Newspaper Page Text
V OL. XIV.
683*3 CHSNHEL
Uk the channel of a mighty r'rer,
God made the heart of man, a glorious
source
Through which he means his bounties to do-
Hwr;
WeaJth. love or learning to speed on their
course
To an this suffering world. He who retains
The riches of his purse, or soul, or brains.
For his own use. defies God's grand endeavor,
And chokes with weeds of pride and boi fish
nets.
AIH mk. n! gr>jwths, the bcdwtvy of that
ri v*ur.
Who**• *■ u uiant waters—meant to heal and
_ m *<►■*—
sin ther tor!id overfinw.
Aiand cOi.mtost crimes and
Is thy ’me crowned by knowledge and affec
tion?
Hast thou been prospered in a worldly way?
Is thy heart's channel goats with close inspec
tion—
Pee if foul weed* fill up its course to-day.
do las wtwtes*>me waters ran forth free,
So men may drink and share thy Joy with <
thee? ~
-Wla Wheeler Wilcox in the Utica Observer.
[Continued from first page of last week]
The Widow’s Lodger.
CIIArTER Tvy.
IK THE NtOHT.
If prayer and medicine aid careful
cursing could have helped Mary back (
* to health, she would not have remained
** so long in danger after the crisis of
the fever was passed; but her condition
took a snape which baffled Dr. Hyde
and puzzled tbe physician be Itad before
consulted.
“There are points at which the science
of our profession stops,” he said, "and
new combinations of every disease are
continually appearing, but I have never
aeen anything like this. The pulmonic
symptoms would not account for it.
Tbe whole system is affected and seems
to be sinking of gradual and complete
exhaustion.”
“Would it be the shock of her baby’s
illness, following so, comparatively,
soon after her husband’s death?” Mr.
Barker Inquired. Tbe consultation took
place in his room, and Mr. Barker sat
there deeply interested.
“Well.it might be.” the physician as
sented, with manifest reluctance; “but
I hardly think so. What was her gen- ,
eral health before this?”
“Unusually good, I should say 1 ” said j
George.
“Would the reason exist, then, in '
Some earlier cause—to put it plainly, i
privation in the way of food and ex
posure to the weather when she was a
child or in her early girlhood? Children
are frequently neglected, not so much !
for want of means as for want of
thought; they are sent to low-priced '
schools or fed at home on the allowance
system, and either would be fatal to a
delicate constitution, though the result
might oat show at the time or for some
years afterwards.”
“Her father was very poor,” said ;
George, “and they struggled hard for a
livelihood. When he was ill, she was,
I know, out in all weathers, and she did
a great deal of his work at the Museum, j
but that is years ago.”
“No matter how many years,” the i
physician said,sliakingliis head.“ There j
is no doubt the mischief was done then.
Wantof proper nourishment at the prop
er time, exposure to the weather in un
suitable clothing, and thecratnped posi
tion she would have to assumeat a desk !
or wrilingtable would plant the seeds of
weakness; and though she might grow
strong apparently, a trying illness sucli
r.s she has gone through would lie a
crucial test of the exlent of the mis
chief done. Still” —and tie shook his
head again—“lam not satisfied. If she
had a negligent nurse, now; but Mrs.
Ailenbv Is the most perfect mistress of
her art I ever saw.”
“And has been most devoted,” said
George. “Wherever tbe fault may be,
It is not in the nursing.”
The physician, too, was sure of that,
and took his leave implying rather by
his manner than his words how little
hope he could give their anxious hearts.
And then some inexplicable change
took place in Mary; she would rally
one day only to sink lower the next;
and finally sue became almost uncon- ]
seimis. thoughkeenly alive totlie slight
est sound. They had to keep her very
quiet, so quiet that Sensi, who could
move with a footfall that would not
have disturbed a mouse, was appointed |
carrier from the sick-room to tiie kitch
en. He took the Various trays from !
Mrs. Allenby's band at the bedroom '
door, and conveyed to her what was re- '
qu red. Som times he was allowed to ;
steal ft* :t od look a . M. rv when She was
asi.-ep, and then he would retire with
hi* great eyes full of tears, it was un
derstood that he was never to knock at i
t;i door; he had to op u it a iiule wav,
and then Mrs. Allenby’s white hand
would put the tray out, or take one
iron him. and that was all.
One morning he went up with some
■1 o. y aid open'd the door a little way
><•'! • !. but Mrs. Aitenby did not come;
■ - mi! tSv first or tiie second time
r l ha pu! and, mi l tied he had
■• •• l. *..t down his tr y. and waken
■ w . > ;t touch of bis finger
, •* ec-i r O.i tin occasion he
■ i v. ■ .. pin ;. patient
' . e . ....il s,.t Its
-*• I V - 11 f
i ■ •%*. -*v.. if >*?' t'. C (!f t‘P tUWI ]*ro
, .. •. j\ t ,-vi:• j :• to>*k up li :1 a
*„. p*>VLit-; p’-t it on the small
*■,< > .via -jt4vi;h cl*’light turned
: s, lie , ; - .-oihet. and the cups and
■hr?** • > -j n taking one
~ . .I'fj *; tho table by Mary a
k " r T*. . room nois iessly. his
.12: yt\ L'j ’ -.s dowrlj in liis Jiand.
;/:• ai'the dmlng-room door,
Vt. t >u r jy tne in wait for him. bek
-1 v ;*i. Tifi usual pr*eiice,
- r n tys icc j mL lor Sensi
—t . - ; .k as he was silent. This
v #**-• W vb.w', the stink:lit caugut
+ - • r*?ib be asked, cios
f • *" wns the mournful re
'#e ’ A that Mr c Mary looks more
* and ~nz4 . an *he ' th-r js asleep.**
•n t. poor tiiin : sir is a
t jiv. Tv ? or Ilvdir is a <b*> p,
j. ;-i -i dropo doil l<>si 1 *p
\ • . .s i.i k.iwf t< ijim, with the
l vlft his anus. .Sen >i/ 1
s A.<f.
\ £t Jat- gSasi in s.-uai V. hand w.th
i.- : v.x;?r* s.. on of horror and iucreduiity
‘•\\% it. d.d you take: that glass
iXLAi’ I'* 1 '*
. i'tol.ttfr t ible by Mrs. Mary’s side.
Her mother waa asleep,
and I saw it. bad been. used, though it
is not quite empty.
“Have you ever done such a thing be
fore?”
“Never! Old Mrs. Allenby always j
gives me everything; hilt srop! you
know som ‘thing. Mr. Parker, and you
must tell me—you must,” and he rolled
his terrible eyes at the young man. "If
she has done anything to Mrs. Mary, I
will strangle her In her chair.”
"Stay!" said Parker, with a sudder
and resolute sterna ss which took tie
m dattn by .sn. pj "sit down, and let
m tef it hefo. c <vq s..y iwwovd to any
one. Murc. Jd" i test fall, no li rm is
dime, a ,and if it is .u? susp cl. we must
keep tne secret to ourselv, s. I want no !
alp but yours, and not a word to your 1
m. er, mind, or Doctor Hyde, till J I
tell you to speak.”
He opened small chest of drugs used |
by him in some analytical experiments, !
and applied a test to the few drops of j
medicine and sediment remaining iu I
the glass; he waited for the changes, ;
and as they came a low tidek sweat
broke out upon Ids face.
“Amongst all the things—cruel and
horrible things—that I have heard or
read,” he said, “there was never any
one thing so bad as this, and she is Mac !
garet’s mother. No wonder that we
could not understand the, symptoms.” j
“What is it, Mr. Parker? Was Mrs. j
Mary being killed?”
“Slowly and surely poisoned, Sensi, !
unless there has been soma terrible and j
almost inexplicable mistake; but we j
shall know to-night. Now. Serial, listen !
to my plan. If it is as I suspect, it will j
lie time enough to tell your master and
Doctor Hyde when we have proved it.
If Mn, we can keep our own counsel,
and shall have done no harm.”
The mulatto, with a rapidly growing
respect for Mr. Parker, 1 stened atten
tively, and it was quite half an hour be
fore he left the room, and then he went
about the house with his sweet good
tempered smile, quiet fuce, and quiet j
footstep as usual.
The next time he was sentto the sick
room Mrs. Allenby opened the door
rather wider than was customary, and
stepped out on the landing.
"I was asleep when you came in this
morning,” she said, with her unvarying ;
pie. sant manner.
“Yes, madam,” he said, with an un- !
moved countenance. “I tried to wake j
you, but I could not, so 1 set tiie chick- J
mi broth over the spirit lamp and clear
ed the room."
"You are very kind and thoughtful.
Sensi, and would make an excellent j
nurse. Will you please tell the cook or i
the housemaid, or whoever cleans that \
china and glass to be very careful that ,
taey are quite bright and dry, the medi
cine glasses especially; they generally
are. lint if there is tiie slightest smear
or duluess it is so uistast-ful.”
“1 always do that myself,” said Sensi, ;
with that same unmoved face and re- :
speetful attitude, “they arc too busy.”
“Then you attended to those you
took down this morning?”
"Yes, mndam.”
“That is right. Will you bo good
enough to say th-re is a slight change
for the h it r, and Doctor llyde may
come up when lie arrives?”
Tiie mulatto bowed and went down
stairs; if she could have s en his dark i
face when it was turned away from Iter
Mrs. Allenby would have trembled.
He took the message down, to the in- j
tens • relief of the household, though a j
similar message had gone down many i
times before. Georg' 11yd ■ thought, |
or hope ami love made lulu think, he ■
saw favorable signs when lie. wont into j
the room, and Mrs. Allenby cheered j
him with a few words.
“I should not tie surprised.” she said,
smoothing Mary's long, ru-li hair cu- j
rrssingly, “to see a change by the morn
in ■; she rested so well last night.”
"You were right in your predictions
before,” lie said, touching the white
face on the pillow gently with his iips.
“I hope it may be so again.”
Mrs. Allenby did not leave her charge
ail the day. She slept and rested for a
few hours in tiie early evening, and
then resumed tier vigil. By midnight
the house w as quiet and the gas turned
out—tiie only light to bo seen was in j
the sick cliamb -r and Mr. Parker’s \
room. He had his reading-lamp before ,
him. and sat studying a treatise on toxi- i
cology. Tiie door of his room was part- '
ly open.
The hours passed slowly, but ho had |
no sense of drowsiness. A church clock i
in a neigh hiring square chimed tiie j
quarters and struck the hours until it |
had told three past midnight—the time i
he knew for Mary's sedative—the hour j
at which she nearly always woke. She i
had been so accustomed to her medicine
at this tira- that she woke by the force j
of habit to take it.
Strangeiy enough she did not awake
on this occasion, and Mrs. Allenby, af
ter looking at her attentively and medi
tatively, drew a long breath, and w nt
to tiie table near her couch, divided
from Mary’s bedstead hya heavy screen
of many folds. She poured the medi
cine out with a st-adv hand, s- t the bot
tle down, and then took a sin ill phial
from tiie bosom of her dress. From this
she measured ac.-rtain numb, rof drops,
count ng them carefully as they fell in
to tne glass.
As she r-piacd the stopper, a stifled
cry re c; to her lips, for both her hail is
s i/ I Inin lietund, as tiie terrible
•. of the in ua.to looked m.o her
o wu.
CIIAITKIt XV.
now rr KN-n-n.
' las she w. s, with the poisonM
in in- in om hand and the poison
it- -iin the other, S-asi forced Mrs.
Al'.-nhy into the next room, st p by
st'-p. I'n- wr-t h -1 w iman would have
•ur and for help—her dread of him
w s stronger for the m un nt than the
dre dof discovery—but with th • fasci
ne. 'in of those terr lil > eyes up m her
she could not liter a sound.
A lien - l tins landing he S' nt his
v.c. down th“swire is ■. spire dy above
a whisper, but it went through tho
house.
“Mr. Parker,”—“Mr. Parker!”
T • student heard it. so did tho old
? 11 • i- m i, so .1 IHo irge Hyde. Fear
ing tu w ust. l;tpv w 'lit upst urs almost
tog n r. lut Mr. Park-r alone knew
tiie meaning of what ttiey saw.
••What is it?’ Mr. Barker asked. “My
c id—my darling!—Arthur's w ife! Is
she—?”
“Safe, I hope,” said Mr. Parker,
quietly, “and likely to r cover now that
we know tho causeof her disease. And
she,” ha went on, cry ng bitterly, "is
Margaret’s mother! How can she be
told of this?”
| So far they could understand nothing,
for Mr. Parker could not sav another
'THOMSON', GEORGIA, WEDNESDAY, MARCH 25, 1885.
wow. seusi, however, did not lose his
presence of nnnd. Now that there were
witnesses present he released Mrs. Al
lenby, and placed the glass of medie.no
and tho phial on the table. These told
their own story to Dr. Hyde.
"Tell thim,” Mr. Parker said to the
muigtto; “I cannot.”
Tho mulatto told them, more clearly
perhaps than tiie student could have
done; and. through tiie horror which
had come upon .him, Mr. linker could
only notice the singular stillness which
had com■> np.ur Ins sister-in-law. She
did not move or sp uk when lie asked
her if the fearful tale were true. She
only replied with a slow inclination of
the head;
When Mr. Barker rose to his full
height Mrs. All nby knew him at once;
he Was, in nothing. like the shambling, i
high-shouldered figure she had seen j
onee or twice going up and down tiie i
stairs. Tiie hideous blue spectacles
were til His pocket, and ho no longer i
made ft pretence or being afflicted with ;
tiie gout, mid. in spite of her stricken I
faculties, she saw that Mary's eccentric
lodger and Michael Allenby were the
sain,i until.
What he might have said no one could
tell, bill its begun in a way that showed j
tiie full measure of his anger. George i
Hyde stopp-d him, however, and lifted •
the heavy figure of Mrs. Allenby in the i
chair. She lV)l hack again limp and ;
helpless.
“Yqn need not Say a word,” he said ;
to Michael, i'ileiyvcu has punished i
her.”
“\Vhat is the matter with her?”
‘‘i’anlv* s--hopeless and incurable.” !
And so it was. The sudden shock of .
the two swift amt s,l-nt hands which ,
‘grasp ut her o\v •. whM khu thought Her- !
s.'lf alon •, aniTthe deadly ferocity of !
tiie mulatto's terrible eyes had done j
their work, and Mrs. Allenby was para- J
lysed from head to loot; tiie brain was
clear and active, and that added to her
punishment.
“And she is Margaret’s mother,” Mr.
Parker said again. "How cun we tell i
her?”
“She never must bo told.” said j
Michael, gravely. “This is a secret to j
be kept by ourselves. Icm trust you :
and George, and I can answer for Sensi.
You have behaved with rare good sense
and discretion, Air. Parker. Does that
wretched woman understand me, j
George, when 1 tell her for her child
ren’s sake, no one will ever W ow how
this happened.”
The wretched woman made a sign !
that site did understand.
“Her motive,” lie went on, “though
it must ever be a matter of conjecture,
can easily be arrived at by me. Her i
hatred of Alary, and her desire to take
possession of Arthur’s boy and my
money led her to to this.”
Though he had not spoken to tier, j
Mrs. Allenby responded with the same
sign a slow ir mill uisnnd forward m >-
tion of the head.
“She nursed Mary through the fever,”
lie continued, “tiie better to throw ns
off our guard, anil prepare the way for
tiie present diabolical piece of treach
ery. You see how it lias recoiled upon
herself. Should Mary live 1 could al
most forgive her.”
Should Mary live! George stole into
the room, and came back in u moment.
“Mary is asleep,” he said.
“And without that cruel poison in her
veins,” said tlmold man. “May Heaven
help us in ourworkof bringing her back
to health. I have told you, George, it
was through this woman's letters to me
I first conceived tiie idea of coming
here in disguise to see for myself what
Arthur's wife Was like. Sh-,’’ and he
pointed to the stricken figure in the
chair, “told me this girl was lowly-born
and ill-bred, the child of a miserable,
drunken, literary hack, and that she
hers -If was suspected of being worse.”
Dr. Hyde shuddered.
“Of course,” Michael said, “I did not
know. I only knew that when 1 left
England my bid friend Lennard was
a scholarly gentleman, wlio.se only fault
was his poverty. I could not tell how
far he may have drifted, but I could not
believe that be bail done so. and I know
now from his own child’s lips, one of
the best and purest girls that ever lived,
and only equalled in tiie beauty of her
mind by my niece Margaret, that his
life was a martyrdom. 1 also know how
nobly she behaved; and so this woman’s
treachery and sin failed and have found
her out?”
Tiie drooping figure in the chair seem
ed to shrink into itself at this, and her
head fell forward heavily. They sent
for her daughters and wrongfully told
them that th-ir mother had giveyr way,
worn out with nursing, and they n ;ver
knew the truth.
But it was in this time of trial that]
one character gave evidence of a gener
ous patience and filial all' iction hitherto
hidden entirely. Victoria took the care of
her mother ujion herself. She was jeal
ous, almost savag-ly so, of any inter
ference on M irgaret’s part. Mrs. Al
lenby lived for many years, and Vic
tor a never left her. No one could in
terpret those mute signs and inarticu
late sounds so well, an Ito the end of
her days Miss Allenby hated Mary as
the cause of the calamity which had
overtaken her mother.
Mary lived, and in ele G o; g • Hyde a
proudly happy in in; an 1 Uncle .Michael,
wth price-ly generosity, establish 'd
AI a Mortimer Pos lethwaite Parker in
a practice, insisting, as a humorous
eoedition, tiiai lie should marry Af .tr
g: r"t. It is believed ev-n to this day
that he pr y. i tli" p;H of m itch-iuak -r
vornes he went so far as to threat! n
I.s n.rc if -i • rejected the dear- st f : 1-
av in th rii| nrxi to George Huic.
G -urge h.; 1 t,.k 'u Arthur’s place in ill"
old man’s heart.
But no oae ever took the place held
thereby Artoiir’s little son. its tie
boy grew out of babyhood he became
more arid more attached to Utiky Bako,
and as the years went on, when other
little ones came to Mary and George,
tiie boy lived almost entirely with Uncle
Alichacl.
When Mary was told tiie trutli she
was not greatly surpris 'd.
“1 did not quite think that,”she said;
“though I always thought there was
something strange about you, Unde
Michael; and though I love my Uncle
Alichacl very dearly, I should not have
cared for him half so much if he had
not been so curiously like my eccentric
I lodger!”
i It so m became an easy matter for
| those who had known him as Mr. ISark
- er to speak of liitn as Uncle Michael,,
but never with little Arthur; as Unky
. Buko the old man began, and as Unky
I Bako lie remained, and perhaps there
| was no name he loved so well to hear.
Sensi stayed with them to the last.
• ctiumu as a nog, gsttue, anecttonaie,
and grateful always.
EIiGAK AIiLI.N POE.
Hi* Karly Strutrplr Living—Whore and
When He Haven*"
Twenty minutes mle *rom the Grand
Central depot, writes a New York cor
respondent of the Trev Times, brings
us to the beautiful and historical vil
lage of Ford 1 nun, in tbv Nvcnty-fourlh i
ward, and turnim* to l 1 left from tho |
station and passim: upward be
tween the moss eoverv rocks, stone
walls, and great old ; .es upon the
Kin£sbrid*re road, we s reach the
last residence of the -irr i famous of
American poets, Allen Foe,
around which sadly in
teresting re mtttl of tiie nuk/who i
was at onee the most distinguished and
most unfortunate of our putely-native
writers. The place Consists of a one- ;
and-a-half-story-house, with a lean-to
addition on one side and abroad veran
da on two sides of the Vnain building.
All are picturesquely overgrown and \
covered with vines and * reepors, and a
number of grand old . miry trees in
the yard throw a mass'w upon
the veranda. This all lands in the
center of about two acres of soft and
velvety greensward. Near the house is
u syringa bush planted by the poet, and
on one of the trees in t ■ * orchard are
his initials, cut by hiuisi If, but which
now have lost much of their shape by
elongation by the growth of the tree, i
Back of the cottage stands the pine un
der which Poe was in tV- habit of re
clining for an hour at a time, “dream
ing dreams no mortal ever dared to
dream before.”
Here, in 184. G, Poo moved with his
child-wife (she married ?l 14) and her
mother. Buried among the trees with
the scent of heliotrope and mignonette
and his few pot* about him, he devoted
himself to the task of corning a living j
by bis pen, and that only —a task and j
a hope that has always •• on a hollow j
mockery, a delusion, aro’ snare.
In the upper story of i > * house, un- i
der the sla ting roof, which is readied
by a winding stairway, ms his study
and bedroom. It is ligh’od by a large
double window and at the opposite side j
is a very ample open tirbplace. What
a host of memories are < rowded upon
you us you enter this sacred, almost
hallowed chamber. Here, many and \
many a time, has ho
—-|>omlcifd, weak and m srv.
Over ninny a quaint and i:u iuk volume of
toi’kottcn lore.
Here during the last mu kness of his*
wife, when the hand of death was fall
ing gently, but surely twM unmistak- 1
ably, in that
—Weal. December, ? 1
Vainly hod ho soiq lit to trorrr'
Prom hi* hooks Hiirtcaso oi rmw—sorrow
for the toot I.ctM'rc; .;->■
i For tlml run* iu id riwiiunt tim. n whom tho j
un>r* ls nuftic Lonorc*. ’
Here is the window at ivliich came
. the tappirrg of < n 1
opened it, Willi nuriv ti flirt and flutter I
stepped ti#* ghastly, grim, uncertain !
bird night's Pluhtniiui shore;
the e, t#ver the door, stood the bust of
Pallas, PpoH which this horrible bird
jicrched himself and by his croaking;
“Nevermore” struck wonder, awe,
anger, and terror in the poet’s heart.
Hero lie stood when he pleaded with the
gaunt specter:
“Prophet.” until TANARUS, “thing of evil—pVopbGt still
ir Mid or devil— -V
Whelher tempter rent, or whether tempest
tossed thee here ashore.
Desolate, yd. a.I undaunted, on the desert ;
land oneh mted
On ties home ly horror haunted—tell mo tru
ly, I implore.
Is there—Ms tie re balm in GlJernl?i Toll me—
tell me. I implore?”
Quetii the raven: ‘•Nevermore.”
And here on this spot on Ikfc floor ifi
wheto the awful shqdow of dtlvth fell:
And my stnil from out timt shudow that lies
Uoidiiu: on the floor
Shell lie lilt, and ncvernioro.
Virginia Kliza Poe passed awav Jan
uary MU, 1817, and was buried In the
rustic churchyard here at Fordhmn, on
ly years old. A darker shadow than
the raven threw upon the study floor
was Upon the soul of Poe, and it was
never lifted front it. Poor before, he
was poorer now, and never a rapid or
voluminous writer, he became slower
and loss frequent, in his productions but
here, under the shadow of her love, he
continued with great diflb ullyto write,
“Ulalumc,” “Annabel Lee,” and a
number of prose pieces.
The country lanes and byways in this
section are exceedingly beautiful, and
it was Poe’s delight to take long strolls
in the early morning. There is a ledge
of rocks near the cottage,crowned with
pines and cedars, which command a
lino view of the surrounding country,
and which beloved. Here he would sit
for hours wrapped in thought over the
composition of “Eureka,” which lie bc-
I gan after his wife's death.
There was a spirit of unrest and re
volt in Poc which refined to accept
whatever had established itself. Born
in the lowest walks of life, the child of
strolling players, adopted by M . Al
lan, a wealthy gentleman of Baltimore,
he was given a spftjnrdid education. Na
ture had liberally, nay bountifully en
dowed him with magnificent talents,
which under other circumstances would
have made him a happy man, an orna- I
merit to society, and a monument of
honor to his country, but for some
slight freak be was east adrift before he
was 541, with the education, instincts,
and predilections of a gentleman, but
without the material means of holding
t he position he should have occupied in
society. Tims he became a misan- j
th rope and a cynic.
With no means at his command to
gain his own livelihood but his brains
and his pen, he turned to letters as a
means of support, a task of more than
herculean magnitude, a task in which
tin* world of literature has yet to pro
duce the man who has been successful
unaided by ulterior sources. His was
a particularly unfavorable time, for we
as a nation had not yet taken a place
among the literati of the. world. Liter
ature wu - not fostered as the weakly
plant that needed tiie gentle care and
nurturing of appreciation, approbation,
Mid financial support necessary to
•/ring it to a healthy growth. That ;
most wonderful piece <f work in the
entire rung*? of Lngiish-literaturc,“The .
Haven,” brought him the munificent
sum of s\o: and a gentleman who was
proof-reader on the magazine in which
it \v. * first: published tells me that the
editor brought him the copy and ex
pressed him e fas feeling he had paid
too much for it. The Harpers to-day
would willingly give as much per line
for such a piece.
Foe died in Baltimore in f -.toher,
1819, in his fortieth year. The imme
diate cause of iis death is shrouded in
mystery, though it was supposed he
I was waylaid in the streets, lie was de
lirious when found by his friends, and
continued go until just before his death.
A brief, brilliant, but unhappy life and
melancholy death was his, of whom it
may bo well said, in the words of Dr.
Johnson, that the events of his life are
variously related, and all that can be
told with certainty & that he was poor.
“The Haven” will long preserve his
memory, and with it tin* memory of the
great artist, Gustave Dore, who spent
the last year of his life in illustrating
it. Edgar Allen Poe has won the fame
he coveted: *
Anti 8o sopulcborod in such pomp doth lie,
That Kings tor such a tomb would wish to die.
- ■ —■
TIIE ARTIST’S ROMANCE.
Alfred Hart was an artist, as yet un
known to fame. He h and sent a picture
to the Academy; and it had been re
fused. Nowise cast down by this fail
ure, lie resolved to try again. He
Called himself persevering; his friends
called him obstinate; and his enemies
said that he had mistaken his vocation,
and ought to have been a house painter.
Our hero lmd his fair share of con
ceit, and, believing in himself, laughed
at his friends and dispised his enemies.
It must be confessed that as far us
outward appearance went Alfred Hart
looked every inch an artist—that is,
the popular idea of one—with his long
hair, soft h it and velvet coat.
Disgusted with the bad taste of tiie
“Academy,” Alfred Hart betook him
self to the seaside, after writing a furi
ous art iele on favoritism to the news
paper, which was not inserted.
Some day, Alfred Hart felt, he would
be appreciated; but, in the meantime,
he would have probably starved, had it
not beet) for a maiden aunt who allow
ed him so much a month in order that.
In* might pursue his studies.
He had been pursuing his studies a
very long time—being now, when our
story opens, thirty-seven.
Alfred Hart, on arriving at, the sea
side, went immediately in search cf a
lodging, his artistic paraphernalia un
der his arm.
At the first house ho presented him
self he had a very un leasont rebuff.
“You’re an artist! No, llmnk you!”
said the landlady, “I couldn't take you
in.”
“Why no!?” asked our hero.
“Because,” said the landlady, put
ting her arms akimbo, “I've hoard that
artists don’t pay.”
“Y u are very insulting, madam!”
end Alfred Hart, indignantly. “Who
made such a HcamlaFous libel on our
honorable profession?”
“I'm a plain-spoken woman,” went
on the landlady, “and l speak out
straight. My sister once leL her rooms
to an artist.’'
; “And the result?”
“Wu* t hnl he never paid! I’d much
rnther take a pork-butcher than an ar
tist, and that's the truth!”
“Thera is u black sheep in every
dock,” observed Alfred Hart, “i can
a -lire you that I always pay ray way.”
“li that's ihe ease;'; said the sharp
seaside landlady, “you'll have no oh
i “Ivoim at imV said Au JiPgraTuTuT
I
for he )md just received a remittance
; from the aunt before mentioned. “I’ll
pay you in advance if tho apartments
suit. Let e see them.”
“This way, sir,” observed Mrs. Law,
a little more civilly. “Mind the steps,
tlu* passage is rather dark.”
Tne rooms suited Alfred Hart very
well, and he took them there and then.
“Being an artist,” said Mrs. Law, as
she stood in the parlor by tho window,
i “you will enjoy the view.”
The view consisted of a long line of
mud, for the lido had run out.
“Ye.d T shall be very comfortable
here, no doubt,” said Alfred, sinking
into an arm-chair that had a broken
spring. “I suppose you have been hero
too long to enjoy the prospect.”
I Mrs. Law confessed that she didn't
! see much in it herself, as she rattled
the “two weeks in advance” in her
pocket..
When alone, when Mrs. Law had
left the apartment, Alfred took the
wrapper from the rejected picture, and
gazed upon it.
He was looking-at it still when Mrs.
Law entered the room bringing in the
i tea things. Now, Mrs. Law was a
woman of the world, and understood
people’s weaknesses.
“Why, what a beautiful picture!”
she cried, lifting up her hands in af
fected admiration. “Did you draw
that, sit?”
“Yes!” said Alfred, with a pardona
ble glow of pride. “1 painted that
picture.”
“It’s just lovely!” crid Mrs. Law.
“Mrs. Law,” cried the gratified ar
tist, “you are a woman of sound dis
cernment! You have a soul! You can
appreciate art! Shake hands with mo,
madam.”
Mrs. Law readily acquiesced; the
J artist looking very happy indeed,
i “Never saw such a daub in my life,”
observed Mrs. Law, when in the pass
age; “but it don't do no barm to flat
ter lodgers up. I’ll charge him some
thing for extras.”
That night Alfred Ilart hd happy
dreams, despite the hardness of his bed.
He dreamed that he was President of
the Royal Academy, end that he would
allow no pictures there but his own.
! He awoke too soon to the hard reali
ty, and went down to his breakfast,
which consisted of weak tea, and a few
diminutive shrimps, and not very in
: viting bread and butter.
After breakfast our hero went for a
stroll by the ever-restless sea, the wind
blowing his long hair over his head,
j A few excursionists made some un
complimentary remarks about Alfred
Hart; but he, being used to them, took
no notice, beyond casting disdainful
1 glances at the low creatures.
He had proceeded on his way about
half-a-mile, when he came upon a
young lady who, not knowing that
anyone was in sight, was seated on a
rook busily engaged in taking some
stones out of her sand shoe, and, in so
doing, revealing a charming ankle,
j Now, our hero was, as we know, a
man of artistic taste, and, therefore,
gazed upon the girl with admiring eyes,
, thinking that he would much like to
paint her in that very attitude.
I That afternoon, as he was having his
; dinner, the same young lady passed his
j window.
“Do you know her?” asked Alfred
abruptly, looking at his landlady who
was pouring him out a glass of ale.
“Who?”
“That young lady who has just pass
ed the window; the young lady who
wears red stocking*.
“Why, Mr. Hart, how observant you
are!” observed Mrs. Law, go.ng to the
| window. “On! that's Miss Daffodil
j Nixon. Her father Is something in the
|city; very well-to-do indeed, they say.
I She is fiis only daughter. 'The man
| who marries her will be a lucky fellow.
[Excuse me for h vying it Mr. Hart, but
!ft good-looking fellow like you might
tuve a chauce,”-
“2>o l might, said Aiirea, muen
pleased; “but how am 1 to get intro
duced?”
“Ah! that’s the difficulty.” remarked
Mrs. Law. Then she addad, after a
moments reflection: “Her father al
ways goes every evening to the parlor
of “The Pirate and Admiral,” and
takes a glass; you might get into con*
versation with him.”
“You’ve hit it!” said Hart delight
fully; he felt that the fair Daffodil was
already his. We have already told th<
reader that Mr. Alfred Hart had a very
good opinion of himself.
“If 1 win her,” thought Alfred, “I’ll
put such handsome frames to my pic
tures.”
Delay is always dangerous. Our he
ro did not allow the grass to grow un
der his feet. No, he knew better.
That very evening, dre.ssed in hi?
best, ho showed himself at the parlor oi
“The Pirate and Admiral.”
John Nixon was seated at the end of
the table, with a long pipe in his mouth
—evidently he thought a great deal of
himself.
But our hero did not find it so easy
as he thought it would be to make John
Nixon’s acquaintance.
He was a grumpy, surly fellow', and
hardly answered Allred when lie
spoke.
After three evenings spent in vainly
trying to make friends, Alfred Hart
gave it up in despair. However, chance
did for our hero what scheming could
not do.
One afternoon Miss Daffodil, happening
to fall asleep, was caught by the tide.
She awoke to find herself on a little is
land of sand surrounded by water.
Now, the probability is that had
there not been a young man present,
Miss Daffodil would have rushed
through the water, which was not
quite two feet in depth; but a gentle
man being in the way, she gave vent to
a little shriek, saying:
“Save me! Save me!”
Tiie gentleman was no oilier than
Albert llart, and without the least hesi
tation, after casting a glance at the
familiar red stockings—for Miss Daffo
dil had gathered her skirts round her—
plunged into the water like the hero he
was.
“I will save you!” ho cried.
“You are brave, noble!” she cried,
and the fair Daffodil threw her arms
round his neck.
Onee more he plunged through the
rising water, aud they were soon on dry
land.
“I am saved!” said the girl, still en
twininjj her arms round Alfred’s neck,
—fair flower as she was. “llow can 1
ever thank you sufficiently for your
gallant conduct?”
“Don't mention it,” said Alfred half
choked by the giiTsTair arms, “it’s a
pleasure to risk one's life for one so
beautiful.”
Now it must he confessed that Miss
Daffodil was not what might lxi called
beautiful, though a lineJooking girl of
about fivo-and-twenty summers.
h*r that they met on, the beach, walking
side by side, the pleasant sound of the
restless waters in their ears.
She told him everything about her
self, for Miss Daffodil was very frank—
how she had money in her own right,
and how her father did uot. wish her to
many, because he would loose it.
At length, one lovely 'evening, our
h* ro asked the all-important question.
“Daffodil, dearest Daffodil!” he said,
“1 have loved you ”
“Oh, Alfred!” hiding her blushing
face in her hands.
“I have loved you,” went on Alfred,
“ever since 1 first saw those yellow
sand-boots and re i stockings.”
“You wicked Alfred!” said Miss Daf
fodil, pinching him.
“Darling, will you be mine?”
Of course she said yes, aud the artist,
was rendered the happiest of men,
coking forward to the time when he
:ould touch her money.
On meeting her on the following
jvening, Alfred suggested that they
diould elope.
“Where to?” asked Dafiodil.
“I'll take you to mv aunt's,” replied
Alfred. “We will remain with her un
;il our marriage. ”
“Will she like me?” asked Daffodil.
“Everyone who sees you must like
/ou,” said Alfred. He knew only too
veil that his aunt would be glad to
tear that he had married a fortune.
“Everybody don’t sea me with your
eyes,” remarked Daffodil.
“Confound his insolence!” cried a
loud voice, and turning round, Alfred
saw Daffodil’s father tucking up his
sleeves.
“Did you address such language to
me, sir?” asked Alfred trying to look
fierce but trembling in his shoes.
“Yes, sir!”
“Then I think I'd better go. Fare
well, dearest!” looking at Daffodil, “but
not forever.”
And, with these parting words, ho
fled leaving father and daughter to
gether.
It was not forever. He met Daffodil
on the following night, and, taking her
to the station, took tiie train for Lou
don.
Alfred's aunt received his future
bride with enthusiasm, thinking that
through her she would be relieved of
her nephew’s keep.
Three weeks afterwards they were
married, and the artist felt that his
triumph was complete.
A few days after their marriage Al
fred wrote to his father-in-law to tell
him what had happened. The answer
that came back by return of post aston
ished him.
“Sir, —I am glad to get her off my
hands. I wish you luck. You’ll find
that the has a deuce of a temper. —
Yours faithfully,
“John Nixon.”
Her father only spoke the truth—
Daffodil had a deuce of a temper; but
Alfred would not have cared for that,
had she possessed money. Bhe had not
a farthing in the world, and Alfred
found that he had been thoroughly
duped. But a worse misfortune a
waited him. His aunt, thoroughly dis
gusted, refused to do anything more
for him.
Thus, left to his own resources, our
hero saw that he would have to say
farewell to art forever, for now he had
to keep himself and a wife.
He tried another walk in life, and,
when we last heard of him, was a com
mercial traveller, doing well. Is lie
happy with his wife? We lie ievequite
as happy as most husbands are, for
Dafiodil, with all her faults, is very
fond of her Alfred.
Englishmen eat at much shorter' in
tervals than Americans are accustomed
to. The farm laborer eats four meals a
day, and in some of the baronial halls
in England the tables are spread for
meals at intervals of four hours UUnng
the dav and evening.
NO. 12.
kk BERGH ON RACING.
He Entertains Very I Verified Opinions ns
to the Cruelty of Kaclng.
“A beautiful morning. Take a seat,”
said Mr. Bergh this morning to a re
porter for the Mail and Express.
“Providence is wise* It knows bad
weather and politics would be too much
for us to bear, and so we have fine
weather.”
“You’ve seen that Maud 8. lowered
the trotting record by a quarter of a
second, Mr. Bergh?”
“That makes it 2:091, docs it notP
And even that won’t satisfy the racing
public.”
“Do you consider such speeding a
cruelty?'’
“Most decidedly. It is a cruelty from
which no benefit is derived. Why, Mr.
Bonner is no more satisfied now than
he was before the mare accomplished
the task. Now she will be expected to
lower the record again,, because her
owner, trainer, and a number of good
j judges of this kind of achievement
| think she can. If Maud S. went round
i a mile in one minute, then she would
| be set to work to do it in iifty-nine sec
| onds.”
“Jhi you consider the training tho
! horse goes through cruel, or the race
| itself?”
i “Both. A horse cannot go on forever
; lowering a record. Making an animal
do its utmost so frequently must tax
its power and cause pain. It Is an ex
pense to the owner and a great exhaus
tion to the horse. The training is un
natur.t] and must cause any animal a
deal of discomfort.”
“Are you opposed to racing general
ly, or only to the attempts to lower the
record?”
“To all kinds of racing or unnatural
speeding of animals. In horse-racing
the jockey is armed with a whip and
spurs aud tiie racers are stabbed and
whipped until not unfrequently they
drop from sheer exhaustion. Is not
that cruelty? And yet wo have no
power to interfere, because the law
wants us to see the cruelty actually
committed.”
“Is there no remedy for this?”
“I am willing to acknowledge I am
powerless because the majority of the
community support it, and they support
it from vanity stud gambling. Take
away the gambling from the race
course and the turf will have lost near
ly all its attraction, or like the opera
with Patti singing but not receiving
$6,000 a night. Jt will be the same as
a bull-fight without blood. As an ex
ample, some time ago a part}' of
Andalusians came here aud built a ring
in One Hundred and Twenty-fifth
street. I informed them that if they
attempted a bull-light 1 would stop tiie
affair, and that a horse would not be
allowed in the ring. They agreed to
only use paste on the rosettes and not
pins, and do away with the blood, and
what was the result? The whole af
fair was a failure, which would be pre
cisely the case with horse-racing if
-aruudqin'r stopped.”
“Jt is .said 'tifiu'sdioe ftWmSrs refwsu -
to allow their horses to be whipped or
spurred.”
“Such an owner ought to show him
self in BunueiFs museum at least once
a day. Do you suppose that if an own
er starts a horse in a race, and has a
bet of say $10,01)0 on that horse’s win
ning, he wiil tell the jockey he must
not spur or whip it? 1 can’t conceive
such a thing, and imagine the jockey’a
only instructions would be?, go in and
win. An owner made the assertion
some time ago that it was natural for
a horse to run like they are made to do,
and that they like to be whipped, all
round the course. Take that man and
put a bit in his mouth and make him
run round - a ring, at the same time
thrashing him, and see how he likes it;
and it is the same thing, only the horse
is a dumb animal and cannot express
its feelings.”
“You grant, I suppose, these horses
are well taken care of ?”
“Such care as you or I would be
well satisfied with at the Fifth Avenue
hotel, but such as is unnatural to a
horse; and then they only receive such
care while they are repaying their own
ers Let them deteriorate or sprain an
ankle and then see where they go to.
Follow one of these horses and you will
find him by and by standing in front of
an ash-cart belonging to someone
carting refuse up to Shantytown, J.
should think that these gentlemen
members of the Jockey club who say
they have tho interest of the horse at
heart would be glad to have our repre
sentative on the course to report any
case of cruelty, but they refuse alto
gether to give us admission, and then
flog a horse all the way round.” —New
l ark Mail and Express.
A Wonder Machine Gun,
A Philadelphia inventor, Hiram S.
Maxim, the inventor of the system of
electric lighting bearing bis name, has
invented a machine gun that fires six
hundred shots a minute from a single
barrel. The gun with its tripod only
weighs 126 pounds, and is arranged in
such a way that the force of the recoil
from one round at the moment of tiring
is utilized and forms the motive power
for loading and firing the next round.
The cartridges are kept in a canvas
belt seven yards long, in a box under
the gun; you insert one end of the belt
in the gun, start the tiring and then
can train the gun as you (moose while
the discharge proceeds mechanically.
Anew belt can be attached as tho
old one becomes emptied. The barrel
is surrounded by a water jacket to pre
vent it from becoming heated. If the
man working the gun should be killed,
the gun would go on firing mechanic
ally till the cartridges were exhausted,
unless some faulty cartridge interfered.
Certainly a machine gun which ore
man can work, and which fires ten shots
a second, is something important in
murderous discovery.— London Times.
A Presbyterian doctor of divinity once
said to me at a General Assembly.
“You newspapermen must have queer
views of things. You are always look
ing on and never taking part. Your
knowledge and habits of thought must
l*e very circumferential and superficial,
I suppose now your idea oi the Day of
Judgir ent is, that yom will have a ta
ble off at one side ana report the pro
ceedings for the morning paper.”— St.
Paul 1 ioneer-Trcss.
A Court House clerk in Montreal has
been sued for calling a man a “tlqd**,”
and this vyord, which is ignored % the
lexicographers, will doubtless receive a
judicial definition.
mm H
Ex-Senator llenry G. Davis, though
wealthy and a railroad President, never
rides in a Pullman palace or sleeping
coach when traveling, but take, a sent
in the ordinary coach.