The Madisonian. (Virginia City, Mont.) 1873-1915, 1895-09-14

l sighed, wishing that l knew how to
put all end to it myself, and then l ask
ed:
"And did your friend descend from
the general to the particular and tell
you how it could be done?"
HE did. He told us all to open a
speculative account in Louisvilles.
"Louisvilles? That is the name of an
American railroad, I believer"
"It is. And opening speculative ac-
count means buying the shares without
being able to pay for them, selling them
at a profit and putting the difference in
your pocket. Simple, isn't it,"
Very simple" l said. 1.-The merest
child's play, provided that the shares
go up"
ooh, they went up all right, and so
did the others that l bought afterward.
I've never lost q shilling through fol-
lowing Morrison Parker's tips. l can't
complain of that"
And yet you call Che man your evil
genius?'
"Yes. I still call the man my evil
genius because I lost my soul through
him-my soul as an artist, that was 50
much to me"
I started. I could not understand.
But, with an impetuous Impotence,
Everard Deane fastened to make clear
his meaning.
"You call yourself an artist, and you
do not understand? Do you imagine that
an artist can NEEDLE with these sordid
a~ctualities and not find his soul defled
by them? Do you. suppose that he will
sit down quietly to toll for doubtful
gains indefinitely deferred, when he
knows that a sudden turn of the market
may put hundreds in his pocket? No,
no, my friend, it is not possible. What
does he do? Why, he buys every edition
OF the evening paper to see the prices.
He runs into his club to watch the tape.
He drives up to the city in working
hours to ask his broker whether he ought
not to sell. That is how it was in my
case. That is how it must be in every
case. My balance at the bank was grow
ing, but while it grew my soul-my
artists soul, in which I gloried so-was
dying, crushed out of it's bright exist
once by the dead weight of material
cares. And so things went until I stood,
as it were, at the parting of the ways
and swore that I would make my
choice
"Your choice?
"My choice between the artistic and
the material life. I meant to make it
dramatically too. There was still enough
Of the artist left in me- for that. It was
at midnight, in my chambers in the
Temple. I took the manuscript of my
half finished NOVELETTE, novel that was
to make me famous-from the desk and
a heap of share certificates, and transfer
forms and contract notes. Between the
two piles there stood a lighted candle.
One of them was to be burned to ashes in
it's f1ame-one of them, and at this SOL
emn hour I was to determine which,
and, by determining, decide the whole
course of my future life"
He paused. I had to press him before
he would proceed.
"And then you burned
Neither "a his unexpected an
swer. "Neither, for l could not decide.
My novel went back into the drawer it
anne from, to wait there till the old
joy in the higher life came back to me.
And that joy never came. Even to this
hour it has not come. l look back to the
old days. I long for them. But l know
quite we'll that they will not return tc
:, me. The greed for gain, its ceaseless
:. worries and anxieties, has killed my
soul, and that is why I tell you that
, am a failure"
There was a melancholy, at once IL
, credible and convincing, in his accents
Unless there were a woman in the case
+ I would not have believed it possibl,
$ for a MAI so we'll to do to look so mis-
, cradle. I sought to say something tina
; might lift him out Of his dependency.
! Failure or no failure, at least yo1
i. can go to Monte Carlo in the winter"
suggested.
81 know. I'm going next week witt
:. Morrison Parker" Everard Deane re
@ piled.
7 And then he shook his head slowl
!. and shrugged his shoulders gloomily, a
a though to say that the joy of sojournin
y on the Riviera while we were toiling i
f the fogs was nothing to the price tina
he had had to pay for it.
q And as l drove home that night t
T Whitcomb street I tried to persuade my
q self that he was right. Francis Crib
in New Budget.
Freckles.
j.. Women who have suffered year afte