Newspaper Page Text
'.'Oh, my love lias cheeks as red As the rose!" 80 the lover cries, misled, Fur tho idea that bin saint Ever knew the use of paint Never carae into his head, I suppose. "Alabaster is her throat!" Hear him talk! Has he never chanced to note How his darling laintly blushed, As with dainty hand she brushed From the lapel of his coat 1 Powdered chalk? "And her form is just divine!" What a fool! Come, fond youth, to me incline, And I'll whisper in thine ear Softly so that none can hear The whole secret I opine— Cotton-wool! "But her wealth of golden hair Rippling down!" All save you are well aware That the hair within whose mesh She has caught a lover fresh Nightly hangs upon a chair With her gown. See her flirting now, close pressed In the waltz. Come, forget her! That is best. Trust me. I, too, loved her once, And I learned at last,- fond dunce, That her heart's like all the rest— It is false! Somerville ournal. POOR PILUQUESNE Chesterfield is the little sleepy town in the Midlands, with the crooked spire, which lies amidst a congeries of colliers and coal pits, and which you may see from the railway, midway be tween Derby and Sheffield. Many years ago, in the midst of the peninsular war, a number of French prisoners were interned there. Many years ago a famous company of players was acting there in the dingy little theatre down a backyard. One night, when "The Magpie, or the Maid of Paliseau," was acted, it was noted that some half dozen of the exiles, in whom the name of the play doubtless evoked some memory of their native land, came and paid their hardly-hoarded pence to the gal lery. Poor fellows! They took their pleasures as sadly as if they had been Englishmen of the Fen country. The performer who interested them most was the magpie. When she fled across the stage with the spoon in her mouth they applauded incontinently At her next aerial flight she stuck mid way on the wire, and the curtain had to descend in order to extricate her ^rom this perplexing predicament. The manager, an Irishman and a great actor in his time, stood at the back of the gallery (a very scanty one), and wrathfully objurgated the property man, adding various oaths to his seed, breed and generation. Up went the curtain again, and once more the mag pie tried her flight, but in vain, and the play had to end as best as it could without the aid of so important a per former. At this moment a fair, fragile boy of seventeen, with flaxen hair and great blue eyes with black lashes and eye brows, timidly approached the irate impressario. The fad was in a much worn and stained French naval uni form. There was a hectic flush on his cheek, and he coughed slightly, as, taking off his cap, he bowed politely to the manager. Then in the prettiest broken English he commenced: "Pardon, mille pardons, Monsieur Directeur, la pauvre magpie no fly straight. I make 'er skim along like a lettle butterfly." "Ah! be off wid your broken-down English, boy," paid the manager. "Spake to me in the language of La Belle France. Sure, I am a native and to the manner born, for I got my twopennorth at Douay. Ici en parle Francais. Ici!" he exclaimed, with a furious Irish accent, as he placed his hand on his tapacious chest. Thus urged, the boy explained vol ubly in his native toneue that he would undertake to make the magpie fly across the stage without difficulty. The next minute they were behind the scenes. As they approached the property room the manager roared: "Larry! Larry! Come out o' that, you thief of the world. I wonder you're not ashamed to luk me in the face!" "I am that same, yer honor," re sponded the man "but sure it wasn't Larry's fault that some blackguard was aft her sticking a tinpenny nail in the old magpie's gizzard. Bad luck to her for a baste of a bird,anyhow!" "Well, here's a young gentleman all the way from France who's goin' to set the crayture right," said the man ager. The French lad bowed ingratiating ly, and glanced wistfully at the prop erty man who at first looked daggers then he growled: "Young gintleman! Shure if it wasn't for the trousers, it's a young lady he'd be afther makin', and a beauty, too. Ah, well! P'raps his father was in Ban try Bay in '98 with Gineral Hocheand the Shan van Voght with the rest of the bhoys. Anyhow, he's a sthranger among these murth ering Sassenachs, so give us a taste of your fist, ma boucchaleen bawn!" With that he nearly squeezed the lad's hand to a pulp. Whatever pain he endured he only looked up and smiled. The smile went straight to Larry's heart, and from that they were brothers. In five minutes the boy put the magpie right. From that time forth he was scarce ly ever out of the theatre. He soon made himself useful in a hundred ways to honest Larry, who, although he couldn't speak a word of French, was a capital pantomimist, and succeeded in making himself understood. When ever he came to a dead hitch he went to the beautiful Miss Vere, the leading lady, who had been educated in a con vent in the lower countries and who spoke French, German, Italian,Dutch and Walloon as fluently as her moth er tongue. Then the manager, who had taken to the stranger, was always at hand with his atrocious Hibernian French besides which poor Piluquesne (that wae the lad's name) spoke many En- flish words, and theyoungters of the heatre spoke many French ones—very badly, it is true, bat still intelligibly enough. They generally called him "Poor Pit," or Pil for shortness. He told them that be was "the only •on of his mother, and she was a and that be had been a arid- French Navy. His was at liberty most of the day, but hau 10 repine lumsen every myhb at quarters prior to lock-up hours. At last, when the end of the season came, "Poor Pil" sought Miss Vere at her lodgings, and breaking down in a paroxysm of grief terrible to behold, declared that .if left behind in that dreadful place he must die. Miss Vere was a young lady of resources. She had a man's heart in a woman's body, and having given her word that he should not be left behind, she there and then arranged a plan of action with Larry. On the last night the play was "Hamlet," which was finished by half past 10. That evening "Pil" was conspicuous by li absence. Every body was astonifehed but Miss Vere Larry and the manager. Fitz Edmund, who played Hamlet, said he thought it strange thab Pilu quesne had" not turned up to say "Good-bye." The manager replied: "M. Piluquesne is a gentleman, and knows what he is about." The performance was over altogeth er about 11. The carts were waiting at the door, .and Larry and the men were occupied in packing the proper ties and wardrobe for the next town, when Lieut. Carter (a grim, lank of ficer), who had charge of the depot that night, came down with a file of men and demanded to know in the most peremptory manner what had be come of Piluquesne. "Divil a wan of me knows," replied Larry. "Afther all I done for him he might have been aftherlukkin' round to give wan a leg up the last night but it's just the way with them un grateful thieves of foreigners. Bad luck to them they're all alike, every mother's son of 'em!" While the subject was being thus hotly discussed between the lieutenant and Larry Ophelia's coffin was brought out and carefully deposited on the cart beside Yorick's skuH, the pickax, the spade and the shrouding sheet, etc. "That's a rum rig out to travel with" growled the lieutenant. "Why, sure, captain, said Larry, "you wouldn't have us go borrowing the blessed paraphernalia in every town we go to. Suppose, now, the mistress happened to be sketched out wid her toes upward, and ax your honor's butler fortheloanofacomn?" "JNone of your hp, you impudent, bogtrotting Paddy!" roared the en raged officer as he ordered his men to the "Right about face quick march." As the gallant lieutenant turned the corner, had he been able to look two ways at once, he might have seen the property man executing an Assyrian hieroglyph in the rear. Perhaps it was just as well that he didn't witness that interesting performance. Half an hour later Larry made a start for Derby. When they were well out of town he looked round to see that he was unobserved. Then he un did the screws of Ophelia's coffin. There in the moonlight lay poor Pilu quesne, sleeping like "the baby of a girl," and smiling in his sleep. "Aha! Mishter Lonslegs," cried Larry, "you can lock the stable door now that the horse has bolted,, but you're not so cute as you think you are, for all you wear an epaulette on the one shoulder of you that's up to your ear." Day was breaking when they got to Derby but, unseen and unsuspected, Larry contrived to smuggle his pre cious charge into the theatre, where "the boys and girls" kept him conceal ed for a week or two, till they had clubbed enough money to enablethem to send him to London by mail, hav ing previously, "squared" the guard and driver. Now, of course, all things being smooth and the coast clear, "Poor Pil" ought to have got safely to Lon don, from London to France, and to "have lived happy ever after" with his mother, or to have become an ad miral or a post captain at least but unfortunately fact and fate refused to be "squared" by fiction, however guards and drivers of mail coaches may be. 9 A distinguished authoress, referring to a little book of mine recently pub lished, said to me at the haymarket the other night, the night of the Ban crofts' farewell: "You shouldn't have made that poor young fellow die. I declare, it makes me quite unhappy to think of his lying out there in the snow on her grave." WThereupon I replied: "My dear madam, I didn't make him die—he did die." So "Poor Pil"—but I am anticipating. He had soft pleasant ways, and be guiled the time by making little toys for the ladies, with whom he was an esqecial pet, and by assisting Larry, who became more and more attached to him. The poor lad had been ailing a long., time—was consumptive, and racked with a torturing and suffocat ing cough. The night before his departure— Miss Vere and the girls had prepared an omelette with sweet herbs and some chicken broth, while the mana ger and the boys brought him a pos set made with whey and white wine. The girls tucked him up in his com fortably-improvised bed in the green room, kissed him and bade him good night. The lads remained to cheer him up some of them even talked of running over to see him at his home in Nor mandy. He brightened up wonderfully, sang them "L'Amour,L'Amour," and talk ed hopefully of his journey on the morrow. Larry was the last to leave him. "Embrassez-moi, mon cher Larrie!" said "Poor Pil." The Irishman understood him well enough then, and he gently gathered him up in his strong arms and kissed him then honest Larry broke down. "Don't you cry for me, mon cher Larrie," said the boy I sh%ll soon be strong enough when I get home, and you will come and see me in La Belle France some day will younot?" "Some day," said Larry "yes, some day but there, there, go to sleep, jew el—go to sleep, avick! or you'll never be able to get up to-morrow." At last he did fall placidly to sleep, and Larry left 10m to make the prep aration for the journey. When they came at daybreak to see him off "Poor Pil" had taken a much longer journey than they had antici pated. It was a lovely morning in the young spring and the birds outside made alive the dismal place with music. The sun shone through the window on to the bed. The fair young face was bright and smiling. Onedrop of blood haa trickled down the side of his mouth. It was quite dry now Mid glittered like a ruby in the sunshine. The great blue eyes, open and staring •t jf- -v & wide, looked far away beyond even the fair France he loved so well. The players laid the poor French boy in the graveyard of the parish church and there all that is mortal of him, save that which has returned to the resolving elements from whence he came, rests still. Miss Vere wrote the sad news to the poor mother at her home in far away Normandy. Some months after there came a letter from the village cure, which I have ventured to put into English, thus: "My dear Madam—Thanks, and yet again thanks for your esteemed favor. Alas! it is my painful duty to inform you that my sister, Mine. Piluquesne, whose grief for the expatriation of my nephew and her only son was inces sant and inconsolable, is 110 more. It was my melancholy privilege to ad minister to her the last rites of our holy church on the very day on which our little Paul left us for a better in heritance. "She was sleeping, and I stayed to watch and pray by her to the last. That morning at the fifth hour she awoke and started as if she had seen something in the sunlight, which had just peeped in zo give us good mor row." 'My boy! my boy!' she cried, 'I am coming! Stay but a little and we will journey together to the promised land.' "And so she passed away. "I feel, I know that she had seen and heard something which my eyes and ears, 'of the earth earthy,' could not see or hear. "I think it is your great poet (surely his masterpiece) who says: Such harmony is in immortal souls But whilst this muddy vesture of decay Doth grossly close us in, ve cannot hear it. "Again, and yet a thousand times again, I thank you for all your love and care for our little Paul. "Permit a poor priest who admires the divine art of which mademoiselle is so distinguish an ornament, to pre sent the assurances of the profound consideration with which he ventures to subscribe himself, mademoiselle's grateful, humble servant. "PAL PILUQUESNE, D. D. "Mile. Helene Vere." After "PoorPil's" death all kinds of wild rumors obtained currency in the theatre. Larry sworethat during the performance of the "Maid of Pali seau" he saw Pil in the property room arranging the bird's wings. Mrs. Cas sidy declared that on Saturday night, when she was rathei late in cleaning the theatre, as Sunday morning dawned she saw him na}-, more, she heard him singing "Adeste Fideles and the poor old soul fainted away with terror. Certain it is that even Manly, the manager, who was a skeptic, to Lar ry's delight withdrew the magpiepiece from the repertory, and that Mrs. Cassidy for the future did her clean ing the first thing on Saturday morn ing. As for actors—well, they are al ways more or less superstitious, and for many a year after that no actor could be induced to stay in the Derby theatre after midnight. Once, indeed, Jack Holmes, asailor, just returned to his native place after the war, and afflicted with a plethora of prize money, took a party of chums to the gallery to see "The Stranger," which impressed him so powerfully that he fell fast asleep. His friends, overtaken by Bacchus, forgot all about him. Equally obliv ious of his presence, the servants of the theatre put out the lights, locked up and left him to his slumbers. When honest Jack awoke in "the dead waste and middle of the night" he had'nt the faintest idea where he was. As soon as he pulled himself togeth er he growled: "Where are those land lubbers? They've all sheered off and left me at the mast-head while they've crawled down below through lubber's hole." At this moment he heard, or thought he heard, a soft voice speak ing in an unknown tongue. Looking down on the stage, he saw in the moonlight which streamed through a circular opening at the back of the gallery, a fair young boy in a frayed and worn foreign naval uniform. He had bright hair, great blue eyes and an angel face, and a drop of blood trickling from his pale lips. "Hold hard, young powder mon key," cried Jack. "I'm coming down on deck to have a jaw with you." With that, with the agility of a cat he scrambled down the side of the gal lery and boxes, and leaped upon the stage. As he did so the figure faded into the air. Wild with terror the sailor shrieked and shouted until he alarmed the neighborhood. When they took him out swooning, folks said that he was drunk. Per haps he was but then—perhaps he wasn't. At any rate, he swore to his dying day that he was sober and all the king's horses and all the king's men could never induce Jack Holmes to cross the threshold of the theatre again. As regularly as the players came to Derby in the spring time, so regularly the poor French boy's grave was be decked daily with fresh flowers. The years passed by, the good old manager died, the actors grew old and were scattered half over the globe. Soon after the' 'Three days in Paris,'' he who writes these lines, then a wretched child, who had just lost one nearer and dearer to him than all the world, was casting some flowers on a new-made sepulchre, when he caught sight of a venerable and beautiful wom an clad in the garb of a sister of the Sarce Cc&ur engaged in the same pious office at an adjacent grave. The lady was attended by a tall, thin, white headed old man, who, from His pecul iar dress and demeanor, appeared to be a foreigner. The grave at the foot of which they stood had been neglect ed, the sexton said, for years. It had, however, that very morning been covered with fresh green turf and flowers, and a small mural cross with an inscription now stood at its head. As the lady returned the basket which had contained the flowers to her attendant she said in a singularly sweet and distinct voice, "Ah! mon ami! How bright and beautiful it seemed when this poor boy was taken from us, thirty years ago, but now, how sordid, and squalid and miserably provincial it all is. Even the little theatre in Vhich we strutted and fretted our fiery" hours away in the spring time of our lives—the theatre, which we thought a veritable palace of en chantment, what is it now?" "Fail, madame," replied the man in strangely mixed aecent, compound ed of French and Irish, "if you as me the truth, it's like a blue-mowldy, rotten orange-box, that's what it is." "Perhaps it was always thus,Larry, and 'tis only we who are changed all things are beautiful to the young." "Thin all things are beautiful to you, miss for you never grow owld. Ah, Miss Vere! "Larry!" "I humbly beg your pardon, Madame Ursula but I couldn't help thinking I was young onst myself, but, the Lord be praised, here comes Lady Scarsdale's carriage. The train laves in half an hour. Let us get out o' this for sure the heart is sore within me when I think of the poor boy lying here in the cowld. The lady entered the coach, her at tendant mounted the box beside the coachman and the carriage drove away. Ten years later the writer happened to mention this occurrence to the late William Robertson, father of Tom Robertson the dramatist,who strange ly enough turned out to be one of the actors in the foregoing events, and from his lips this little memento mori wa3 taken down. When last I was in Derby a neglect ed grave, overgrown with dark, rank weeds, and a time-worn fragment of a shattered cross, on which is inscribed two words,without date, comment, or text, were all that remained to re mind one of "Poor Piluquesne."—John Coleman in Longman's Magazine. Taxation 011 the Line of Least Resistance. All parties would be happy if the public treasury could be filled by the touch of a magician's wand, so that taxes might be abolished. But, as they are a necessary evil, a scheme of taxation without lamentation is what is wanted. In the law laid down by Professor William G. Sumner, that taxation tends to diffuse itself, but on the line of least resistance, is found a hint for the basis of this scheme. Turgot, the great French financier, ex pressed the politician's idea very tersely when he said that the science of taxation is to pluck thegoose with out making it cry. In hunting for the line of least resistance, and the most scientific methods of plucking, sev eral interesting experiments have been made of late in different States, where new sources of reve nue have been sought from special taxes on corporations, railroads, tele graph, telephone, and insurance com panies, collateral inheritances, and other classes of property which can be plucked without producing aery liable to strike a chord of sympathy in the popular heart. In most instances these experiments have surpassed in their results the expectations of the proposers. Large revenue has been obtained without provoking even a murmur of disapproval from the voting classes. In Vermont, for ex ample, no direct tax was levied in 1883 and 1884, the receipts under the corporation tax law paying the ex penses of the State government. The Comptroller of New York received $9,569,101.35 in 1884, of which $1, 603,612.75 were paid by corpoia tions. Last yea,r, although the Wis consin Legislature authorized a levy of $240,000,the state treasurer was not obliged to collect any direct tax, as the license tax from railroads, insur ance, telegraph and telephone compa nies was sufficient to meet the current expenses. The treasurer of Minnesota states that "the revenue from the cor poration tax is steadily increasing, and if it should continue to increase, and the probabilities are that it will, as it has done for the last four years, it bids fair to pay all the expenses of the state government." In New Jer sey there is no regular tax, except for schools, as the new railroad and canal tax law and the tax on miscellaneous corporations maintain the govern ment.—HENRY J. TEN* EYCK, in Popu lar Science Monthly for February. New York an Eozoic State. From the New York Tribune." The fourth lecture in the course of science matinees was delivered a few days ago in the ball room of the hotel Brunswick by Prof. II. L. Fairchild. The subject of the lecture was "The life of millions of years ago." Prof. Fairchild first gave a short account of the principles of geological forces—the action ol running water and the waves of the ocean, the alternation of heat and cold, the shrinkage of cooling masses, whose slow and regular work ing from age to age make up the his tory of the globe. "The old theory of cataclysms," said the lecturer, "has been abandoned and modern geologists put in its p'ace the theory of conti nuity, which seeks to account for the changes which have taken place in the earths's crust through the potency of the ordinary forces which we still see in action around us. These forces are still at work and geological changes are still going on. "We think of the dry land," said Prof. Fairchild, "as the true plan of stability, but as a matter of fact it is the ocean which forever maintain its place and the land which is continual ly oscillating. Manhatten island, for instance, is gradually sinking, and if we live long enough we will probably find the sea covering the place where we now are. Still we have timeenough before 11s to finish the lecture." He next enumerated the various geologi cal ayes as they are now classified and briefly described the forces of animal and plant life characteristic of each. "New York state as a whole," said he, "belongs to one of the old ages— the eozoic. The Adirondack mount ains date back to the dawn of the globe's history. If some speculators and miners had known this and had been familiar with some of the elemen tary principles of geology, they would have saved many thousands of dol lars. Often and often it has been supposed that coal has been found in New York, but always the expectation has proved groundless. All geologists know that the Devonian rocks which make up most of the state never con tain any coal, and we need never ex pect to find any in New York." The latter part of the lecture was occupi ed by the explanation of stereoscopic illustrations of various fossils. In a suit concerning a flock of tur keys tried in Colusa county, Cal., the lawyers submitted the case without argument, bat not so the jurors. A great rumpus was heard in their room, tables being overturned and chairs flying in every direction. When the constable opened the door he found one juror on the floor and another holding him down and beating the head off him. They were arguing thp case. THE INVISIBLE GIRL. llaving decided to finish the year in Italy, I looked about me for a dwell ing to be had upon reasonable terms. I found what I wanted in the out skirts of the ancient city of Lucca, one of the loveliest spots on the pen insula. The house was quite new and in every way desirable, while the rent asked for it was absurdly low. I questioned the agent in regard to the circumstance. Having my money safe, he could afford to be truthful. "There is nothing against the house itself," he said, "but the grounds have the reputation of being haunted. Strange sounds are said to be heard near that ledge of rock in the park yonder. We Italians are superstitious, signor," he added, with a bow, "but I presume to an Ameri can a ghost is no objection." "So little," I replied, laughing, "that I am obliged to you for the oppor tunity of making the acquaintance of this one." Such superstitions are common in Italy, and the agent's story made lit tle impression upon me. During a tour of inspection around the premises I came upon the rock in question. It consisted of two walls of granite perhaps twenty teet in height, meeting at an oblique angle, covered over their greater extent with wild vines. It struck me as an exceedingly beautiful nook, and appropriate for my hours of outdoor lounging. On the following morning, provided with a book and cigar, I went thither, and disposed myself comfortably in tho shade of an clive. I had bccome absorbed in the volume, when I was startled by the sound of a voice near me. It was apparently that of a wom an, wonderfully soft and sweet, and was singing one of the ballads of the country. I could distinguish the words as perfectly as if spoken at an arm's length from me. I started up in amazement. I had no visitors and my Only servant was an old man. Nevertheless, I made a thorough exploration of the neighbor hood, and satisfied myself that there was no one on the grounds. The only public road was half a mile distant. The nearest dwelling was directly op posite, across a level plain—in sight, but far out of earshot. In a word, I couldmakenothing ofit. I observed that when I left my original position under the olive the voice became instantly silent. It was only within the circumference of a circle of about two yards in diameter that it was audible at all. It appeared to proceed from the angle between the two walls of rock. The minutest examination failed to reveal anything but the bare rock. Yet it was out of this bare rock that the voice issued. I returned to my former station in downright bewilderment. The agent's story occurred to me, but even now I attached 110 weight to it. I am a practical man, and was firmly con vinced that there must be some rational explanation to the mystery, if I could but discover it. The voice was certainly that of a young girl. But where was she? Was the old fable of the wood nymph a truth after all? Had I discovered a dryad em bosomed in the rock? I smiled scorn fully even as these fancies ran through my head. For more than half an hour the singing continued. Then it ceased and, though I waited patiently for its re newal. I heard no more of it that day. When I returned to the house I made no mention of the matter, re solving to keep it to myself until I had solved the mystery. The next morning at an early hour I returned to the spot. After "a tedi ous interval the singing began again. It went softly and dreamily through one verse of a song and ceased. Pres ently I heard a deep sigh, and then, in a slow, thoughtful tone, the voice said: "Oh,how lonesome it is. Am I to pass my whole life alone in this dreamy place?" There was no answer evidently the person was merely soliloquizing. Could she hear me if I spoke, as I heard her, supposing her to be a living being after all? I determined to haz ard the experiment. "Who is it that is speaking?" I ask ed. For some moments there was no re ply then in a low, frightened whisper, the voice said: "What i3 it? I heard a voice." "Yes," I answered. "You heard mine. I spoke to you." "Who are you?" asked the voice tremulously, "are you a spirit?" "I am a living man,'' I returned. "Can you not see me?" "No," answered the voice. I can on ly hear you. Oh, where are you? Pray do not frighren me. Come out of your concealment and let me see you. "Indeed, I don't wish to alarm you," I replied, "I am not hidden. I am standing directly in front of the spot whence your voice seems to come." "You are invisible," was the trem bling answer. "Your voice comes to me out of the air. Holy Virgin! You must be a spirit. What have I done to deserve this?" "Have no fear of me, lintreatyou," I said, earnestly. "It is as much of a mystery to me as it is to you. I hear you speak, but you are likewise invisi ble." "Are you a real living being?" asked the voice, doubtfully. Then why do I not see you? Come to me. I will sit here. I will not fly." "Tell me where I am to come," I said. "Here is my garden in the arbor." "There is no arbor here," Ireturned. "Only a rock out of which you seem to be speaking-" "Saints protect me!" answered the voice. "It's too awful. I dare not stay her longer. Spirit or man, fare well." "But you wili come again," I plead ed. "Let me hear you speak once more. Will you not be here to-mor row at the same hour?" "I dare not—but your voice sounds as if you would do me no harm. Yes, I will come." Then there was an utt#r silence, the mysterious speaker had gone. I re turned home in a state of stupid won der, questioning myself if I ha«i not lost my senses and if the whole oc curence was not a delusion. 1 was faithful to my appointment with the voice on the following morning, how ever. I had waited but a few moments, when the soft, trembling accents broke the silence, saying: "I am here." "And I, too," I answered "I am grateful to you for coming." "I have not slept the whole night, said the voice. "I was so terrified. I am very much afraid I am doing wrong to come." "Are you still afraid of me?" "Not exactly, but it is so strange." "Will you tell me your name?" "I don't know—Lenore. What is "George," I answered, imitating her example and giving my first name only. "Shall we not be friends, Le nore?" "Oh, yes," answered the voice with a silvery peal of laughter. Evidently its owner was getting over her fears. "Don't be offended, George. It's so strange—two people who cannot see each other, and probably never will, making friends." "I will solve the mystery yet, Le nore," I answered, "and find out where you are. Would you like to see me in my proper person?" "Yes," was the reply. "Ishouldlike to see you." "And I would give a great deal to see you, Lenore. You must be very beautiful if your face is like your voice." "Oh, hush!" was the agitated an swer. "It is not right to speak thus." "Why not? Do you know, Lenore, that if this goes on I shall end by falling in love with you, though I have never seen you." "You are very audacious," was the reply. "If you were really here before me I should punish you for it. As it is I am going now." "But you will come again to-mor row, Lenore?" "If you will promise to be more dis creet, Georges-yes." As may be imagined, I did not fail to keep my engagement with my invisi ble friend. Eor many consecutive days these.strange meetings continued. As absurd as it may seem, the voice was beginning to make a powerful im pression upon me. I felt in its soft tones the manifestation of a sweet, re fined woman's soul. True, I had made no progress to wards unraveling the mystery. Never theless I was confident that through some inexplicable dispensation of Providence I had been permitted to hold communion with a real, living, lovely woman from an unknown dis tance. She had not yet told me more than her first name, and I did not press her for more as yet. Her only answer as to where she was, was, "In the garden." She did not seem capa ble of grasping the fact that I was not invisibly near her and capable of see ing her. She seemed content with matters as they stood, and for the present I could do no more. I made no one my confident as to my daily occupation first, because I knew that I should be regarded as a madman upon my mere statement of the facts, and, next, because I shrunk from having an auditor at my mysterious conferences. Will it be believed? I was in love with the invisible girl—in love with a voice! Absurd, of course, but I am not the first man who has fallen in love with a woman's voice. Besides, I was confi dent that it was only a matter of time before I should see the girl in per son. One day towards the end of the summer we had been talking as usual, and I had said: "My stay in Italy is nearly over, Lenore." "Ah," was the quick reply, "you will leave me, George." "No, Lenore," I answered, "not if you wish me to stay." "How can I help it, George, whether you go or stay? I have never seen you —I never shall see you. What am I to you?" "All the world, Lenore," I answer ed. "Ours has been a strange experi ence. Without knowing each other as people ordinarily do, we have yet been close friends. You are more to me than a friend. I love you Le nore." There was a quick, suppressed cry, no other reply. "Be truthful Lenore. Tell me your heart. If you love me, trust to me to discover your whereabouts and come to you. If you do not, say it, and I will spare you the pain of meeting me, and never let us speak again." There was a pause, then she trem ulously said: "I have never seen you, but my heart tells me to trust you. I know you are good and noble, and I am will ing to leave my fate in your hands. Yes, George, I love you." Even as she said the words she ut tered a cay of alarm. Then a gruff, man's voice spoke: "Go to your room, Lenore. As to this villain with whom you have been holding these secret meetings, we shall soon find him, and punish him as he deserves. Search for the rascal, An tonio, and bring him to me." There was a quick trampling of feet and the sound of crushing shrubbery, as if men were breaking through it. Then another man's voice spoke: "He has disappeared, your excel lence." "Very well we shall find him yet. He cannot escape me. This is a fine piece of business, surely—the daugh ter of Count Villani holding secret meetings with some common vaga bond. Lenore shall take the veil." "Yes," Icried, "thebridal veil, count. I shall pay my respects in person to day." Then leaving them to get over their astonishment as best they might, I returned to the housi in high spirits. The name, Count Villani, had given me a clue to the whereabouts of Le nore. The dwelling of which I have spoken as situated across the plain and opposite the rock, was the resi dence of Count Villani. I had met the old gentleman in the city and formed a speaking acquaintance with hirp. As neither of us had mentioned our pri vate affairs I had no means of con necting his daughter with my invisi ble yirl. That afternoon I presented myself to the count and after amazing him with my story, which a few tests con vinced him was true, formally pro posed for his daughter's hand. As my wealth and social position were well known he offered 110 objections and his daughter was sent for. As she entered the room I saw that my idea of her had been less than true. I had never seen so lovely a woman nor one who so perfectly em bodied my highest conception of grace and beauty. Her dark eyes, still wet with tears, met mine inquiringly. "Lenore," said I, I have come as I promised." "George," she cried, with a radiant smile, "is it you?" "Are you disappointed?*' I asked. "Am I what you expected?" "You could not be more," she an swered naively, "you are no less." "Now that we meet as solid and ma terial beings," I continued, "are you willing to ratify the contract we made when we were only voices, Lenore? Your father gives us permission." It may be supposed that I received a satisfactory answer, when the good natured count found it discreet to turn away his eyes during my recep tion of it. As to the strange circumstance which was the means of uniting us, a series of tests revealed a remarkable acoustic property in the rock by which persons standing in certain positions with reference to it were able to hear cach other with ease more than a quarter of a mile apart. It is a very matter-of-fact solution of the mys tery, but Lenore and I are none the less grateful for the good offices of the rock. A Thinsr to Keep Clear of. From Hall's Journal of Health. Plieumonia usually begins with a chill, intense and prolonged, generally at night, and followed by a correspond ingly high fever and sharp pains in the sides. The disease is very rapid in its progress, reaching a crisis in from five to six days and sometimes causing death within three days. Usually but one lung is affected and often the disease is confined to a single lobe. A person may have "double pneu monia," or pneumonia of both lungs, and recover from it, but the chances are against him. Whep the disease spreads to all of the lung lobes death is certain, as the patfent can not breathe and dies of suffocation. The diseased lung, at first inflamed, soon becomes hard and leathery and inca pable of performing its natural func tions. A curious fact is that usually no second chill occurs when another lobe is attacked, and there appears to be no relation between the amount of lung affected and the intensity of the symptoms. All physicians agree in saying that the disease is not con tagious, but may be epidemic, and it has been noticed that it is developed under the same conditions as diph theria that is, the conditions which produce diphtheria in the young are apt to cause pneumonia among adults. Without speculating upon these different theories, from what has been said in which all agree, it is plain that anything which lowers the vitality of the system is conducive to the disease and should be carefully avoided. Overwork, either physical or mental, has much to do with it, and this ex plains why so many business men and brain-workers become its victims. Sudden changes of the weather and draughts of all kinds are also to be guarded against. In a word, live temperately, dress warmly, avoiding all manner of imprudences, and you need have no fear of pneumonia. ft was an Auful Mess to be in. Best Man in The Boston Record. The bridegroom had moved worlds, so to speak, to get railway passes for himself and wife almost all the way to California. He was a poor music-store clerk who had had the luck to marry an heiress, and he knew perfectly well he shouldn't have money enough to spend a month in California, as the young lady wished, unless he could get passes out to Ogden. He had a friend who was clerk to a railway director, and the thing was managed. Imagine the situation a half hour before train time, when the poor young man dis covered that he had lost the passes! The bride was getting into her travling dress the carnage which was to take them to the station was at the door. The rooms were full of guests making ready to go home. The agonized fellow searched pocket after pocket in despair. It was lucky that he was almost alone in a dressing-room up-stairs. The few gentlemen who were there putting on their overcoats could not help smiling at seeing his distressed search, al though, of course, they felt very sorry for him. At last, in desperation, he rushed out into the passage, probably with a vague hope of finding a friend to loan him enough money to help him through hisdilemma, and met his bride comingout of her room. "For Heaven's sake, George! what is the matter?" she cried, as soon as she saw his pale face and wild manner. "I've lost the passes!" he answered in a stage like whisper that was'really blood-curdling for misery. She took it all in in an instant, and replied: "Come 011, we'll miss the train. I nave a big check that papa gave me in my 1 ndbag." "Whoop!" exclaimed George and he plunged back into the dressing room. He remembered his own handbag. There were the passes in an inner pocket, where he had placed them for safe-keeping. He came back relieved, but fairly mopping his brow, and he was still a little white around the corners of his mouth as the car riage drove off in a shower of rice. Clandestine Childish Marriages. The frequency of childish marriages at the New Jersey Gretna Green is stirring up the ministry and the people to an evil that must be remedied by law if at all. But there is even a worse state of affairs existing in some of the villages of New England. /There is a village not quite 100 miles* from Boston which contains a minister who is noted for the number of these marriages of minors consummated during his pastorate. Ministers who for the sake of a petty fee will ruth lessly destroy the happiness of two honies by their "no-que3tion-asked" policy ought to be locked up as dangerous members of society. With two children scarcely out of the gram mar school likely to fancy that they love each other, and a minister of this kind within fifteen miles, 110 home is safe from one of these clandes tine marriages, and parents, to pro tect their homes, would do well to do as the father of a "spoony" young son did recently. He filed thecorrect ages of his son and his intended with the town registrars and resident clergy men within a radius of ten miles, and warned them that the marriage would be illegal because the son was a minor. It is a pretty sad state of affairs when parents are forced to descend to such means as these.—Boston Traveller. The pay of a Lieutenant General is $11,000 per annum for the first five years of service 10 per cent, addition al per annum after five years 20 per cent, after ten years 30 per cept. after fifteen years, and 40 per cent, after twenty years. Allowance is made to army officers for quarters and forage. The Lieutenant General beiug allowed forage for four hones and 9100 per month for quarters.