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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.