Evening Star Newspaper, February 27, 1897, Page 18

THE EVENING STAR,.SATURDAY, ,FEBRUARY 27, 1897-24 PAGES, )ge THE MUTABLE MANY, (Copsright, Written for The Evening Star. (Continued from last Saturday's Star.) Chapter XXVI. ‘There Is an idea prevalent that the young women of our land welcume addresses which the golden youth of the opposite sex urge upon their consideration, and that @ girl's happiness augments in proportionate ratio as the number of the proposals be- stowed upon her increases. This, however, is merely a supposition, and there are un- fortunately no statistics to which a hk torian, anxious to be accurate in state- ment, may turn In order to substantiate or overthrow this almost universally held opinion. It Is to be regretted that the cen- sus, which gathers together in tabulated form so many interesting facts pertaining to the race, gives no attention to this par- ticular subdivision of human data; and that, so far from being abie to form any definite estimate of the feeling with which a girl welcomes the undoubted compliment ef a marriage offer, we are left in the dark as to the average number of proposals & Woman receiv sa) tween the ages of seventeen and thirt en. An inquisitive government which does not he to a woman every ten years to set down her age in black and white seems, strangely enough, to shrink from inquiring into a tion on which the future well- a nation largely d positively state th are held in high their recipients. clinching the prop: by referring the doubter to blue book such a number and such a page. It beirg thus impos to generalize, the reful writer is c to fal back on zal instanc indivi must be set down that Edna Sartwell, so far from being happy or elated over the within on e their vary! 3. tked back to the filled with i dismay. On the very threshold had sudde ly been brought State of things which shrink back into the untroubled trang of the life she had hitherto led. These two disquieting events, following one so cios on the other, loome tion to their importance, and threatened to overshadow the future. It med an appalling thing that the f: should be placed at her disposal her shouiders should be c: up in undue propo sponsibility of deciding, |, a mo- mentous question with far-reaching conse- nd if the firs with whom she what was merous host sh became to be = pathway strewn ¥ fergd no allur he feet of th young traveler. a life iived in an atmos © of deep sighs was intolerable. sirl was fright man, the if somber, re frivolities of with sullen bu © toward the cheerl ey of life: oping for no recompense except that per- haps he might have the consolation of knowing he left the world a trifle better for having lived in it. inexperienced as she was, Edna could not help contrasting the actions of Hope and Marsten, not altogether to the disadvan- ge of the latter. There was no question her mind that Marsten had in reality an uphill road to travel; yet he had gone into no heroics about it, and he asked nothing but that she should remember him. She had been sorry that she could give no en- couraging word to Marsten, but Barney made her feel somehow that she was to blame in his case and that he was an ill- used man. Then, it was difficult to realize the serious nature or hardship of Barney's future career, when every one knew he had more money than was good for him. Some thought of this seemed to occur to Barney himself at the time, for he spoke bitterly and contemptuously of his wealth, and of how it handicapped him; however, he was going to give it all away when he came into his full fortune, and start the world afresh, winning his laurels and what little cash would suffice for his frugal needs, with his good right arm. assisted presumably by his paint brushes: #0, in the face of this noble resolution it would have been unfair to censure him for the possession of riches he had had no hand in accumulating. Edna hurried toward the school, thinking litte of the reprimand in store for her, and much of the contrary conditions of this world. She, like Barney, needed advice, yet had no one in whom she mig‘1t confide. She thought of writing fully to her father, re- membering her promise to tell him every- thing that troubled her; but she shrank from the thought almost ‘as scon as it took form in her mind. Besides, both complica- tions were settled finally and forever, so why worry him unnecessarily about a page of her life on which was written the word “Finis?” There surged up in her heart a deep. passionate yearning for the mother she had never known, and whom she now missed as she had never missed her before. As she thought of the portrait of the beau- tiful, sweet-looking woman in her father's “A dozen times Edna began a letter. office, whose pathetic eyes shone so ten- derly and lovingly upon her, the which had been near the surface sudde: . and she sobb: I am alon = the school Edna went direct- »om, where she found a letter her stepmother awaiting her, and this helped than anything else’ to drive away sad thoughts which filled her mind. letter ran thi “My Poor Dear Edna: You will doubtless have heard of the dreadful calamity that has overtaken the business of Monkton & Hope, a ty from which I fear it may never recover, although your father, as usual, scoffs at what I predict, and says they are fully insured—as if an insurance policy could cover the far-reaching effects of such a disaster. There seems little doubt that the fire was caused by some of the disaffected men, exasperated, probably, by the treatment they have received, although that is no excuse for the crime. But we are all short-secing, misguided creatures here below, with the taint of original sin in each of us; unable, unless directed by a higher power, to take even the slightest | were in no wise fru: 1896, by Robert Barr.) action that will be acceptable; and prone ever to slip and stumble if we neglect those warnings which, for our benefit, are showered on the just and unjust alike, but if warnings are passed by—or, worse still, scoffed at—how can we hope ‘to profit by them and mend our ways as an ever-indul- gent Providence—eager to forgive if we but exhibit a desire for forgiveness—intended they should?—and when I asked your father in a most gentle and respectful (I hope I know my duty as a wife by this time) way ff the fire had not pointed a great moral to him, he said with most regret- table flippancy—which I have sometimes attempfed to correct in you, my poor child —that It pointed the moral’ to be well in- sured and to have fire-escapes from the upper floors; as if ribaldry like that was not very much out of place in speaking of a solemn event, where two immortal souls went to their last account without a mo- ment’s warning—going, for aught we know, through perishable fire to flames that are never quenched. The usefulness of this thought makes no impression on your father, who is as stubborn as ever, and I fear no more just to his men than’ before all this happened. A poor young man named Marsten has been ruthlessly dis- charged by your father, and may now be wandering about the streets, looking for work and starving, for all any one knows or cares. Ask your father why he was discharged if you want to know, but don't me. It is nothing but pride—pride— | My child, take warning while there time, for the night cometh. Harden our heart. il continue to petition for you both mercy is unfailing and unlimited. Your loving but sorrowing mother, | SARAH SARTW The benevolent intentions of thi rated, and Mrs. well would doubtless have been pleas i she known that the reading of it did : i a world of good.. It acted as a gave Edna something to think preventing any morbid reflectioi wreck : he had made of Barne harge of Marsten was a great sock to the girl, and for the first time in her life she thought her father had acted unjustly. At first, in pondering over the unexpected bit of information, she thought her father had, in;some way, heard of the young man’s visit to Eastbourne; but as she turned the subject over in her mind she came to the conclusion that his dismissal } was the result of their meeting in the gar- den at home and the finding of Marsten there by her father. The reason, then, the young man had time to come to Eastbourne was because his time was now his own. And yet he had said nothing about it, even when she asked him how he got away from duty. He had spoken well of her father, although he must have felt he*had been unjustly treated. She had thought nothing of his good words at the time, but now they came back to her. She determined to write to her father, and tell him all about Mars- ten’s visit and its result, but when she sat down with the paper before her, she found she did not know how to begin. She wished to ask him to repair the unnecessary wrong he had done Marsten, for there was rot the slightest chance of her ever marry- ing the young man; but somehow, when she came to put this all down on paper, the task seemed very difficult. The difficulty was increased by the knowledge that her father must at that moment have as much on his mind as any one should be called upon to bear, and she pictured the silent man sitting at home, tired out with the work and worry of the day, while the mo- notonous voice of his wife drew moral les- sons from every new obstacle he had to surmount. No; she would not add a single care to those already on his shoulders. The girl sat with her elbows on the desk, her chin in her hands, gazing with troubled eyes into vacancy, as if the problems that beset her were in the air before her and could be hypnotized into solution. A be- wildering feature of the case was that she had continually, of late, to readjust her ideas, and bring them into correct rela- tionship with some new fact which came within her cognizance. All the conversa- tions she had held with her father, many of his actions, bore quite a new significance when she learned that he knew Marsten loved her. Again, the fact of Marsten’s dis- missal lent a sharp poignancy to her re- membrance of his fervent deciaration that, for her sake, he would strive to please any master placed over him, as no man had ever striven before. Edna did not share her stepmother’s fear that the young man was starving; but her imagination kindled at the thought of his impassioned words, his resolute determination to succeed, ad- dressed to the daughter of the man who a day or two before had turned him into the streets. The more she thought about her father’s action, the more unjust it seemed. A dozen times she began a letter, and as often relapsed again into reverie. Barney and his mystical woes faded entire- ly from her memory. Gradually she came to the conclusion that if she did not inter- vene in Marsten’s interests, she would be making herself responsible for the continu- ance of the injustice; and, although she wished to relieve her father from all anx- jety regarding her feelings toward the young man, still she was ashamed to touc! upon that part of the subject. It might be possible some time, when she sat at her father’s knee, to tell him about it, with averted face; but to write it, she could not. At last she succeeded in drafting a letter, which she hurriedly posted, fearing that longer meditation upon the question might result in it got being sent at all. “Dear Father: I am sure you must be very busy, and perhaps very much worried at the present moment. You know I do not wish to add to your burden, and would rather lighten it if I could; but in that I am as helpless as you are strong. We made a compact a while since, and that is why 1 write Something has happened for which I feel partly responsible. In a letter received today from my stepmother she Says you have discharged Mr. Marsten, and she thinks he may now be looking in vain for employment. I am afraid you were not pleased at finding him talking to me in our garden, but that was my fault, and not his. If that was the reason, won't you please reconsider and invite him bac! Your loving daughter, EDNA. ‘The answer came almost before she thought her letter had time to reach Lon- don: “My Dear Little Girl: I should have writ- ten days ago, but, unfortunately, I cannot dictate an affectionate letter through my short-hand clerk, and the older I grow the more I dislike writing with my own hand. Worried? uh, dear, no! Why should one worry? I am afraid your belligerent old father still loves a fight, whether with cir- cumstances or with men. Before the fire was out telegraphic orders were dispatched to three machinery firms in the north. While the fire engines were still flinging water on the ruins I had secured a lease of the four houses that adjoin the works, had compounded with the tenants and sent them packing. That night men were at jured, being in a separate building, and al- ready such machirery as we could get is in place, and a long, saggy, wobbling iron rop2 catries the power across the yard. The new secretary of the union proposed a conference with me to discuss what the firm was willing to do fcr the men thrown out of work by the fire. I refused to dis- cuss anything with the new secretary, he not being an employe of mine. He is a shrewder man than Gibbons; so he at once got up a deputation of my own mer and sent them to me. I received them, of course, and they asked me if I would give them 15 per cent of their wages while out of work. ‘No,’ said I, ‘I can always do bet- ter than the union. There will be paid 100 per cent cf the wages, not 15; I expect you all back a: the works on Monday.’ I fancy I _made the men open their eyes a bit. Work will be going on as usual within a week, and we won't be behind with a single order. The new factory, which -is now begun, will be built in accordance with modern ideas, and I expect to be able to increase our business so that the four houses leased will be retained when the new building is ready for occupation. For- give this patting of myself on the shoul- der, but a man must brag now and then to some one, and you, my dear Edna, are the only one to whom I can boast, “Yes, the compac: is still in operation, and I'm glad you wrote about your step- mother’s letter, although I hope you will rot take too seriously any half-hystericai comments on my tyrannical conduct. A man must act, and one who acts is bound to make mistakes. Perhaps the discharge of Marsten was a mistake. I don't think so. but of course your stepmother dc#s, and, as facts always embarra: sees instant starvation and all the rest of it. Everything. Edna, depends on the point of view. A lighted match is dropped by accident or design, and, falling on inflam- mabie material, certain chemical changes take place; carbonic acid gas is produced, and a factory goes down in ruins to supply the materials for combustion. All this seems perfectly natural to me,.and in accordance with established sclentific research. But your stepmother's point of view ts different. She sees the finger of Providence, and be- her, she work knocking doorways through the par- titions and strengthening the floors. Hap pily, the engines and boilers were not in- cause I don’t, I'm a scoffer. great a belief and trust in Pr ence a any cne, but to me Providence works sanc- It doesn’t destroy a factory and kill men merely to show me I'm in error, because it could accomplish its purpose at much less expense and trouble, I can't | think that Providence is less sensible ‘han my little girl, and she takes the right meth- od. She says in kindly fashion, ‘Father, i think vou are wrong, and I want you to reconsider.’ She doesn’t try to prove m heartless despot. I would at once r sider, and would invite Marsten bac it is not necessary. He is the new secre- tary of the union, with a larger salary than the wages he had here, with his time p tically his own, and with ample opportu for mischiet if he chooses to exercise h power. [ feel it in my bones that in one or two or three years I skall have to fight him. It will be an interesting struggle, but I shall win. So with this final bit of brag I close my long letter. I hope to run down and see you on Saturday, and meanwhile all the sympathy you have to spare, lavish on that iron-handed tyrant, “YOUR FATHER.” Chapter XXVIII. Barney abandoned his tandem to the ten- der care of his man, and went up to London by train. He sat gloomily in a corner of @ first-class smoking compartment and cursed the world. Nevertheless, he was able to consume a great number of cig ir- ettes between the s2a and Charing Cross, and, as he smoked, he made stern, heroic resolutions regarding his career. He would now take it seriously in hand. He would business manage himself. He saw in the clear light of a great disappointment that he had hitherto paid too much attention te the production of masterpieces and too lit- Ue to the advertising of them. It was evi- dently hopeless to expect the appreciation of a stupid and uncritical public to come to his work, and the great critic whom he had confidently looked for had not yet put in an appearance. [f, then, the critic would not come to Mahomet, Mahomet would go to the critic. He would purchase the most ex- pensive art critic there was in the market; then the tardy public would learn that a genius had lived among them unrecognized. As his comprehensive plans took final shape the train ran into the glass-roofed tunnel of Charing Cross. Barney sprang into a hansom and drove directly to the works. ‘Beastly hole,” he said to himself as he gazed around at the ruin the fire had Wrought. The ground was covered with cluttering heaps of burnt and twisted iron, and piles of new building material were scattered everywhere. The apparent confu- sion and ugliness of it all offended his artistic sense, and he thanked his stars it was not necessary for him to spend his days there. He accosted Sartwell,'who had been discussing some question with the architect, and shook the manager's hand w = Gy — cordiality. “Mr. well,’ he cried, “I came = cert heard of the fire. theme “Ah,” said the manager dryly. you been in America?’ O'¥: wy “No,” laughed Barney, “not quite so far away as that; but, you know, | E-mever’ read the papers, and so heard of the con- flagration purely by accident, “Now,” 1 am here entirely at your disposal, and am ready to do anything and everything you want done. I would rather not carry bricks, if there is anything else I can do, but I am ready to help in any way I can. I don’t mind telling you, Mr. irtwell, that, in placing myself at the disposal of the firm, I do so at considerable Sacrifice; for art fs long and time 1s fleeting, and i have work to do in my studio that you, perhaps, might not think worth doing; but I hope posterity will not agree with you, don’t you know. Still, I am here. Com- .d_ me.” “Indeed, you do me wrong,” said Sart- well with a grim smile. “I consider you of much greater value in the studio than “Have here. I have no doubt posterity and 1 pe quite agree in our estimate of your labor. Artists are few and laborers many. {t would be a real disaster if our present’ crisis were to interfere with your artistic work. Therefore, although I am flattered by your generous offer to help, I could not think of ava'ling myself of it. No; the studio is your place, Mr. Hope.’ “It's uncommonly kind of you, Mr. Sart- well, to say so many nice things about my efforts, and I assure you I appreciate them, for I don’t have too many encour- agements—I den’t, I assure you. This is such a beastly materialistic world, don’ you know. Has my father got home yet: “Yes, he returned last night.” “Ah, I didn’t know that. Terribly up- set, I suppose.” trifle worried.” “Naturally he would be. Well, there’s nothing I can do for you, then?” “Nothing, unless you undertake the deco- ration of the new factory, and thus send it down to posterity with the Vatican fres- coes. Still, that question won't arise for a month or two yet.” £ “Quite so. I'll think about it. Well, if you need me, you know my address.’ A wire will bring me at any time.” “It's generous of you to stand ready to lean into the chasm in this way, but take my advice and stick to the studio. Never- theless, I'll remember, and let you. know if a crisis arises with which I am unable to deal ane handed.” : e “Do,” Barney, again s! hands good-natured effusion. “Well, good- ae sicxee ~~ —_— to the gates and stepped ting hanso: well- merited feeling of having answered” the’ lecking after workmen.and ses iG 2 binant: UBER UEn) stern call of duty cheering his heart as he’ drove away. * ts) © fs) It wagya logg drive to Haldiman’s studio, and Barney, ‘telling the cabman' he might have to wait_an hour or two, dashed up the stepS and rang the bell. Being ad- mitted, he asked if Haldiman was at home; then spiing Up the stairs, struck one start- ling knock on the studio door with the head of his stick ghd entered. Haldiman stood at his easel, a black pipe in his mouth, an old jacket on his back, and a general air about him of not having bru: his hair for a week, A half-finishea Yrawing: im black and white decorated a great sheet of cardboard placed on the easel, “Hello, Barney.” he cried. “I thought that wag your delicate way of announcing yourself* You look as trim and well groomed as a shop walker. Haven't given up painting and taken to that Jine, have you?” “No, old man, I hayen’t” shouted Bar- ney, slamming the door behind him and ccming into the room like.a cyclone. “And I'm not trim,' for I bave just had a_rail- way journey,’ and went from Charing Cross to the works, and from the works here. I've had no time to go to thei.ctub and make myself pretty. I was in too mucn of a hurry to see you. So don't’ be sar- castic, Haldiman.” “Everything is comparative, Barney, and fo me you look like a radiant being from anothé and a better world, where a man has unlimited credit, with his tailor. Sit down, won't you?" ~~ * “That's what I came. for. |, say, Haldi- man, where do you keep your exhilarating fluid and the siphons?. I’m .tired out. Be hespitable. You see,:Pve a load on my mind these days...Tho. works were partly destroyed by fire, and we're rebuilding and all that sort of thing,.don’t you know, which rather takes it out of a fellow, ag that 1o. mistakes are made.” “Oh, I saw about that in the papers and Was wondering if it was your shop,” said Haldiman, placing a small table ‘beside his friend and putting a bottle, a siphon ard,a glass upon it. “Help yourself, my boy. You don’t mind my going, con with my work?” “But YT do.” cried Barney. “Sit down yeurself, Haldiman. I want to talk to you serious “I am behindhand with Iocan work and picture now, listen. Fire ook here, Hildiman, how much do you get for a smear like that?” Haldiman stood back ati looked criti- cay, at the picture, thea said with a ra ! Well, I'm in hopes of looting four &uineas out of the pirate who edits tne Magazine this is for. It’s a full page, you krow.”” “Great heavens! Imagine a man doing a picture for such a sum as that! I wouldn't draw a line under a hundred pounds.” “I've often thought of pu:ting my price up to that entra ig figure,” replied Hal- diman, reflectively, “but refrained for fear of bankrupting the magazines. Qne must have some conzideration for the sixpenny press.”” Barney thrust his } deep into his trousers: pocket, drew out a fist full of coins, selected four sovereigns and four shillings and placed them on the table, saying: “There, Haldiman, there's your’ guineas. I buy that picture. Now sit down and talk to me. I want your whole attention. Haldiman stood for a alternately At last he ‘Some moment. 109) at the money and at the man, poke, slowly and quietly day, Barney, you'll do a ching like that and get smashed in consequence, I'm unfortunately unable to thraw you out of the window myself, but there is a cab- man loitering about im front, and I will call him in to assist me if you:dcn't at once put that money in your “1. Don't make me violate the sacred rules of nos- pitality.”” “You have violated them, Hal, by gett angry. I see you a so don't’ deny it. Besi te wouldn't come? I owa him, and it I could put you both out." “You can't itlre me, like a cabman, yor know, Barney, eee “Of course not, of course not. I'm not rying to, de Do sit down and be e to you as one friend + for’I'm at a crisis in my ed Relp, so be good to nn take a serious view of life now, and “Since when?” ‘Since this ‘morning, ‘when’ doesn’t matter. I've com conclusion that I'm wasting my e You'll scoff, of course, Dut 1 know I have Benius—n6t talent, mind, but genius, There's nd use of making any bones About it, or pretend: false modesty; if a man is a genitts, he ‘knows it. Very well, then, if you like. The to th why not say so?” Zr see no reason against it.’ ‘Quite 60. Now, Haldiman, how much money do you. make in = {You mean, how little?” at it any way you like. Name the fig- “What's that got genius’?" “Never you mind. What's the amount?” “Now, Barney, if you're cooking up some new kind of financial insult, I give you fair warning I won't stand it.” : Barney had gulped down his stimulant, and now paced up and down the room, clearing a track for himself by’ kicking things out of the way. Haldiman sat in a deep. armchair, his legs stretched out and his hands in his pockets, watching his friend’s energetic march to and fro. “The artistic profession,” cried the pedes- trian, “has been held up to the scorn of the world since painting began. Read any novel and you will see that, if the heroine is to make a doocedly bad marriage, she invariably falls in love’ with an artist— invariably.” “Well, she generally marries “Yes, and lives in misery ever after.” “Oh, we're generous, and share it with her.’ ” 5 “You see what I mean. The artist is held up to coatempt, on all resp2:table people in the book are aghast at the girl's choice. ‘Now, why is this?’ He “Ask me a harder.one, It 1s. because fic- tion is notoriously untrue to life. ‘The wives of the Royal Academy live in splendor and luxury undreamed of by the ordinary lady of, titl { Nothing of the sort. It's because the artists don’t business. manage themselves. They have no commercial sense... Therefore they are poor. Now, if-a man invents a soap. what does he da?” _, 320 § ass ‘Washes himself.’ qi : fe advertises it. He becomes rich..Why, then, if a man writes a great book, should he not advertise himgelf..and. is book. in every way that is open to him? ucLbelleve he does, Barney... Where, have you been living this while back to be so ignorant.of the approved amodern: methods in art and literature?” A 1 “Isnit.a great picture of mere vabue to the world than a much-advertised soap?” “Well, if you ask me, i should say ro. I'd back the soap as a civilizer against the Louvre any day.” Barney stopped in his walk, raised his aruis above his head, and let them drop hea: year?", to .do. with your the world,” he cried, in tragic tones.. “‘Not one—not cne.” “Barney, this conversation is bewildering. What are you driving at, anyhow? Art, soap, literature, advertising, friendship, marriage—what’s wrong? Who is the wo- man?” I hate “Don’t talk to me about women. them.’ “I thought you were most successful in that line. '% believe I have your qwn au- thority for ‘the Statement.” 2 “Success?! Oné, is successful to a int, ‘thef| ther: po! n ue a is a disappoiitment that shows what m success has been. I'll never speak, to.4 woman again.” “Tye | ttipre myself—several, times. Stil we always return—if not to our first Jove, to obr foutth or fifth, As for friends, man who has more.’ ds, Haldiman. I haven't one, I telf you. I did think you were a friend, and you do nothing but sneer at me. You fhink'¥ don’t see it, I do, all the same. I'mt'the!%nost sensitive of men, al- though n ly appears to appreciate it.” “T-don’t‘sneef at you, Barney. What put that into your head. I think you sometimes fait to appreciate other people's sénsitive- ness. You'are g'trifle prone to flaunt Bank of England notes in the faces of those not so well pfovidell with them as you are. Then the gensitive soul rises in rebellion.” “That's my unfortunate manner, Haldi- man, I really don’t mfean to do so. If I had a game leg, or a club foot, and came thumping in here with it, you wouldn’t make fun of my defect, would you? Of course not. Well, why should you resent @ defect of manner when you know iny in- tentions are good?” “I don't resent anything about you, Bar- organist to allow to hn although he promised to do so, and the peo- ple thought I was trying to make fools of them. It must ali be my accursed manner. Now you always know the right thing to I don’t. My genius doesn’t run that way. I'm an artist. Haldiman threw back his head and laugh- ed. Barney stared at him, displeasure on | his brow. “What the deuce are you laughing at now?” “Forgive me, Barney; I'm laughing at the thumping of your club foot, although you did not believe me capable of it.” “What have I said?” “Nothing—nothing. Barney, I love you. You are the one and only Barnard Hope; all others are base imitations. Now listen | to me. I haven't the faintest idea what it | is you want. This conversation has been | simply encyclopaedic in the amount of | ground covered; but I'll do for you what | you would do for me, short of abduction or | assassination. I’d prefer not to land my- self in prison, if you don’t mind, but I'll even run the risk of that. What do you} want? Out with it.” “But the moment I begin you'll say you're | insulted. You terrorize me, Haldiman—j| "pon my soul, you do.” “Go on. For ten minutes insults are barred. Will you go on?” “Very well. I asked you how much made in a year, and you jeered at m “I never keep accounts, and never pay a debt until the brokers come in, so I really haven't the slightest idea. You can guess at the amount just as well as I can. Guess and proceed.” “All right. I want to pay you double your yearly income for your help in this matter.” “That isn’t friendship; that’s commer- cialism again. I beg pardon, I forgot. Don’t look daggers, Barney, I accept. Can I have the money in advance?” “Of course, you can,” cried Barney, glee. fully, making a dive for his inside pocke! then. as the other went into a fit of laugh- der, the joyful look faded into an expres- sion of intense indignation, and Barney, with a curse, strode to the door. Haldi- man sprang to his feet and grasped the offended man by the shoulders. “None of that,” he cried. “Come back, you villain. You are not going to offer me a fortune and then sneak off in that fash- ion. Sit down, Barney; sit down and go on with the pretty talk.” “Oh, it’s no use,” said the other. in tones of deep dejection. “I said I hadn't a friend in the world, and I haven’t.”* “Bosh. You're harder to humor than a baby. If a man may not smile in his own room, where may he? I'm intensely in- terested and want to know what crime I’m you expected to commit. Never mind the money, but state your case.” “The mon is part of the case, I pay or I don't play. “Certainly. That's understood. I accept. Fire away. “Well, you know all the editors of the illustrated weeklies and magazines.” For my sins I do—alas.”’ “Then, to come right to the point as be- tween man and man, I want to buy a first- class critic and the editor of a first-class illustrated periodical.” “You mean you want to buy a going magazine?’ “IT don’t mean anything of the kind. 1} mean just what I say.” “Then I don’t quite understand you. Ex- plain.” “What I want is this: I want a fi class art critic to write an article in a first-class periodical, saying that Barnard Hope is the greatest artist the world has ever seen ‘Oh, is that all?’ oO, that’s not all. I want the article superbly illustrated—in color, if possible— with reproductions of my chief paintings. “Ah. IL wouldn't do that, Barney, if I The pictures would be rather of the great critic , I knew you would sa3 The | obviousness of such a remark would com- mend itself to you. But fectly frank with y nage this for mi care how much money I spend. Haldiman removed the black pipe from mouth, knocked the ashes out of it, and | thoughtfully refilled it. “Well, for brazen cheek, Barney,” aid, that proposal—” Yes, I know, I know, I know. But these things happen every day—or, not to exa: gerate, let us say every second day. It is simply doing for me what Ruskin did for Turner. Turner painted away ail his lift nobody recognized him, and he died in Che sea. Now I'm living in Chelsea, and I want recognition during my life. Of course, | my Ruskin will come long after I'm dead. but, Iike the fellow who was to be exe- cuted, 1 won't be there to enjoy it. Things | rarely happen at the right moment in this world, and my brazen proposal is merely to take events by the coat collar and hurry them up a bit. You see what I mean. Be- sides, I am infinitely greater than Turner, don’t you know.” Haldiman smoked and meditated for some were you. hi he | ; collectively in the desirability of a close | the Ibsenites and the Bjernsenites | mistic j It has been charged that the charg moments; then he said: “I'm not sure but the trick may be done, although I doubt if brutal, barefaced brib- ery will do it. How would a magazine like ‘Our National Aft’ suit you?” “And would a French art critic like Viell- ieme be satisfactory?” “Nothing could be better.” “Perfectly. What he says is taken for gospel all the world over.” “Well, I happen to know that the editor of Our National Art has been“trying for a year to get Viellieme to write about Eng- lish art, but the Frenchman won't come over to London, even for a day, at any price. Viellieme is great as a writer, but greater still as a money spender. I'll run over to Paris and sound him. You couldn't bribe the editor of Our Nationgi Art, but he will print anything Viellieme will write for him. Now I know the Frenchman doesn’t care what he writes for England, although he is rather particular about what appears in Paris. He thinks there is no art in England.” “He’s right, too, as far as his knowledge but he’s never seen anything of “Just so. Then, if Viellieme agrees, you would be willing to send some of your im- mortal works over to Paris for his inspec- tion.” “All of them, my boy, all of them.” “Then we'll look on that as settled. I'll do my est.” “God bless you, my dear fellow! God bless you!" cried Barney with deep emo- tion, crushingly wringing the hand of the wincing man, whom he now declared to be his one friend on earth. He clattered notsti- ly down the stairs like a stalwart trooper, sprang into the waiting handsom, and de- parted. Chapter XXIX. Marsten went to work with an energy and singleness of purpose which probably no organizer of labor ever felt before. Chance, or destiny, had placed him in exactly the position he had long hoped to attain. At first there was little to be done but wait until the union had recovered from the weunds received in the late fruitless strug- gle; nevertheless, while he waited, he planned, and gradually developed the scheme which he hoped would revolution- ize the labor of the world. He saw in the future one vast republic of workers—not bounded by nationality, but =preading over the entire earth—with its foothold wherever ore man toiled with his hands to enrich another. He had no delusions rerarding the immediate success of his project, and did not flatter himself that his ideas would spread with anything like the rapidity cf the cholera, for example, but he hoped first to place the union on a firm footing in Eng- | land, and then, with a brilliantly successful strike—conducted as a general of genius conducts @ battle—to show what might be done by a thoroughly well organized force against a rich and powerful firm like that of Monkton & Hope. He looked forward to the time when every worker in England would be a member of the union; after that he hoped to affiliate all the workers in all English-speaking countries; finally, the be- nighted foreigner would be included. Tien, when the whole was united like an electric installation in a city, the unfortunate cap- italist who placed a finger on one point would receive the combined current cf the entire system, and die without knowing what hurt him. The equipment of the workers would be 50 complete that strikes would become fewer and fewer, and finally cease; just as war will cease when weapons of offense reach such a state of perfection that no nation will dare to pick a quarrei with another. This great republic of Iabcr would be divided into various states,* and these states would be again subdivided into as meny sections as experience showed to be most practicable. Each scction would elect its secretary, the secretaries would elect a governor of the state, the governors would elect a president of the whole or- Sanization. Every official should be paid @ salary, sufiicient, even in the lesser of- fices, to keep the incumbent and his fam- {lly without the necessity of manual labor, So that each officer's whole time could be given for the benefit of the union. Marsten gave much thought to the prob- lem of reconciling deserved promotion with popular election, and, perhaps, if he had known more of the results of universal suffrage in a city like New York, he might have reconstructed his whole plan, but he had full belief in the adage that the Voice of the people coincides with that of the Almighty, and so, perhaps, did not quite appreciate the practical difficulties which lay in wait for a scheme that looked beautiful on paper. Early experience convinced him that he could hope for no active assistance from the men themselves, and he promptly elim- inated that factor from his calculations. He thought of beginning his fight with an educational campaign, using in this way the time which must elapse before the treasury of the union was once more in furds, but he found he could never get more than half a dozen of the men together at one time, and those who came to the mectirgs he called seemed to take but slight interest in what he had to say. This did not discourage him, as he was, in a measure, prepared for the indifference he met; and he remembered that his great model, Napoleon, took no one into his con- fidence. Napoleon struck unexpected struck quick and struck hard—and Mar: resolved to do the same the moment had the power. Failing to interest the m en he 2 ard universal union, Marsten tried to win their separate confidence, but he soon dis- covered that in attempting this he was traveling a dangerous road. He was amazed to find that there existed a laten’ sullen. opposition to him; that many of the men seemed to regret the generous im- pulse which kad caused them to place him where he was. They could not see what he did to earn the money he received; some theught thcy were giving him too much, as he had no work to do, and more th once advised him to keep quiet and lea the men alone, to know when he was w off, and not to turn the thoughts of the members to the fact that they were sup- porting him in idleness and luaury. (To be continued.) > PUBLICATIONS. NEW JOHN GABE BORKMAN. By Hendrik Thsen, ‘Translated by William Archer. w York: Stone & Kimball, Weshing! Woodwant & Lothrop. ‘ A fierce controversy has raged between r this tragedy, which is in the well-known pessi- yle of the Scandinavian dramatist. ter of “Borkman” is a caricature upon that of Bjornsen. Whatever the inspiration, the work is strong and in a certain ¢ e abe sorbing. Berkman is a former bank di- rector who has served a term of imprison- ment for embezzlement, but retains his own great faith in himself, a faith mount- ing even to insanity. There is a love mo- tive none too pure or attractive, but tr ed in Ibscn’s powerful way, that brushes conventionality aside without remorse. i- sen claims of late to be a mere recorder of society as he finds it around him, in his depicticns of the irregularities of ‘the Norwegians in the matter of marriage, and he disavows all notion of reform or of making remedial suggestions. The play of Borkman teaches at least one lesson, that the belief in one’s own virtue is not in- compatible with the most unworthy and even criminal acts. But the value of such a lesson is questionable. PURCELL'S “MANNING” Cardinal Manning, with a Critical Examination of E. C. Purcell’s Mistakes. By Francis de Pressense, a French Protestrnt. Translated by Francis T. Furey. A.M. 2hfladelphia: John Joa. McVey, Washington: Woodward & Lo- threp. Purcell’s Life of Manning has aroused a great cloud of criticism, and the sensa- tion which it created ts far from subsi- dence. M. de Pressense’s “Refutation” is not the first that has appeared in defense of the great English cardinal from his own biographer, but it is unique in being the work of a Protestant, son of a Calvinist minister. The translator writes in his preface: “No Catholic could write more sympathetically of his subject than does M. de Pressense, who, even in his com- ments on religious questions, says very little, almost nothing indeed, to which a Catholic can take exception, while his book presents the advantage of being not only a refutation, but at the same time a biography as well. Perhaps the only seri- ous fault that one can find with him is his apparent disparagement of Newman, when he contrasts the characters of the two princes of the church. This, however, does not detract from the value of his work, which well deserves to retain a rma- nent place in blographical literature. ROSO. A Romance. By Anthony . Suthor BP ee Profasely illustrated by Henry B. Wechsler. New York: Frederick A. Stokes Company. Washington: Brentano's. Anthony Hope has written himself into the favor of a very large number of read- ers, who hang devotedly upon his words nd hunger between stories like starving men. “The Prisoner of Zenda” was a great achievement, a complete ,victory that es- tablished Mr. Hope's fame far beyond in- jury even through subsequent poor work. “Phroso” is not calculated to operate as such a handicap, but rather as a rival to the other beok. Its serial publication in “McClure’s” aroused attention, and it is destined to receive a marked success in book form. It is a stirring tale, with the principal events laid in the Island of Neo- palia, off the coast of Greece. Four times at least does the author lead his heroes to the point of defeat and threatening death, and then with a skill that marks the true genius he discovers means of escape. The love story is strong and judiciously de- veloped, so that the book has a charm for all classes of readers. HOW TO LIVE LONGER AND WHY WE DO NOT LIVE LONGER. By J. It. Hayes, M.D., REFUTED. Life of FROM THE CHILDREN’S PLAY ROOM. From’ Fliegende Blatter, SAVED BY GOL st WaAsHING PowDER ‘What more can be asked? Only this; ask your grocer for it, and insist on trying it. Largest package—greatest economy. ‘THE N. K. FAIRBANK COMPANY, Chicago, St. Louis, New York, Boston, Philadelphia. cal T Ape pincort The author prefaces his work by tl general statement that the duration human life is found by u cal comparison to be reas This is th to be due to the developme enee and the fection of the means of preventing curing disease, but it is being counter acted by the unsanitary influence of mod ern conditions, The purpose of is to give hints and practical suggestion that will cffse° to rapid nervous living 4 al science ar the gradual xistence. ‘The “ problem of the futur “to 1 out age perioc to one hun years or mor and at the same time be rid of the inti of age, live without loss of physi er and enjoyment, and fina ay* fully of usefuln ripened, s hs r the f corr Ry Jot : we & Kim i The title he motto ¢ family, a member of which gets ful difficu by reason of the sentiment which it conv ed bis sweetheart in favor he resigns from the ar Kil his successful rival. He ceed in t but dves succeed killing . for which serves a term in at where he is 4 very m secks, sent down as a political prisoner The story has a happy though quite pected ending. and is freshly and p antly told throughout, even in the deserip- tion of French prison life that forms a @ feature of the book. MAN'S COURIER e Ry Williaa King William of Orange is on the Eng- lish throne and the Jacobite supporters of James II are plotting, first to kill the reigning monarch and then to re-establish the exile. They are not numerous, but their conspiracy is dangerous, and in- volves a ccuntry baronet in a whirl of ex- citement and peril for about two weeks, sufficien' Lord Shrewsbury says in text, to “serve a dozen ordinary men their whole lifetimes,” even for those days of swashbucklers, highwaymen and con- spirators. The story is told in a way to challenge the interest from end to end and Ml comes out well at the finish the reading is pleasurable. AN AMERICAN TR < THE CRIMEAN ne Rewad W Brazil Introduction ew York: Bonveli, Silver & Brentano's. This narrative is not a history of war that was waged in the Crimea, but it is merely a record of the observations of a witness of many interesting incidents of that struggle. The publication now of notes taken over forty years ago is of timely interest, for the book contains many facts descriptive of the Turk and his methods that are pertinent today, when the sultan and his subjects are absorbing a greater part of the world’s attention. NTENAY. ‘ORDSMAN. A Militars ie toner De Roisgobes. ‘Trausiated by H. L. Williams. Chicago: Rand, McNally & Co. An old favorite has been revived in this new edition of “‘Fontenay,” one of the most thrilling romances that ever came from a French pen. It is held by many in equal esteem with the best works of Dumas, and will never cease to command the attention of those who love tales of “moving accl- dents by flood and field.” MODERN BOOKKEEPING: SINGLE AND DOUBLE ‘TRY. By J. ©. Montgomery, Instructor in Touktesp ag in the Columbia Graminar School, New York. New York: Maynard, Merrill & Co, The author of “Modern Bookkeeping” has prepared a book which can be taught without difficulty by teachers who have had no previous experience in that line, for the subject is not an intricate one when di- vested of the elaborate and useless ma- chinery with which it is so often encum- bered. "i c, y IN THE SAND: FED OTnER STOR Ty Ella. Migei~ With ilicstrations by Frank ‘The Calvert Company. There is strength in these stories of Pa- cific coast life. ‘The dialect is that of hard- working people, and the emotions that are described are to be found in every walk of life. They are love stories, with an abundance of “local coloring.” That which bears the name “A Point of Knuckling- Down” is particularly pleasing. Verses. By Eadnah Proctor Clarke. Lamson, Wolffe & Company. Wash: Brent u's. NO MERCURY Xo potash—no mineral—no danger—in S. 8. 8. ‘This means a great deal to all who know the disastrous effects of these drugs. It 4s the only blood remedy guaranteed. urely Vegetable