Historical Newspapers of South Carolina

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2,-~, v If we ut down *t set of sun And count the things thst we have done, And counting find One self-denying ,-ot, one word, Thst eased the heart of him who heard; Cse giafivu most End, That felt like sunshine where It went, Then we may count the day well spent. But If through all the hfe-long day We’ve eased no heart by yea or nay; If through It all We’ve done no thing that we can trace, That brought the sunshine to a face; No act, most small, That helped some soul, and nothing cost, Then count that day aa worse than lost. FOR HRRSKI.F. It was at Lyons, where I had gone to paint a marine view, that I first saw Ro- sine. She stood at a cottage window, water ing some roses which grew in pots on the window-siU. She was aa fresh as the roses herself* and aa sweet I fell in love. It was not only that she was pretty; she was also well-bred, so lady-like, so much above what must have been her station, were she daughter of the old woman who sat at work so often on the doorstep—a healthy, comfortable peas ant-woman; nothing mo.^. I am afraid my pictures did not pro gress as they might Rosine was fond of poetry and I went nearly every day to the old garden be hind the house. In a little arbor nnder the trees Ro- sine sat and embroidered while the aunt knitted. I sat near Rosine and read to her. 1 forgot all the world except myself and Rosine, when I was suddenly aroused to a sense of its existence. Returning to my studio one evening I found my father sitting astride a chair with his arms upon the back, regarding my marine view,' “You work mere slowly than usual, my boy,’” he said, when we had shaken hands. I replied that the sea was capricious, and that I waited for certain tints which only certain days would bring. “Very w|se,” he replied; “but now, Jack what do you suppose I have come from London for? “Think! “Ah, yen never can! “It is a delightful surprise for you! “I have arranged an alliance for you. ‘jYou will have for your wife a lovely young creature, not eighteen, beautiful, accomplished, and an heiress; the daughter of my old friend, Churchill, who adores art, and believes you a genius. “It was his proposal. “Money we haveSbough of,’ he said. “Family we both have. “I want grandsons who will be artists, I should adore a son-in-law who was a genius.” “So of course, it is settled.” “Without me?” I asked. "Oh, of course you are delighted,” cried papa, “She is a beautiful as though she were poor, and as rich as though she were plaiu, this young lady we offer you.” What could I say?” I had not at that moment the courage to say— "I love tbe niece of a poor old peasant woman who lives in a little cottage.” Perhaps it was cowardly; but to avoid explanations for the present, I agreed to return to London with my father early the next morning. After supper I stole down again to old Mannette’s little cottage, and peeping through the windows, saw both women together bending over some object, at which they were looking by the light of the shaded lamp. It was a beautiful picture—the old brown face set ofi by its high white cap, long golden earrings, and bright blue handkerchief; the young one, fair, rosy, soft, and in purest white; Rosine, dressed like a Persian. “Come out, Rosiue;” I whispered, through the blinds. “I have come to tell you something,” I whispered, as I led her away from the door. “I am going to London to-morrow. My father will have it so. “He has chosen a wife for me—some rich lady whom I am told to marry for her money. “And I am ordered to show myself to her.” “Tken good-bye," said Rosine, hold ing out her hand. “We shall not see you at Lyons “Rosine,” I said you must hear me out. “I am not going to marry this heiress. I hate her!” “Foor heiress! “What has she done?” asked Rosine “Nothing,” I said. “Probably she also hates me. “But I will not have her; I will marry a girl I love, or none. “Rosine, when I come back will you marry me? “I shall be very poor, for my father will not help me if I disobey him.” Rosine looked at me. After a while she put her hands in mine, “If you come back and ask me to,” she answered. “I swear it!” I said. “I plight my faith to you!” Then I kissed her, and we parted. My father and myself were in the hotel, when suddenly a gentleman stood before us, offering us his hands. It was General Churchill. “Ah!—how are you?” he cried. “I have just been to the train to re ceive my daughter, whose old nurse has just brought her home from the seaside “They are taking oeffee; no time like the present for introducing the young people.” We crossed the hall. At a table in a private apartment sat a young lady dressed in exquisite style, and an old lady, apparently a servant Their backs were toward ns. General Churchill approached. “Rosine, my dear.” he said, “here is my old friend, Captain Markham, whom you knew, and his son, Henry, whom as yet you do not know.” Rosine! What a coincidence! I stood staring at the young lady as she rose, turned and bowed to us.” I was incapable of any word or motion for the likeness was astounding. Rosine! Yes? And this old woman was Mannette, in another cap! Rosine smiled, and bowed sweetly. I managed to bow, and mutter some thing, Mannette’s black eyes laughed, while her mouth was held close shut “No, Mr. Henry; “I never told you that I was Mannette’s niece,” said Ko- sine, a little while after. "She was merely my nurse, and I go every summer to visit her at her cottage. “We knew who you were, and what our parents intended, and it pleased me to be courted, and not sold like so many rich ladies of my acquaintance. “Oh, how shocked Mannette was at my conduct!” This was aside. The two papas drank their wine to gether, and whispered— “How soon they have taken to each other!” And Rosine and I are to be married in October. Muvea In Waves. Several meu were seated in a Detroit drug store tbe other day with their feet on the stove and a cigar in each mouth, when a boy looked in and yelled out: “Some of you had a horse hitched out here! ” “1 believe i did,” quietly replied one of the sitters. “Well, he’s gone.” “Did he walk off?” “No; a runaway horse came along and upset the cutter and frightened him. ” “And did he kick himself clear out of the cutter?” “Yes.” “1 supposed he would. How did lie start off?” “On a dead run.” "Which way?” “Up Woodward avenue.” “Did be turn in at Montcalm street?” “1 guess he did.” “Well, he’s propably gone home and will be around there somewhere when I go up. Bub, you might draw the cutter to some shop and tell ’em to fix it, and here’s a quarter for you ” The boy went out to pick up the kind lings and invent a way to draw a cutter half a mile on one runner, and the sitter relighted his cigar, got a new brace for his feet, and safd: “As 1 was saying, every sign indicates that this is to be a yeur of great confla grations. it sometimes seems as if great calamities moved in waves through the world. ” Fuii rtlth The Tutor. He was the pink of perfection. If the cream of human excellence was to be churned tbe butter would lump in the shape of Professor Porteua Pyre, tutor. He had contracted the bad habit of steal ing up stairs in his stocking feet to sec if the lights were out at ten. It is hard teaching old dogs new tricks, but boys sometimes succeed better with old profes sors. Tommy Tayre is a cadaverous youth, with a sulphur colored mustache, but the iron rod entered his soul, and he said he must do what he could. So he bought three paoers of carpet tacks one night and stood the innocent little nails on their heads all the way up and down the stairs, and retired with his faithful fol lowers to the wood closet above to await result 9 . Promptly the chapel bell struck ten, then a season of waiting and whisper ing followed. Pre ently came a flurry, creeping sound like wooden stockings feel ing their way over rough boards. Tommy tucked his hat in bis mouth—his mouth runs clear around, except a small isthmus which connects tbe top of his head with the r.ape of bis neck—and held his nose till the first burst of glee bad subsided. Now came a suppressed scream, one fool on the stairs, then another foot down, then a scream that wasn’t suppressed, then a howl, he had struck the second stair; then he sat down on the next step, but he got up again, and a groan with exclamation points after it, came tearing up the wood closet. The boys stood back to give Tommy room to kick; then came a scramb ling and snouting of heavy words, and Tom promptly appeared and asked in a voice fresh from the valley of Nod, “What seems to lie the matter?” “Matter! The boys! The demonal Confound it; see here! Help! ” and he shifted about and huug to the railing, and tried to stand on his knees. Tom brought a light and the boys carried the wounded man to his room, offered sympathy, got a claw hammer and drew out the tacks. Tbe professor wears slip pers and sits on a cushion. Tom sets on nettles, for seventeen boys know tbe secret, and- it is spreading like smallpox in an In dian camp. A Carload Of Bee*. Recently a car containing a curious freight was switched on the East Tennes see and Virginia Railroad and moved South. it was filled with bee-hives. One hund red and forty of the latest style of t>ee- hives piled systematically on top of each other, and in the foreground a philosopher with his bed and board. “Where are you going to take your bees?” “To Florida for the winter. My name is Thomas McFarland Jackson, and I live in Northern Missouri, I have large apia ries that are forced to he idle in the win ter. I’m going to take this carload of hives to Florida where they can make honey every day in the year. Aa soon aa the clover ia out again in Northern Mis souri i will take them hack there.” “Will it p»y you to move them?” “1 think so. it costa me leaa than a dollar a hive tor transportation, and each hive will have from $• to $7 worth of honey in it when 1 bring it back. That u what Italian bees I sent to Florida last year did last winter. Only Italian bees will thrive in Florida, aa tbe moths eat up the common bees.” “Will you live in the open air there?” “I’m going to camp around with my bees. I believe I wih bring back about $10W worth of honey in hives that would otherwise lie idle all the winter and be empty in the spring.” Mount Hood stands about sixty miles from the great Pacific, as the crow flies, and about two hundred miles up the Colombia River, as it is naviga ted. Mount Hood stands utterly alone. And yet he is only a brother, a bigger and taller brother, of a well-raised family of seven snow-peaks. At any season of the year you can stand on almost any little eminence within two hundred miles of Mount Hood and count seven snow-cones, clad in eternal winter, piercing the clouds. There is no scene so sublime as this in all the world. The mountains of Europe are only hills in comparison. Although some of them are quite as high as those of Oregon and Washington Territory, yet they lie far inland, and are so set on the top of other hills that they lose much of their majesty. Those of Ore gon start up sudden and solitary, and almost out of the sea, as it were. So that while they are really not much higher than the mountain peaks of the Al[s, they seem to be about twice as high. And being all in the form of pyramids or cones, they are much more imposing and beautiful than those of either Asia or Europe. But that which adds most of all to the beauty and sublimity of the moun tain scenery of Mount Hood and his environs is the marvelous cloud effect that encompass him. In the first place, you must under stand that ail this region here is one dense black mass of matchless and magnificent forests. From the water’s edge up to the snow-line clamber and cling the dark green fir, pine, cedar, tamarack, yew, and juniper. Some of the pines are neavy with great cones ai long as your arms; some of the yew trees are scarlet with berries; and now and then you see a burly juniper bend ing under a load of blue and bitter fruit. And nearly all of these trees are mantled in garments of moss. This moss trails and swings lazily in the wind, and sometimes drops to the length of a hundred feet In these great dark forests is a dense undergrowth of vine-maple, hazel, mountain ash, marsh ash, willow, and bner bnshes. Tangled in with all this is the rank and ever-present and im perishable fern. Up and through and all over this darkness of forests, drilt and drag and lazily creep the most weird and won derful clouds in tiiis world. They move in great caravans. They seem literally to be alive. They rise with the morning sun, like the countless millions of snow-white geese, swans, and other water-fowl that irequent the rivers of Oregon, and slowly ascend the mountain sides, dragging them selves through and over tne tops of the trees, helading straight for the sea, or hovering about the mountain peaks, like mighty white-winged birds, weary of flight, and wanting to rest. They are white as snow, these clouds of Oregon, fleecy, and rarely, if ever, still; constantly moving in contrast witn the black forests, these clouds are strangely sympathetic to one who wor ships nature. Of coins®, in the rainy season, which is nearly half tne year here, these cloud effects are absent. At such times the whole land is one vast rain-cloud, dark and dreary and full of thunder. To see a snow peak in all its sub limity, you must see it above the clouds. It is not necessary tnat you should climb the peak to do this, but ascend some neighboring j ill and have the white clouds creep up or down the valley, through and over the black for est, between you and the snowy sum mit that pricks the blue horn* ot stars. What color! Movement! Miraculous life! KxtendliiK the Time. Several years ago, wnen Fort Worth was a wild Texas town, Dusenbery was an exotic there. He was civilized and cut his hair and was despised by the other men. Oae day dapper little Dusenbery surprised everybxiy by reforming. He was in Callahan’s Retreat when there entered fourofthe most ferocious-looking ruffians who bad ever been seen in Fort Worth. They came with clanking spurs and fierce lieards. two revolvers to each man and 'a large bowic knife for lag- niappe, and they sat down to a table and called for whiskey all around. A tremor ran through the assembly. Fort Worth’s best citizens were for a moment staggered. But Dusenbery never quailed Tue strang ers emptied their glasses, called for more and then, glancing malignantly around, they launched forth in furious abuse of Texas and Texans, their language being garnished with that profusion and orna mentation of profanity peculiar to the guileless cattle drover of those times. As they ceased Dusenbery marched up to the table at which the strangers sat. His flashing eyes, his heaving breast, his five feet of lowering form reduced the specta tors to speechiessntss. Even the strangers paused and seemed impressed. '’Gentlemen,” said Dusenbery, diving into his trowsers and bringing up an ancient silver watch, “you have wounded the finest feelings of my nature in your re marks about Texas, and you must retract them or—but never mind. I give you five minutes to retract. Five minutes to secure your safe return to home and friends. Five minutes to avoid a grave upon the lonesome plain. Five minutes!” An awful silence fell upon the crowd. The blood curdled in the vein of every Fert Worthi&n present. What l had they been treating this fire-eating Terror with scarcely-veiled contempt ? Had they been absolutely courting death for years ? But just then one of the strangers recovered his power of speech and said: “Why, stranger, if you feel that way aliout it, of course we ll cut it short. We didu’t mean it for you or any of your tnends, but was just talking on . loose like.” And with that they all four got up and slunk out, their six shooters flopping feebly against tbeirbips and their very spurs looking drooped and weedy as they went. With the closing of the door, Dusenbery‘s eye reeled in its socket The excitement which had thus far held him up gave way and he collapsed, a flabby little heap upon the floor. The assembled Citizens crowded around him. “Why, Doozey, my boy, you took us all by surprue. We never thought vou were a fighter.” “Didn't you ?” “No, Why, don't you know those are four ot the worst men in the cattle busi ness? And we expected every minute to see them go to shooting. Were you armed I” “Weil, I had a pistol for show, but 1 don’t believe it was loaded, and I couldn’t have fired it, anyhow.” “Great heavens, man! suppose they had refused to retract, what on earth would you have done ?” Dusenbery stopped, looked all around to aee if anyone waa passing, pulled his friend’s ear close down to his lips and whispered: •Td have txt ndsd. the Urns." Tbe Court of Justice waa sitting, and I had frequent opportunities of observ ing it afterward. The procedure, to any one fresh from the Old Bailey, ap pears a little strange. The Bashaw re clines on a comfortable couch listening to the witnesses, who give their evi dence with great energy and volubility. Sometimes in the middle of it all the prisoner will jump up and exclaim that be can get a witness on bis behalf. He will then run out of court, unattended by guard or policeman, and presently return with his man. No one expresses any surprise at this performance, and it never seems to enter their head that he should avail himself of the oppor tunity to escape. The usual punish ments, besides fine and Imprisonment, mutilation, by cutting off a hand or foot—the stump being plunged in boil ing pitch to stop the bleeding—basti nadoing, and putting |out the eyes. There used to be a blind beggar con stantly demanding backaheeth at one of the gates, who had been a noted robber in his day, bat falling at last into the hands of his pursuers had suf fered this horrible penalty. There were at least two murders daring my stay at Tangier—both perpetrated in the most open manner, though in neither case was any adequate penalty (if any penalty at all) inflicted. The first was from motives of jealousy, and the murderer stabbed his victim in the middle of the town—tne body lying out in the street tfll a guide from the hotel stumbled over it ou his way home at night. The second was committed by a Riflian, to wipe out a blood-feud that existed in his family. A relation of his had been killed by a man, and from that time the solemn duty developed upon him of avenging his death. The act may have been committed a genera tion back; but in that ease the mother would daily charge the child upon her knee with the task he had to perform and when he was grown up, never let him rest till vengeance was exacted. The man has httle hopes of escape. No Irish agent or Landlord under the bane of “Captain Moonlight” ooold be so certain of his doom; and in Barbary he cannot even avail himself of the doabtful protection of the Police, in this case the murderer coolly shot his victim dead as he was sitting in the aolco, and then brandishing his knife at all who attempted to arrest him, got •lear off into the country. A friend of mine onoe heard the Bashaw inflict a fine of 18d. on a Moor for the pecu liarly cold-blooded murder of a Jew— that impartial functionary observing that the sentence would have been a heavier one, but that it was necessary that J ews should be discouraged. Variations of Climato, Dr. Croll ath ibuces the great fluetua- tious of terrestrial climate, as displayed by the former extension of glaciers on one hand, and the existence of coal seams and corals in the new ice-bound shore of Greenland on the other, to variations in the earth's orbit, and calculates the periods of these cycles, extending respectfully over 170,000,- 260,000, and 160,000 years. I am una ble either to confirm or refute these calculations which may or may not be correct, bat quite outside, or rather within, these there have been curious fluctuations of terrestrial climate hith erto unexplained. The name “Gron- land,” which we literally translate “Greenland,” is itself a record of this. It was given to that country when colo nized by the Scandinavians, above one thousand years ago. It was then fairly described by its name, and the re mains of human sett ements disoovered by our arctic explorers in regions now uninhabitable confirm the old Norse sagas, which describe these colonies. When Ligolf, with his retainers and followero, settled in Iceland, A. D. 874, that island most have enjoyed a differ ent climate from that which it now endures or it could not have become so popular a colony as to alarm King Harold, the Fair-haired, so greatly a to induce him to check the emigration by imposing a fine of four ounces of silver on ali intending emigrants. The growth of its population until it be came in the eleventh and twelfth centu ries the focus of European poetic literature, when its great poet, Snorro Sturieson, attended the meetings of the Thingvalla, or island Parliament, “with a fplendid retinue of 800 anned men;” when houses and ships were boilt with native timlier, of which remains are now to be found, all indicate a carious change of climate. I ooold quote many other evidences of this if space per mitted. Moorlih Meals. A Moorish breakfast consits of cas-cus- su a cake of baked granules, deftly made of flour, which eats crisp and sweet—milk, butter, omelets, pigeons cooked in oil, sweet potatoes, forcemeat, and sweet tarts of honey, butter and eggs. Tea, which is qmte a “course” meal, is taken cross- legged on soft carpets spread on the floor around a handsome and costly tray with dwarf feet raising it a few Inches from tbe floor, furnished with drinking glasses ia place of china cups. The formidable meal, which is served by an upper man servant, excites the European viator's wonder and dismay. First the teapot—or kettie, if named after Us shape—is filled with green tea, sugar, and water in such proportions as to make a thick sweet syrup, which is drunk without milk or cream. Then follows an infusion of tea and spearmint; yet another of tea and wormwood; yet another of tea and lemon verbena; and yet another of tea and cit- ron. On good occasions a sixth is added ot tea and ambergris. Nothing is eaten. The “weed” usually follows, but the Moor, though a smoker, is not an “inveterate.’’ Dinner consists of various dishes of mut ton, fish and fowl, ingeniously and ar tistically served in mixtures of pomaded soups, spices, and cosmetics; so, at least, Englishmen declare who have had in courtesy to swallow the preparations. Knives, forks and spoons are dispensed with, perhaps despised. Around a oen[ tral dish gathers the company, as usua- cmes-leggea on the floor. At “In tbe name of God,” which is the brief grace pronounced by the master of the house, the slave removes the cover from tbe bowl; lifted hands are thrust into the smoking dish, and monels of Us contents, deftly rolled into the mouth with a neatness and prec'slon truly wonderfuL Exact portions are picked from fowl, and fish, and mut ton chop bone without delay or effort Sharp nails are said to act as knives. After the course water and napkins are brought around. The wash over, another dish and another plunging of the paws in to the savory mess, incense is often burned during the dinner, which fills the apartment with delicate aroma. When a meal Is served in the open court the ladies of the house are permitted to gaze on their lords from the open balcony which usually surrounds it. Into the field of the “Cloth of Gold’ one bright afternoon thronged the “venans” or “comers,” to run a tilt with the “tenons” or “holders,” Rid ing down the field to the “tree of nobil ity,” each knight rang his lanoe upon the blaek-and-gray shield, thus signify ing his readiness to joust with the challengers. One English knight, more aspiring than the rest.—Sir Richard Jemingham, knight of the King’s chamber,—reaching to the top of the “perron,” struck with his lance’s tip the white-and-silver shield of the King of France. Then “holders” and “comers” rode the one general course of lance to lance, and, this shock o^er, they fell back while the single champions rode before the barriers. “For whom fight you. Sir Richard Jerningham, good knight and true?” demanded Mont St. Michel, the herald of France. “For the honor of God, the glory of England, and the love of the little lady, Mistress Annie Boleyn—our rose of England blooming at the court of France,” and the gallant Sir Richard bent to his saddle-bow in salute to the fair young maiden whom be thus cham pioned. “And for whom fight you, Francis, King of France?” demanded the English herald, garter king-at-arms. And the kingly knight, not to be outdone in courtesy to the bright young girlhood of England, glanced toward Queen Katherine’s gallery, and made instant answer: “For the honor of God, the glory of France, and the love of the sweet little Mistress Margery Carew—the tenderest blossom in the train of our sister of England.” Margery’s beaming face, which had been stretched eagerly forward in the excitement of seeing and listening, flashed furiously as she drew back in sudden confusion, while the “Oh!” of e surprisbroke from her parted lips. Then shd looked quickly to the lists again, as the shouts of the heralds: “St. George for England!” “St. Denis for France!” rang oat and the trumpets sounded the charge. With visors closed and lances folly coached the knights sparred acroes the flel’, bat, jast as they approached the shook. Sir Richard’s horse stumbled slightly and threw his rider’s lance out of aim. With knightly courteiy King Francis broke his own couch, raised his lance upright, and then, with friendly salutations, both knights passed each other without closing. Turning in the course onoe more, they galloped across the lists, and with equal speed and with steady aim, “full tilt” they sparred to the snook. Tang, tang! the lanoee struck and splintered fairly. Sir Rich ard’s stroke met the guard of King Francis’s silver shield, while the lanoe of the King rang full against Sir Rich ard’s pass-guard or shoulder-front. Bat, though Sir Richard struck “like a sturdy and skillful cavalier,” the shook of his antagonist was even more effective. For, as the record states, “the French King on his part ran valiantly.” Sir Richard’s horse fell back with the shock, his rider reeled in the saddle, and, so says the chronicle, “Jemingham was nearly unhorsed.” The broken lanoe- ahalts were dropped from the hands of the knights, and the heralds declared Francis, Bang of France, victor in the tilt. An hour later, Sir Richard came to Queen Katherine’s gallery, King Francis accompanying him. Then, in accor dance with the rales of the tonrney. Sir Richard, as the knight “who was worst ed in the combat,” with dne courtesy and a deep salnte, presented to the blushing Margery a beautiful chain of geld, large and glittering, as “the token to the lady in whose service the victor fights,” and King Francis, smiling, •aid: “And I, too, must claim my guerdon. The fair Margery shall be our guest at Arde to-night. Hoiu«Keeplns And Cooking. The science of housekeeping deserves to be classed among the fine arts. It deserves to be made so much a study that processes and methods are lost and only the effect remains. We Ml remem ber Mrs. Stowe’s blustering housekeeper who saw good reason why every one around her should be np and doing; ou Monday, because it was wash-day*, on Tuesday, because it was ironing-day; on Wednesday, because it was baking-day; on Thursday, because it was sweeping- day, and on Friday, because to-morrow would be Saturday, and the same au thor’s notable contrast in Katy Scudder, in whose home no one ever hurried, and where the work was Always “done up.” You consult only the di*d plate of your dock, but everything depends on the sets of wheels out of sight. So in the model home. A spectator would say the house kept itself, everything seems so easy. Hut in housewifery, as in litera ture, results that appear simple are often produced at the greatest expenditure of thought, Macaulay’s dosing sentence on Byron is said to haye cost Him two days’ work; and a tyro, deceived by the smooth diction and appropriateness of expression of sentiment, would think he could do quite as well himself. Nothing but faithful thought and care keep the dining-room appointments from coming to shame, from the linen to the walls; nothing else keeps grease out of the soup and lead out of the bread; nothing else gives peace day and night from insect (testa or keeps the dust of ages from windows floors and shelves; nothing else fills the rooms with sweet m, tidy apparel, thrift and comfort, and imparts the general atmosphere of a place where you would like to stay. Itis not to much to say that good housekeep ing is a compound of chemistry, culti vated taste, natural, mental and moral philosophy, economy, and that most uncommon article, common sense. A large fowl will make more meat than a small one, but requires a longer pe riod in which to mature. Early maturing hens »re of more Importance than size or weight of carcass. “ Do you mean It, father?” Vivian Mahsffy looked steadily into his father’s face as he spoke these words—looked fairly and fully into the aco of the keen eyed old man whose petted idol he had been since the day of his babyhood—those dreary, desolate ays when the ’black pall of his young wife’s death had fallen over the life of him who was now looking at his only child so sternly. Aristides Mahaffy’s son—his bright eyed boy—had said that he was about to marry Ethelberta O’Rouke, a girl whom the old man knew only as a fash ionable belle, and in a moment of pas sionate anger he had told the boy that if his determination was persisted in, disinheritance should follow. It was this threat that had caused Vivian to utter the words with which our story begins, “Yes, 1 mean it,” replied the father, “Marry this girl if you choose, but if you do, not a penny of mine shall yon have”—and leaving the bitterly cruel words floating around the room he stalked savagely from his apart ment. Two hours have passed. So have seven or eight horse oars, but the one for which Vivian is waiting finally comes along, and lands him at the door of Pericles O’ Rouke’s house. Ethelberta is sitting in her boudoir sewing some foamy loco into tbe neck of a velvet dress as the young man entered. “I have bud news for you darling.” Vivian says in sad tones, while a don’t- blufl-or-you-will-be-calJed look comes over her faee. Bertie nestled her little dimpled hands confidently m his. “Tell it to me at onoe, sweet,” she said—only with you alive and well, nothing could be so very dreadful” Vivian looked at her with a wonderful grave tenderness in his bine eyes. “My father and J have quarreled, and he has disinherited me. I have”—and here his voice quivered slightly—“been given the g. b. on your account. I am a beggar, Bertie.” Her soft dusky eyes grew wilder and more serious. “Yes continued Vivian “I am poor. Bat I wouldn’t care if it wasn’t for you, darling. It means that I most give yon up, for I cannot ask you to share life with me ou a thousand a year.” She looked at him with a rich crimson flash surging into her cheeks. If it had been a full, Vivian would have gone nnder, but a flush could never scare him. “Vivian,” she said passionately, “do you think I will let you give me up? I love you too well for that. A beggar or prince you are the same to me—my king, my lover.” And he folded her to his heart with a great, almost speechless tenderness and joy. “My darling my precioos,” ho whis pered. Three months later on, a golden De cember afternoon, with a bine sky as in June, there was a grand wedding at the O’ Rouke mansion. As Vivian and Ethelberta were entering the carriage that was to bear them to the depot, she looked at him with a weirdly precious smile. “And so yon would not desert me, darling,” he said,” even when you knew that I was poor. 1 ‘No, my precious one,” was the reply “I learned long ago that a sucker onee ofi the hook will never bite again, and yonr father and I put up this job so as to land yon a little quicker.” Arttets’ Model in New York. Among tbe Academy models some tune since, was tbe son ot a banker in Wall street, New York, wbo had failed during a financial crisis. Later, tbe young model obtained a position in a down-town bank, but such was his pride in bis physique and his interest in art that be continued to pose in tbe evening classes. Another model, valued for his fine muscular development, was a blacksmith by trade. Another was a house-painter, who during the winter months, when all of his trade are thrown out of employment, supported himself in this fashion. Btlll another, also noted for his fine development, was a German ath lete. One model, well known in his day at tbe Academy, was a half-breed Indian employed as coachman in a wealthy family. In his leisure hours he posed at the Academy, and became a popnlar model, but one day his employer discov ered bis artistic bias, and forced him to desist. He has since returned to the equine sphere he adorned, and resides m an inland city. Another temporary mo del waa the son of a prominent artist in another city. Many studies of Arabs ex- ecuted in New York during the past few years have had for their model a negro at tached to the Academy, whose head and figure effered a perfect type of that race. A prosperous manufacturer of picture frames in an interior town, having failed in business, became a model in New York. A few artists in New York have their mo dels acting also as domestics or studio-re tainers. This is a foreign custom import ed by artists who have received their schooling abroad. Under these circum stances a sort of comradeship arises be tween the artist and his faithful model, which has Us pathetic as well as its gro tesque side, since the remunerative of the model is apt to depend upon the successes or failures of tbe artist. There is a colo ny of young artists m New York which possesses a retainer knowh to the world aa “Sammy"—a youth of muscular type,with blonde mustache and hair, and a fresh complexion. H s face and figure fit him for all spheres of model life. One day, he posts as a stalwart fisherman, in a pea- jacket, a disreputable hat, and high sea- boots. Another week, in a dress-suit borrowed for the occasion, he figures as a ball room gallant, with one arm encircling the waist of a bald-pated lay-figure, ar rayed m silken robes, likewise borrowed, into whose glass eye* he gazes with an expression of the deepest tonderneas. He has even appeared aa a bold horseman seated astride a wooden chair, which was placed on a table, tightly clutching two piecey of clothes-line for reins, with his body inclined at the angle necessary to imply s furious galloping on the part of his fiery steed, and his coat-tails spread out and fastened to tbe wall behind to illustrate the action of tne wind. In ad dition to his accomplishments as s model, this young man does everything so artist’s henchman can be expected to do in the line of general usefulness. There is a little hamlet in the south ern part of Nelson County Ky. a colony of Trappist monks. Externally, the monastery resembles any other, but when the doors are onoe passed the visi tor feels as if h^had stepped back into the middle ages. The visitor is courte- onsly received and given a cot in a cell. At midnight be is awakened by the bell which calls the monks to the midnight mass. The monks continue at their de votions about six and a half hours, and then they march in silent procession to the chapter room. Here they meet , every mornirg, and here punishment is meted ont for all offences against the roles. The abbot’s chair is an clew ted throne, and in walking to his seat the abbot passes over his own grave. The culprit who awaits judgment also stands on this terrible spot. For punishment some are deprived of their meals for a day; others are ordered to prostrate themselves on tbe floor, while the monks walk over them. When a decision is given the delinquent never murmurs, but immediately sets about its fnllfil- ment. By an ancient rale of the order all Trappist morasteries are built iu the form of a quadrangle, enclosing a square court. All around this court extenes the cloister, used by the monks as a prome nade. Here the inmates never speak, not even to visitors, nor do they in the refectory, dormitory or churches. In the graveyard back of the ohnrch is the tomb of Mrs. Nancy Miles, and by her side the remains of Mrs. Mary Bradford, only sister of Jefferson Davis. Each monk’s grave is marked by a black cross on wliich, in white letters, is painted his monastery name. At the foot of each grave is a stool which the moflks use in praying for the souls ot the departed. The dead are not en closed in coffins, but are simply wrapped in their gowns and bnried. Wiien a death occurs, a fresh grave is immedi ately opened for the next one who passes away. In the dormitory each monk has a cell with walls of heavy fire-brick, containing an iron cot. The monk al ways sleeps with his clothes on. The regular time for rising is never later than two o’clock, bnt on feast days it is two hoars sooner. In these cells, every Friday night, the monks scourge them selves with a knotted whip of many lashes, in remembrance of the scourging of the Saviour. Except by a physician ’b prescription, a monk never tastes meat of any kind, fish, eggs, batter or lard. Their diet is exclusively vegetable. No stimulants, not even tea or coffee or to bacco, are used in any form. In the dining-room each monk is provided with a tin plate and a wooden fork and spoon. From Sept 14 to Ash Wednesday only one meal a day is allowed. From Easter Sunday until Sept. 14 they eat two meals daily—one at eleven and the other at six o’clock. For seven years those who wish to enter are on trial, and ail the hardships are put upon them. They can go away any day daring this period if they desire, but when the time of probation is over they take a final vow and are irrevocably sonde red from the world. There arc about sixty monks in this monastery. Only two Americans belong to the order—one from Selma, Ala., and the other from Philadelphia. A remarkable raid of the order is that which precludes ail females from enter- the abbey, save only the wife of the ruler of the nation. The Gethsemane Abbey owns 1800 acres of land, half of of which is m a state of high cultiva tion. And n* waa Ulad of It. Almost every night of his life for the last twenty-three years a Deiroiter bns been aroused from his slumbers by a pok,- in the ribs and a voice whispering: “John! John ! do you hear that ?’" On such occasions the conversation lias always run in one channel, and alsmt as follows': “Whazz want ?” "Dw’tyou hear that noise ?’’* “Na" “Listen! I tell you s sne one is raising a window,” "Oh, bosh!” “For Heaven’s sake, John get up, or we’il be murdered in our beds! I hear some one moving around in the dininir room!” “Let ’em move! ” “There it Is again! If you don’t get up 1 will, for I’m all m a chill I” There was no peace until John got up and stumbled around the house with a rusty old revolver in his grip. He never expected it was anything more thau the wind or the frost or the cat, bnt almost every night brought a repetition. The other night ushered iu an entire Cbadge of programme. Just before mid night the wife elbowed his spine and whispered: “Mercy on me! but I feel a draught of cold air I" “Nonsense!” growled the sleepy hus band. “And I hear some one walking around?” “It’s thee it!” “Get out of bed this minute, or I’Ji yell murder and arouse the neighborhood! ” John obeyed. He ielt the cold air on his legs as he trampled through the upper hall, and when he was half way down stairs a dark figure skipped out of the open front door. WBen he reached the threshold he saw a man running across the street, and ho called out: “Bellow! there—hold on. ’ Tbe man halted. here ' you burglar! Come back and 1’U give you tbe run of the house! I’ve beeu waiting for and expec - ing you for over twenty years, and now I don t want to be shook In this manner!” “You go to South America!” shouted the man. “Well, I’ll leave the door open for you ? nd ^? U ^ ane » U!r * nd bur 8 lar around for a whole hour if you want to and I won’t lif» s finger, I’m glad you got in—pawer- vm hld’l^irt 0rry '. 1 drove ym out before you had loaded up." He left the door open and walked up stain and jumped Into bed, but his wife threw up a window and whistled for the police and raised such a racxet that the neighbors were aroused. .k^J***. j 001 * 1 that lhe robber bad opened the front door with a false key, but had been driven away before he had time t > aecure any plunder. ‘Tvejuat got Pred of poking around for burglare when there sre no burglars.” exclaimed the man aa be waved the crowd out of the hall, “and, if this chap had only stopped long enough to.flre at me a couple of times, hanged if 1 wouldn't hav« bought him a new overcoat!'' *