough tc render it necessary for me to “board around” in the usual country school niarm style. The school term ext .lc'l over four months, and each succ edmg' month I be came the guest of a diil’ercnt family. IVith the first three I was fairly well content and tolcrably comfortable, but when I took up my residence for my last month I was de- cidedly uneasy and dissatisfied with my surroundings. The lions-3110111 consisted (.i‘ a toierably wealthy old widow la: y and her son, the latterl clog the objectionaole party. He was, in size, a giant, and was, perhaps, 30 years old. He dressed much better than most Vermont farmers, and took much pride in his personal appearance; but he could not conceal the fact that he was coarse, illiterate and brutal. I hated him very cordially from the first moment that my eyes rest-ed upon him, and yet from that same first moment George Randall was un- ceasing in his efforts (which, I am thank- ful to say, were mostly unsuccessful) to pay me li“:Ll'l-;f‘(l attention. Althr: 1;;11 the Randalls’ home was a long half mile from the school house, I steadily , refused to be driven by my host in his car- riage, and all through the muddy April weather I persistc..--y valkcd the tiresome distance daily. I also declined sundry offers of George Randall’s escort to church, to social gatherings and to village dances. It was strange perversity on my part, for all the Snakevillc girls tolerated Randall and willingly accepted his company; but, in my eyes, he was peculiarly oifcnsive, and I felt, by intuition, that 11;: time would some day arrive when I shoull prove my dislike .to be well founded. I» posses 1111:3th :- vcry ardent adzuirei lat Snakeville. Of course, my pupils in- cluded the usual strange variety to be found in a country school, but there was one scholar who interested me particularly. He was a lad—a young man—«who must have been two yea" -. older than myself, whose education had L . somewhat neg- lected in his earlier days. He was only a country boy, a farmer’s son, unassuming and rather shy. Charlie Chanipncys was not unduly quick or sharp, and yet, in some ways, he was peculiarly bright and apt to learn. lIe was very much deformed and a cripple. generally known in the neighbor- hood as “Lunchback Charlie.” I vas genuinely interested in this my bi g- gest and'oldcst pupil, and I gave him, as his teacher, more attention than was his legitimate share. Indeed, I was so much interested in him that I encouraged him to come up and see me evenings, so that we could go over his studies more carefully than school hours permitted. He did come often, much to George Randall’s chagrin, though the latter might easily have per- ceived that I cared nothing for Charlie, be- ing merely interested in him as a diligent, painstaking pupil. , Quite often, after vc finished our studies, I would read from books to Charlie, or, by his request, sing,r one of my songs, accom- panying myself on Mrs. Randall’s choice piano—the only one in the neighborhood. And all the time, while I never once dream- ed about caring deeply for Charlie Champ- neys, it never crossed my mind that per- chancc he might, possibly, learn to think more of me than would be good for his peace and comfort. But at last the truth was forced upon me. For one Sunday evening in May, about two days before I was to leave Snakeville, very shyly and with much difiidcncc and stam- mering, Charlie told me that he loved me, and I—laughed at him! Hey 'as serious enough and very much in earnest. I knew that full well. But I treated the whole affair as a huge joke and made fun of the poor fellow until he could stand it no longer, but, blushing like a girl, left me hastily. And for that scorn- ful, laughing. mocking, thoughtless dis- missal of a manly lover tendering me a good, genuine, honest love I have been sorry ever since. From Snakevillc to the railroad which would convoy me to my own home was five miles. and I was compelled to ride that dis- tance with George Randall in his much ad- mired szm'ii’ig wagon. Apparently he was not in :. good humor when we started out. His hearing was sullen and niorose, and he uttered never a word. ‘Wc rode in perfect silence for fully half the distance to the de- pot, when we reached the foot of a hill WVIllCil would have to be ascended by us. How Randall stopped the horse, and quietlythrow the reins over the animal’s back. He shifted his own position some- ‘what, so as to look me full in the face, While I gazed at him in blank ustonish— ment. There was a curious glitter in Ran- dall’s eye, and I know well that it was a cold passion, not born of drink. It looked like an expression of deadly hatred more than ought else; certainly, it was the glare of a demon which he fixed upon me. “You will marry me!” he said, slowly and deliberately, more in a commanding than in a questioning tone. I made no answer, for I was greatly frightened and agitated. “I say, you will marry me,’7 he repeated, While with his left hand he grasped my right arm so tightly as to cause me consid- erable physical pain. ‘ I saw that I must say something. “Mr. Randall, surely you would not in- sult and assault a helpless girl?” “Insult you? No, curse you!” he said. “It is you who insult, for you have snubbed me on every possible occasion since you came to Snakcvillc. Insult you? Pshawl I return good for evil. I say, you will marry me!” “You are mistaken,” I replied. “If you intend by your strange language to do m6 the honor of requesting me to marry you} regret that I must decline. Please drive on.” “A11!”he almost hissed. “N o, I cannot force you to marry me, but I can—I can make you yield me those sneering lips o yours for a while! Yes, you shall”— One of his strong arms was thrown ‘ N O R WV A L K G A Z E T T E, W around me, drawing me all unwillingly to his side. His other hand held me as in a. vise. He bent his face to me, and I could almost feel his lips upon mine. But he did not kiss me. Some one sprang upon the wagon and struck Randall a vio- lent blow upon the head, and, before the brutal fellow could collect his scattered senses, he was tossed out of the wagon on to the roadside. The opportune arrival was the cripple, Charlie Champneys. My dclivcrer spoke a word to Randallfivho was not seriously hurt, and then drove me on to the depot. He did not say 'ery much, nor did I, though I felt like telling him a great deal; when the train drew up we said good—by, and I never returned to Snakevillc. Two years later I spent my summer vaca- tion with some friends who resided in a small town. on the shores of Lake George, vithin driving distance of the scene bf my first efforts at teaching. I was exceedingly fond of rowing, and frequently spent Whole days alone on the lake. Late in the afternoon of what had been an intensely hot day I started out in my little skiff and pulled lazily along the shore. It was so pleasant that the time slipped by unnoticed, and for a long while I was un- a rare of the darkness which was slowly creeping over the water. the: I did per- ceive the evening shadows they served to cover a more serious blackness which was already filling the western skies. Had I been weather wise I might have known that one of those terrible summer storms, so common in lake regions, was about to break. The first intimation which I re- ceived, however, was a slight flash of light ning, followed by the low rumbling of thunder. I was, perhaps, three miles from the village and half a mile from the shore ——whicl1:at that point and at that time was covered by dense woods. I had always been afraid of lightning, and the sudden flash, added to my knowledge of the fact that I was z‘..one on deep water, made me very nervous. . . A more vivid fiash lit up the darkened skies, followed 'by loud thunder, and before I had time to gather my fast scattering senses a fearful wind storm blow, in ter- rific gusts, over the lake. My frail boat spun round and round like a boy’s top, so swiftly that the motion made me quite dizzy. It is wonderful that I was not up- set, but in less than two minutes the Wind passed away and I found myself still safe in the boat, but—without oars! And then the rain came. Not in drops, but in solid sheets, while the blinding flashes of lightning and the incessant vol- leys of tliuiuler'mingled so closely together that it was impossible to tell which fol- lowed thc other. I cannot remember just what my thoughts were at that time; I was greatly frightened and believed that the time had come for me to die. But I did not cry out, and I know I did not pray; I just sat tremblingly still. Out there, amid that weird storm music, it would have been quite impossible to dis— tinguish the splash of oars or the sound of voices. I heard and saw nothing until I felt my neat give a udden lurch, after which I became conscious that I was being steadily rowed towards the shore. Then I heard a voice, which sounded strangely familiar to me, saying;— “Be brave, Miss Lennox, you are quite safe, now, and we shall soon be ashore.” \Vas I dreaming? Could it bc—Ah, yes! For the lightning flashed that instant and revealed a face which I had not beheld since when, one evening at a country depot, I curiously and gratefully gazed upon it while I bade its owner farewell. It was the face of Charley Champncys. Soon we were ashore, and at least safe from the danger of drowning. But the shelter which we were able to secure was . very poor, being only a small deserted log cabin, the door of which had been carried away and whose one window was entirely innocent of glass or shutters. Champneys, cripple that he was, almost carried me to this welcome refuge which, poor as it was, served to keep off the worst of the rain. My rescuer piled up some large stones upon which we sat down, side by side. : Strange as it may seem, although we had not met for two years, we talked very lit- tle; indeed, after the stones were arranged for our seat, we were quite silent, for the storm was so very loud and fierce that con- versation could only be carried on with difficulty. And yet as I sat there, soaked with the rain and terrified by the light— ning, I was singularly content, for I knew, then and forever, that Charlie Champncys vas more to me than an old friend. Presently the rain subsided somewhat, and the peals of thunder became less fre- quent. It was in one of these short inter- vals of comparative silence that I said: ' “You remember when we were last to- gether?” ‘ “Yes,” he replied, and added, “but why speak of that?” “Charlie!” I answered, “I have felt sorry —not for you alone, but for myself also—- ever since. \Vithout once seeing you or hearing from you, I have learned to love you very much. If you still feel towards me as you did on that Sunday evening when you said you loved me, take me, Charlie, we will love each other and”— But again the thunder rolled and reared and out off the remainder of what I said. RVhen it ceased, Charley began again: “You must not talk so, Miss Lenox. I have seen for a. long time that I was foolish and selfish to tell you of my love. Yet, though I am so unworthy of you, I do love you truly, and for that reason I cannot ac- cept any such sacrifice from you. But oh, Miss Lenox, oh, Ruth, my darling, if I may have one kiss while we are here to- gether I will go away contented.” I turned my face upward toward his, and Charlie bent forward to kiss me. But be. fore our lips could meet, an awful shaft of lightning struck the hut we were in— struck Charlie—and the man who had saved my pride from insult and my life from sudden death, the man whom I loved too late, lay prone 011 the floor at my side. Charlie Champncys was dead—NV. II. S. Atkinson in Yankee Blade. A Curious Calculation. A rapid penman can write 30 words in a. minute. To do this he must draw his pen through the space of a. rod—16% feet. In forty minutes his pen travels a furlong, and in five hours and a third 3. mile. We make, on an average, 16 c'urves or turns of the pen for each word written. W’riting 30 words in a minute, we must make 43 curves to each second; in an hour, 28,000; in five hours, 144,000; and in 300 days, working only five hours each day, we make not less than 43,200,000 curves and turns of thepen! The man who makes but 1,000,000 strokes of the pen a. month has done noth- ing’remarkable; there are those who make four times that number. Here we have in the aggregate a mark, 800 miles long, to be traged on paper by each writer in a yégrl In’making each lettef of the ordinary 91- phabet, we make from three to s 'fvén strokes of the pen==0n an average, 1; ,.. ' and a half to foam—St. Louis Republic. ' ' | A flower that is alternately red, white and blue, according to the time of day, is reported to have been found on the Isth- mus ofm'l‘chuantepec. ' ' ACTORS’ EARNINGS. People “110 Have Stepped in a Season from Nothing to Big llIoncy. The stage, like every other callir; 3; known, -eeds hard work to win success. 2111'. Henry Irving came to this country 1:1 1883,,aftcr nearly twenty-five years of arduous work. \Vhen the total receipts of his 184 perform- ances reached $403,639 they might: fairly be quoted as a proof of the need of hard work. This was equally true of the 159 performances of Mme. Bernhardt in 1.38? w iich brought in $396,217. But when I ;. Laugtry appeared in New York in 1881, without any stock in trade but a good fig- ure, the theatre in four week ‘ in $61,- 803}. This was precisely tin- ’ . '11:: of what New York paid a your car weeks to see Mme. Bernhardt, at once the first tragedienne and the best trained and most experienced actress of her day. In two or three years Mrs. Langtry, having added some ability as an actress to her reputation as a woman, played an engage- ment in this city at which her not receipts were $1,000 a- week, and her returns for her year of forty weeks were placed by no one at less than $100,000. Mr. Irving‘s years of arduous labor brought his average receipts up to 82,2001: performance at his first visit. A pretty young woman with genius, but vithout an atom of experience, training or eminence, has within two years averaged, with a company of small account, tub-thirds of this at her second cnga cmcnt in this city. The suit between Miss Margaret Mather and her manager, Mr. Hill, shows: that she was able to begin at 20 with just half the total receipts which all Mr. Irving’s reputation could draw at his first visit. Miss Mathcr’s first appearance in Chicago brought 81,374, and thereafter the unwill- ing Mr. Hill admitted the receipts “never went below 81,000,” until the actress and her manager quarreled because the young woman of :32 was not satisfied with the profits of 819,307 the second year of her ap- pearance on the stage, and 810,303 four years later. It was a remark of Mr. Frank lIoll, who became over night the most suc- cessful portrait painter in England, that he stepped in a season from nothing to $130,000 a year, but Mr. Holl ’killed himself in his thirties earning this sum. No other painter ever did the like or is likely to do it again, and Hr. IIoll painted years in ob— scurity. There are half a score of women in the last ten years who have stepped in a season from nothing and obscurity to 82’ ,- 00) or 830,090 a year and a most gratifying advertising eminence. These young women are, it is true, the rare exceptions among the «15,000 persons who in all sorts of ways appear on the stage, but people who earn €420,000 orS30,— OOancar in any pursuit are not berries that grow on every bush. The remark was justly made two years ago that a “leading man” who did not get over 8:300 a week was not saying much nowadays about his salary. There is probably not a single star actress of the first rank whose leading man does not got tilladlllfl Mrs. Langtry, if re— port was true, paid twice this to Mr. Charles Coughlan. It would surprise com- fortable bank cashiers all overthc country, for whom $4,000 and $3,000 a year is a good sa-ary, to learn how many of the actors with leading parts in good companies earn his sum. The vast majority of the 45,000 actors and actresses in this country are of course satisfied with $15 and 8:20 awcek, but the vast majority of people at most lines have to put up with just the same pay. A dramatic paper recently placed the average wages on the stage, chorus and all, at 8700 a person. It does not need a wide acquaintance with salaries to know that this is ab vc the average, taking the whole country through, in some of the learned professions.——Philadelphia Press. Hint to Five Cent Smokers. “Vihich end of that cigar are you going to put in your mouth?” inquired the dealer of the reporter, as the latter cut off the closed end of a five cent cigar. “IVhy, the end I have just out,” he replied. “\Vhy do you ask?” “Because,” replied the cigar dealer, “to get the most enjoyment out of that cigar you are doing the worst thing possible. I’ll explain. In making cheap cigars a good enough wrapper is used—as good often as on the finer grades. Havana filler is uscd in a measure, but does not run the length of the cigar, as in the bet— ter goods. It usually ends about an inch from the extremity of the butt, or end that is generally placed in the mouth, and- poor light wccd raised in the northern states, . and of a grade similar to dried cabbage, is inserted. In smoking the five cent cigar all the smoke, of course, passes through this miserable stuff, which makes it taste badly. Nov ', if you will only reverse the cigar and cut 011' the mouth end, light it and puff away, you will enjoy it very near- ly as much as a finer cigar.”—XVashington Herald. . Going to Stick to Dad. Professor Rector has lost his bride. He was recently married to the daughter of Ben IVard, a prominent citizen of Rimdo, Ark.,after a very short acquaintance, and they started on a brief tour. At IIope, forty miles away, the professor thought of some neglected business at ’I‘cxarkana, and, leaving his wife at Hope, went to transact it. There he spent his last cent. The girl returned home, and the professor wrote a note to his spouse as follows: “311' DnAnEsr DARLING DUCKIE: Please, where are my clothes?” The answer came back: “Your clothes are where you left them, and I am where you found me. You may succeed in recovering your duds, but you can’t get me any more. I intend to stick to dad.”—Louisville Courier-Journal. The Virtues of the Onion. If I should be asked what was the best substitute for quinine I should say onions. Time and again the sleep producing vir- tues of the loud smelling onion have been sung, but comparatively few know how valuable it is as a. cure for chills and ague. Several customers explain their boycott on quinine by saying onions are cheaper and quite as effective, and one man in particu- lar, who has been a. martyr to malaria for years, has been another being since he ac— quired the habit of chewing onion peel.- Thc onion is used frequently to cure rheu- matism with varying success, but I never heard of its failing when persevered in as a cure for malaria or chill—Exchange. A Mining Operation. “You remember young Bilkins, who went west a few years ago? Well, he has just concluded a. most successful mining opera- tion.” ‘ . “I am not surprised. I always knew there was something in the boy.” “Yes, indeed. He has just dug out of jail.”—New York World. Heroic surgery. A German medical congress declares con- sumption curable. 'From the cable dispatch a. cure seems to lava been effected by cut. ting out the diseased lung—a simple and ingenious plan. We know now how to cure softening of the brain—we have only to cut off the diseased head—San Francisco Ex- aminer. lier in four 3 1419313811111", MAY 21. 1890, MADE MAD BY BLUNDERS. A Bit of Human Driftwood from the Great J ohnstown Flood. I was going up Broadway the other day with a brave physician GE J ohnstown, I’a., 1‘ one of the heroes who, oblivious of the fact 3 that a majority of his relatives had been ' swept away to a horrid death, and that a . slower but no less horrid death by pestil~ : encc 1m, " gmile LT: '1 all who remained in that-s ten urn-cl house, did not desert. the 5 stricken vale of death. “Hello!” he sai: . “There goes Abe Mur- ‘ phy. I haven't seen him in many a day.” ‘ He pointed to a poor, br )ken down, do- icctcd figure of a man, who. with head bent tnd mui tering lips, was slowly shuilling ? up the street. I “Johnstown man?” I asked. i “1705.77 : “Victim of the flood?" i “No; victim of the undertakers—likc ! many another.” : “Is be mad?” f “Crazy as a bedbug.” . 1 “You see,” he went on, “when our great 3 harvest of death took place J ohnstown was simply paralyzed for means to house and identify its (lead before burying it. At first' there was no attempt, or only the slightest, at identification. volunteer under-takers, and the first and only thought was to get the bodies under ground and save the living from pestilence. But in time the thing was supposed to be organized, and men were paid to properly handle and re 'lster the corpses and care for their valuables as fast as they were brought to light. The way in which this work was done vas shameful in the ex- treme. Not only were there wholesale rob- beries of valuables from the bodies of the dead—that is, the known dead—but the records were mixed up in a manner to make the heart sick. Men were buried for women and children for men, and then the numbers, as it seemed, were all put in a box and shook up, so that it became a lottery to find your loved ones, even after you had found a description which was reasonably sure to hit the case. “\Vell, sir, poor Abc Murphy suffered. All his family, a wife and six children, went down in the flood, and he has only been able to find one child living, and he a big dung: of a boy. He worked like a good fellow at the time of the flood, saved sev— eral lives, and afterward turned in with a will to help to gather the harvest of bodies and do other labor which called for strong arms and a willing heart. Only now and then he would knock off work and go look- ing for his 0 vn among the dead. He was a big, strong fellow, and even the agony of his grief showed no signs of turning his head. But there came a time when he be- gan to search among the lists describing the dead and their supposel location, and , after awhile he came upon the description l of his favorite daughter, which was so full and accurate that there could be no mis- take about it. It bore a certain number in one of the cemeteries. Procuring the necessary authority and filled with hope, he went and had the grave bearing this number opened, and what do you think they found? The body of a full grown man! The cemetery officials sought long and earnestly to find the child, and many graves were disturbed. But there seemed a fate against it. Only Gabriel’s trump will make that child come forth and answer ‘I am here.’ “Later he had a similar experience with another child, and then with his wife. The latter, though, was merely a case of care— less dcscribing or of mistaken supposing on the part of Abe. But it was all the same to him by this time. His tortured. mind had crossed the ragged edge of rea- son, and everything in the way of disap- pointment only added to his insanity, until it became incurable. IVhat he suifercd no man knows. He got to haunting the com- eteries and the dead houses until he be- came a nuisance, and finally the medical staff, assisted by the Red Cross funds, took him away and put him into merciful con- finement. He is now harmless and shows no desire to go back to J ohnstown, and, as he has a bit of property, he is allowed his liberty. His son is working on a farm in the west. The father has no interest in him.”—-New York Herald. ... .N. 3». .'..~.-l_...- .. Stage Gagging. Arthur Beresford, an Engiish gentleman, during a- talk said: “A few days ago I saw something aoout a bill to license English actors. Such a bill has been presented to the London county council, but whether it will pass or not is yet a question. In that bill there was a clause which would have provided punishment for an actor for gag— ging. In a forcible and logical speech Mr. Augustus Harris killed that clau e, and it’s well he did, for what would nearly all of our actors do if they were not permitted to slip some joke or local hit into their lines? You might as well retire Mr. T0010 and Mr. Penley from the. stage if they were de- barrcd from gagging. Your De \Volf Hop~ per, Francis \Vilson, Dixie, Goodwin and nearly all the rest would be staid actors if they were not allowed to ramble about, as it were. “Our late Mr. Buckstonc introduced a. gag into ‘Shc Stoops to Conquer.’ One of the cleverest bits in English dramatic lit- erature, now classical, is nothing but a gag irtroduccd into the text. There is not one person in a hundred who knows that the comic sermon delivered Ly Mawworm in Bickerstaffe’s ‘Hypocritc’ is not in the original. It was introduced for the first time the opening night of the Lyceum in 1809 by Charles Mathews. He was re- citing his liucs, when he suddenly branché’d off and spoke the very words of a Method— ist minister, perfectly imitating the voice and gestures. Tho gag was such 11 won- drous success that you never see the ‘Hypo- critc’ without listening to the funny ser- mon. No, sir, to stop an actor from gag,- ging would be like dispensing with the credit system in business.”—Chicago Trib- une. ' How 3 Charge of Shot Travels. W'hen standing within a few yards of the gun’s muzzle at the time of discharge a person would be amazingly astonished were he only able to see the shot as they go whizzing by. Experiments in instanta- neous photography have proved to us that the shot not only spead out, comet like, as they fly, but they string out one behind the other to a. much greater distance than they spread. Thus, with a cylinder gun, when the first shot of a. charge reaches a. target that is forty yards away the last shot is— lagging along ten yards behind. Even with a. choke bore gun some of the shot will lag behind eight yards in forty. .This accounts for the Wide swath that is- mowed in a flock of ducks on which a. charge of shot falls just right. About 5 per cent. only of the charge of shot arrives simultaneously at the target, but the bal- ance of the first half ofthe charge is so close behind that a bird’s muscles are not quick enough to get it out of the way, al- though those Who have watched sitting birds when shot at have“ often seen them start as if to fly when the leading ‘shot whistled by them, only to drop deadas they were overtaken by the leaden hail that followed—St. Louis Republic. ‘ Pittsburg sent a raft of . l STA.TEMENT OF ll MUTUA # OF NEW YORK. RICHARD A. McCURDY, President. :For the Year Ending December 3lst, 1889 assure, - Increase in Assets, . Surplus, Increase in Surplus, Receipts, Increase during year, Paid Policy-Holders, Increase during year, Risks assumed, Increase during year, Risks in force, Increase during year, Policies in force, Increase during year, Policies Written in 1889, Increase over 1888, - $136,40l .328 02 WW $10,319,174 46 39,657,248 44 $1,717,184 81 331,119,019 62 $4,903,087 10 $15,200,608 38 $473,053 16 $151,602,483 37 343,338,222 05 $565,949,933 92 $83,824,749 56 182,310 ‘ 23,941 44,577 11,971 THE ASSETS ARE INVESTED AS FOLLOWS : Real Estate and Bond and Mortgage Loans, United States Bonds and other Securities, Loans on Collateral Securities, Cash in Banks and Trust Companies at interest, . . . . Interest accrued, Premiums deferred and 111 tranmt, etc, $69,361,913 13 350,323,469 81 39,845,500 00 32,988,632 79 $3,881,812 29 $136,401,328 02 Liabilties (including Reserve at 4 per 031113,) $126,744,079 58 , I have carefully examined the for be correct. From M ' .t r egoing statement and find the one to A. N. WATERHOUSE, uditor. \ 5 \ the Surplus above stated a dividend will be apportioned as usual.“ , Year. 14385133401331533313 Surplus, 1884. . . .55 34,681,420. .". $351,789,285 . . . .8103,876,178.51. . . 84,743,771 1885. . . .' 46,507,139. . . . 368,981,441. . . . 108,908,967.51. . . . 5,012,634 1886. . . . 56,832,719. . . . 393,809,203. . . . 114,181,963.24. . . . 5,643,568 1887. . . . 69,457,468. . . . 427,628,933 . . . . 118,806,851.88. . . . 6,294,442 ‘ 1888. . . . 103,214,261. . . . 482,125,184. . . . 126,082,153.56 . . . . 7,940,063 1889' ‘ ' ' 151,602,483. . . . 565,949,934. . . . 136,401,328.02. . . . 6,557,248 NEW YORK, January 29th, 1890. Board. of Samuel F. Sprouls, Lucius Robinson, Samuel D. Babcock, George S. 003, Richard A. McCurdy, J ames C. Holden, Herman G. von Post, Alexander H. Rice, Lewis May, Oliver Harriman, Henry W. Smith, Robert Olyphant, George F. Baker, Joseph Thompson, Dudley Olcott, Frederick Cromwell, J alien T. Davies, Robert Sewell, l Trustees = S. VanRensselaer Curzon, Charles R. Henderson, George Bliss, Rufus W. Peckham, J. Hobart Herrick, W'm. P. Dixon, Robert A. Grannis, Nicholas C. Miller, Henry H. Rogers, J no. W. Auchincloss, Theodore Morford. William Babcock, Preston B. Plumb, \Vilham D. \Vashburn, Stuyvesant Fish, Augustus D. Juilliard, Charles E. Miller, James W. Husted. ROBERT A. GRANN IS, Vice-President. ISAAC F. LLOYD, 2d Vice President. A. N. WATERHOUSE, Auditor. EMORY MCCLINTOCK, LL.D., F. I. A. Actuary. JOHN TATLOCK, JR., Asst. Actuary. CHARLES B. PERRY, 2d Asst. WILLIAM J. EASTON, Secretary. FREDERICK SCHRODER, Asst. Secretary. Actuary, -:.-‘ *1 FREDERIC CROMWELL, Treasurer. . JOHN A. FONDA, Assistant Treasurer. WILLIAM P. SANDS, Cashier. EDWARD P. HOLDEN, Assistant Cashier. WILLIAM G. DAVIES, Solicitor. WALTER R. GILLETT, M. D., « WILLIAM W. RICHARDS, Comptroller. MEDICAL ,Dmnc'rons. GUSTAVUS S. WINSTON, M. D: E. J. MAW A. II. CHIP, Agent, Norwalk, Conn. [JOHN W. NICHOLS. General Agent, Newfiavcn, min. I, '\
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