New York dispatch. [volume], June 28, 1885, Image 1

About New York dispatch. [volume] (New York [N.Y.]) 1863-1899

Image provided by: Library of Congress, Washington, DC

                
rHn i m ffiKSfWr hWiwir Y
IK I I I | ■ 81 JI BLJIY.MICT Iwwfetn'B /JUJI ILZJ JJ M J
. zv m® eq ,^ls-'
’ -
W«D BI A. J. WILLIAMSON’S SONS.
—
VOL. XL.—'NO. 37.
Entered at We Post Office at New York,
N. X., as Second Class Matter.
THE NEW WkTdISPATCH,
PUBLISHED AT
NO/11 FRANKFORT STREET.
•' TheYORK ©ISPATCH is a journal of light, agree-
• ; Üble and'News. Oho page is de-
roted*to Masonic ’Matters, and careful attention is given
to Mtsic and the Drama.
The Dispatches sold by all News Agents bf the city and
suburbs, at FIVE CENTS A COPY.
TERMS FOR MAIL SUBSCRIBERS:
SINGLE SUBSCRIPTIONS ..$2 50 a year
- rwo SUBSCRIBERS 400 ••
'■’FIVE SUBSCRIBERS ...9 00 “
ALL MAI,. SUBSCRIPTIONS MUST BE PAID IN AD
VANCE. -POSTAGE PAID EVERYWHERE BY THE
DISPATCE OFFICE.
’ Address NEW YORK DISPATCH,
Post Office Bex No. 1775.
PLAYS ANO PLAYERS.
GOODWIN’S “PALMY DAY” RICHARD.
•■A Few Richards—Sothem’s ‘Wrestle—An
* <terson and Sullivan—The Count Jo
hannes—Collier’s Richmond—An Ine-jfc
briated S word—lrving in One Act—
The Young Man atul the Widow.
BY JOHN CARBOY.
' It is a long time since I 'have had so vivid a re
minder of the acting of the “ Palmy days” era of
the stage than that which was given by Mr. Nat
’ Goodwin at the Academyof Music on Wednesday
afternoon last in his exposition of Richard 111. on
- tho occasion of Collier’s benefit.
I have seen and heard nearly all the famous star
Richards who have come and gone since the days
of Junius Brutus Booth.
I have an impression that the worst of the lot was
that of Barry Sullivan—as a star. It would have
been bad enough had it been the work of a common
crushed tragedian of the stock.
James Anderson who always reminded me of a
man trying to talk with a .tablespoonful of oatmeal
porridge lodged in his oesophagus, played the
character as if it were that of the King of the
Commons afflicted with a mild attack of delirium
tremens.
I can imagine what would have been the wrath
of little Colley Cibber if, with the inevitable snuff
box.in hand, he had, -coming from the green room
of the old Drury Lane Theatre to a stage entrance,
beheld the Richard of his version of the play being
tortured by a Narcisse Bandman. I think he would
have there and then walked upon the stage and
emptied the contents -of the snuff-box into the
Bandmanic eyes.
The late Edward A. Sothern,. long before a trip of
his toe while making his entrance as Lord Dun
dreary at Laura Keene’s Theatre revealed to him
the possibilities of the character which was to bring
, him fame and fortune had an. idea that he was a
• “born tragedian,” and that Othello and Richard
111. were just his fit. He did try on Richard III.—
only once, however. It was about
THE WORST MISFIT
ho over got into. He lost his voice in the third act,
got the text mixed in the fourth act; in the fifth
act—in the tent scene—the couch broke down un
der him, and as he endeavored .to regain his feet
his sword flew from his grasp and its sharp point
entered the toe of a super who was standing close to
the tent curtain. The howl of the super, tho crash
of tho couch and the sudden “ Godelmitcy” excla
mation of the actor settled that’performance.
Horace Wall insists that the nearest .approach to
Sotborn’s Richard 111. •' in the perfection of distor
tion” was that of the late Geocge- the Count Jo
hannes.
Unlike Sothern, Sullivan, Andersen or Bandman’s
—the Richard of the weird Count invariably at
tracted Backed, not to say a hilariously enthusi
astic and demonstrative audience.
When the English alleged Artist-ysuite Englwh
you know—i Warner came over here to play Richard
at tho instance,.of Jarrett and Palmer,, at Niblo’s
Garden and a dire failure, the Count Johannes
succeeded him and —did not fail. He read his lines
with proper emphasis; he was not ungraceful in his
Action and to the .few who came to give Jaim a fair
hearing rather guy him, he plainly showed
that he had a far more accurate understanding of
tihe nature of the character than the jeering -crowd
.gave him credit-for.
He was a wreck,of sejifia to be sure—but there was
.sufficient method in his.madness to indicate what,
fin the days of his sanity, .-he had been.
?I would to-day KLuch-rather sit out his perform
ance of Richard, or even endure the agony of the
Richard of Barry Sullivan,’than undergo a visitation
X)f suoh an awful punishment ,&s Osmund Tearle’s
HamlQt Ebenezer Plympton’s JEdgar, or Mantoll’s
JRomep.
Speaking of Mr. "Jim ° Collier—l remember see
ing blip jaany years ago undertake a collar and
elbow wjes.tle with the part of the truly good and
esteemed I think it was at one of the
©roadway Theatres. In this performance—there
was evidently .& heap of trouble on the -young man’s
mind.
The special trouble was in the obstinacy of his
combat sword in the last act. Do what he might—
try eights, fours, round blows, any cuts or thrusts
that wretched sword would miss striking that of
Richard. Richard pelted away, but only slashed
Hhe air, or came dangerously near prodding Rich
emond in the ribs or whacking his knee joints.
There was no such thing as making those swords
artrike each .other, or particularly of Collier compel
ling his basket Lilted steel to clash with Richard’s.
Unally
RICHARD AND RICHMOND
gave up the effort, grappled and down went the
as per contract, Richmond triumphed and—
It ia hardly necessary to add that it really was not
Richmond's sword which was in fault. The fact
■was, he was fighting about the drunkest Richard
•ever seen by an audience; a Richard so vacuously
■drank that in the combat scone he was flourishing
sind jabbing his weapon at not six, but sixteen Rich*
nwnds in Jhe field. -i*-
k * , Afid that was the first and last time I ever
played Richmond without being able to bring my
sword in contact with'the Richard’s,” said Collier.
Who was the Richard ?
It is little matter now. For, more than a decade
of years ago, he made his final exit from life’s stage.
Of all the old-time Richards I have seen, Calvin J.
Smith, an actor with a defective nose and introspec
tive eye, was the fattest. He could have readily
played Falstaff without padding. His hobby was
Damon and he rode it at the old Chatham Theatre.
When he went West on a brief—very brief—starring
tour, he turned up one night in Syracuse as Rich
ard 111. The Richmond was a little fellow of the
size of Teddy Soloman and a countenance which
was a cross between that of Dog-faced Joe and of
of Sarony, the artist.
When Cal. Smith attempted to howl, he merely
emitted a hoarse, bilious wheeze; his ordinary stage
tones were painfully heavy and suggestive of hav
ing been forced into existence through a wave of
gin.
IN THOSE OLDEN DAYS
no company was without its perennial Richard; no
star’s engagement was perfect unless “Richard
III.” was up for one or two nights in the week.
These Richards were all alike; in dress and busi
ness and make-up they imitated, as nearly as possi
ble, the elder Booth, but in acting—“good Lord de
liver us !”—they were all cast in the same old tie
wig mold, and were guided by the same old dot
and-carry-one strut. They could no more get out
of the Boothian rut than Booth could have got out
of himself.
The thinnest and most ghastly Richard which has
lately visited the glimpses of the footlights was
'that of Henry Irving. Happily it was visible for
one act only.
“ Richard III.” was the play for the pit, •• Ham
let” for the boxes, and “Damon” was the delight of
the gallery gods.
“De boys”—“Johnnie in dor pit and Limsey in
der gallery”—didn’t “know nuffin ’bout ’Ham
let,’ ” but they know “Damon” and “Richard”
line for line by heart, as well as they did the slang
of Winan’s Porgy Joe, Chanfrau’s.Moso or Sey
mour’s Sykosey.
The Bowery, without its boss Richard, in Ham
blin’s time, would have had but a sorry estimate
in the favor of the shilling pit and gallery. The old
Chatham always had one on tap and he could be
turned on at call.
Alas, we have no Richards now springing up on
every stage to rip and tear and snarl and bite and
make things lively for the scene shifters, the prop
fakirs, the supers and the small people of a com
pany.
WITH THE EXCEPTION OF EDWIN BOOTS,
who rarely is seen in it, there remains as its repre
sentative but one among the “ tragedians” who in
cludes the character in his repertoire, and with any
degree of frequency repeats its performance. This
one is Mr. Thomas Keene.
And his Richard, in its grotesque gait, spread of
stride and melo-dramatic glamour; in the tinseled
and spangled glory of its costumes and the bright
ness of its armor and warlike trappings would have
been a'joy forever to the pit and gallery, even as
they are now a wonder and a mystery to the pat
rons of the orchestra stalls and balcony.
I have a pleasant suspicion that Tom Keene came
as near being a low comedian or burlesque actor as
Nat Goodwin did to being a tragedian instead of the
farceur he is.
Keene’s loftiest reaches -of tragic expression—say
in Macbeth or in Richelieu—bring him close, too
close sometimes to that one step which leads from
the sublime to the ridiculous.
When he lets out his voice to a full muffled cal
liope power with baritone trimmings, in the curse
scene of Richelieu, he makes it so plainly apparent
to his audience that he neither feels a word he is
uttering, nor has the least sympathy with the
grandeur of the Cardinal’s character—that not a
spectator in front would be in the least-surprised
if he should drop his fustian and order Joseph to
bring on two beers for himself and the Baradas,
with a sandwich for Julio.
His outburst was not one whit more impressive
than Nat Goodwin’s vocal gymnastics and weird
melo-dramatic rushes 'in his Richard lll.*on this
Wednesday aforesaid.
Nat was terribly in earnest, but when he was the
most serious the audience wore ready with an ex
plosion of laughter.
Keene in tb© very torrent and tempest of the
“curse of Rome speech,” held his audience,'not in
'sympathy, but out of regard for the fustianly
method of his delivery and if during the speech he
had but winked his eye accidentally, crooked his
finger, or made an error in word or gesture—there
would have been a roar of laughter.
But had he impressed his audience with the real
ism of his effort and by manner, voice and gesture
convinced them that he felt and was in full sympa
thy with the language and situation and grandeur
of the character, ithe gravest mistake would have
passed unnoticed.
NAT GOODWIN’S RICHARD 111.
was a gem. It deserves to berr-epeated. In fact I
think as did the majority of those who witnessed
his performance, that if one of these days in the
coming season he should announce his appearance
as Richard—giving the entire play—he would be
gladdened by the presence of audiences limited only
by the holding capacity of the theatre.
I for one am happy in having his Richard to add
to the list of those which in past (time have become
fixtures in my memories.of the stage and its people.
If Goodwin had been upon the stage thirty years
ago and had played—or rather “ gone on" as a star
in the Crookbacked Tyrant-and had impersonated
the part precisely as he did last Wednesday after
noon—omitting the cigarette business An the tent
and the two or three other burlesque interpolations
—he would have taken rank as one of Richard’s
of his time, and have come down to us in the tradi
tions of those dear old “ palmy -days of .the stage,”
as one of “ The great Richards.”
Distance, you know, lends enehantmant to the
v i ew _with interest from date.
In walk, in grimace and faeial contortion, in
make-up and in costume—excepting that he should
-jeavo worn the traditional trunks and russet boots—
jji the guttural speech and in the outlandish twist
of.his sword arm. he was the counterpart the
stook—as well as the average Star Richard—
ALL OF THE OLDEN TIME.
Thera were, as fit accompaniments of this rcfiuijrec-
regulation six forlorn supes with leather
headed spears, representing the army of Richard,
and. the s same number representing the forlorn hosts ;
of Richmond. There were heard the same old
| trumpet calls and flourishes; the same time worn
marches by the orchestra; the same stuffy, snuffy
Lord Stanly, and the same old Catesby looking like
au animated bottle of chow-chow.
There were ( sk) modern improvements to dispel
the illusion that this Richard was one which had
suddenly strutted in upon the Academy stage from
the dusty sepulchre of the palmy days.
The days when Ned Tilton played Baradas to Ed
win Forrest’s Richelieu and Jim Collier in the hey
day of bis youth and fche dawn of his ambition
played Icilius to—well, it may have been Macready
or, later on, to Gus Adams.
With those we like, the question of age is a mat
ter of no moment, excepting when it concerns the|
quality of the whisky which we ” quaff to each
others’ good time coming.”
I sat beside a gentleman—a young man—he is not
one of the students of the Lyceum school, during
this afternoon performance. Before Nat Goodwin had
his tragic inning and opened the ponderous doors
of the sepulchre of the “ palmy-day” era so wide
that their rusty hinges squeaked, this young man
heeded not the business on the stage. His gaze
was fixed upon the back hair and love of a hat of a
young widow who occasionally gave him a shot in
return from her bright and sensuous eyes.
What was Raymond and Olga Brandon in a ” Con
jugal Lesson” to him? Here was metal more at
tractive. "Here was one who knew all about the real
thing—for was she not a young $, •#■
Hej)aid to the that feymond knew
precious little of nis part and that he gagged it un
mercifully—and was duly forgiven by the audience,
who wouldn’t have objected if he hadn’t spoken a
line of the author and had given them instead a pot
pourri of Fresh Col. Sellers and everything else he
had ever played and had wound up with a whole
sale offer to match pennies with General Sheridan,
Vernam or Sheridan Shook who sat up there in the
My young man had his eye on the widow, and I
didn’t blame him. Youth has its graver duties as
well as age. When I pass away I may leave a bloom
ing widow for some young man like him to gaze at
instead of the play.
But when the curtain rolled up on Nat Goodwin,
and when that Richard twisted himself on—with
the expressive Goodwin mouth contorted into the
shape of an old-time porter-house cruller—the
widow was forgotten, and he never turned his eyes
away from the stage.
And, until the cigarette business in the tent, his
face was as serious and his attention as absorbed as
I have seen them when, sitting beside me, ho had
followed Barrett in “Yorick’s Love.”
You must remember that this same young man
turned up his nose with contempt at Barrett’s Rich
ard.
The cigarette “broke him all up,” but the earn
estness of Nat m the closing of the play made him
serious again.
When the schooners of beer were drawn in on the
miniature one super-power truck, he burst out
with:
“What a d—d shame to turn such a performance
into ridicule 1”
The curtain went down, and he went out—with
the widow.
NEwYoRK. SUNDAY. JUNE 28, 1885...
STREET CARS.
The Old-Time Omnibus and Its
Successor.
When New Yorkers Had to
Walk.
The First Stages and the Original
Street Railways.
RAPID TRANSIT SCHEMES.
The completion of the Hon. Jacob Sharp’s Broad
way car line, after a thirty year’s battle on the
part of its projector, leaves but one great thorough
fare in New York which is not, at some portion of
its length, in possession of the street car companies.
How long Fifth avenue will be held sacred remains
to be seen. Considering the already enormous pe
cuniary success of the new Broadway line, it is safe
to assume that it will not be long before the iron
bondage which holds the rest of tho town in thrall
is imposed on our most aristocratic highway too.
It has taken thirty-three years to bring the street
car system of the metropolis to its present perfection,
and there is room for improvement in it still. That
the activity of the speculator will halt as long as
theieis a single path’to profit open to him no onefwho
knows the character of the American speculator
will believe.
THE OLD STAGES.
Previous to 1832 the New Yorker who wanted to
go anywhere in the city had to make the journey in
his own equipage or go afoot. There was a stage
line in the Bowery to Harlem, which was then an
outlying village, embowered in green groves and
fruitful fields. Stages started from Cortlandt street
to Albany, going up Broadway and the Blooming
dale road, and for Boston byway of the Bowery, and
these dropped way passengers at the farms and
country seats where the mansions of our million
aires now rise uptown; but of organized service in
the city itself there was none. New York was, it is
true, much smaller-then than now. Union Square
was in the suburbs and Madison Square the coun
try. Still the want of some inexpensive means of
rapid conveyance was keenly felt by the people and
it resulted in the organization of the old stage
lines, the last of which is now running up Fifth
avenue from Fourteenth street.
The first omnibus line in New York, except the
old Harlem stage lino already alluded to, was one
which was started by William Niblo, the founder of
Niblo’s Garden, fifty-five years ago. Niblo kept the
Bank Coffee House at William and Pine streets, and
a country hotel where the theatre, which bears his
name, now stands. He set up a couple of coaches
to make regular trips between his two places of
business for the convenience of his patrons. Four
years later Niblo gave up his down-town house and
discontinued his stages. Kipp & Brown bought
him out and ran their vehicles between Wall street
and his hotel, where the old-timers and young
bloods drank tea and punch in a shady garden and
ate the best dinners in New York from his kitchen.
They went beyond there, however, carrying their
passengers into the good old Nicth Ward itself, the
termination of their route being in Greenwich Vil
lage, at an old inn where fish dinners and rare roast
beef were famous specialties much in demand by
the free-livers and easy-spenders of the day.
Greenwich Village was a pretty settlement, chiefly
famous for its solid old New York families and its
jail. On the site of the latter a brewery now stands
and part of the old prison wall is incorporated intact
in that of the brewery. Greenwich Prison was a
State institution and served the purpose to which
Sing Sing is devoted. It was built in 1797 and sold
i by the State on the completion of Sieg Sing Prison
thirty years later.
While Sol Kipp was making the fortune on which
he is still living over in Jersey, more than ninety
years old, :hie success inspired active rivalry in his
chosen field. A line was established. on the east
side, running from Wall street through Chatham
street and East Broadway, then an aristocratic
country road, :to the Dry Dock. This line soon
branched out into another, which took its way
through Grand street and the Bowery. In 1835 a
rival line was started byway of the Bowery and
Houston street. There were stage® on Sixth .and
Seventh avenues, too, and cross-town lines as well.
The city’s streets, to quote an old-timer discoursing
on the subject, " were fairly alive with omnibuses,
shooting to and fro, doors banging, drivers shout
ing, horses snorting, and a general turmoil and con
fusion attending all their pro*gness.”
PICTURESQUE POINTS AND PERSONALITIES.
In the early days nearly all the stages were drawn
, by four horses, and passengers entered from the
■ side between the wheels, and not from the rear as
: now. The old vehicles were usually painted in
gaudy colors and the drivers felt a pride in decking
their horses In gay trappings. The fare was origin
ally. £ shilling, but rivalry brought it down to ten
cents, ; z.nd later to six cents.
There was the keenest competition between the
several lines. Each company employed business
agents, knewn as “ cads,” to solicit trade, and these
worthies made the air hideous with their howls.
They were .mor® persistent than the “ pullers in ’
who now stand in front of the mercantile establish
ments in Baxter street. Their doings formed a fea
ture of the burlesq?je theatres of the day. Wash
ington’s centennial birthday, in 1832, was a gala day
in New York, All tfie.fttftges paraded in front of the
City Hall, and they made a gorgeous spectacle in
- line as they vied with each (Other in their decora
tions. Nothing nobler than a four-horse omnibus
was then dreamed of. The east side stages made
the biggest display on that day., and were accorded
the honors.
The stage lines were patronized from shear neces
sity by every person who could not afford to main
tain a private carriage. When Horace Greeley was
a young man he always rode from his office to his
home at Turtle Bay, on the East River, in the stages
of Murphy & Flynn's line, which connected with
the Astoria Ferry. Every evening he could be en
countered at the Tree House, which stood on the
corner of Bowery and Pell street, where the stages
started. Third avenue was then the great trotting
to t!
historic resort kuown uo vae norm Ameri
can Hotel. From this house the stage and sleigh
lines for Albany and Boston started every second
day. The North American was fhen a first-class
hotel, and its boniface, Mr. Reynolds, was known
throughout the country. In the Winter of 1832-33
the sleighs supplanted the stages for ten*successive
weeks.
The success of the stages led to the incorporation
of the New York and Harlem Railroad Company,
for the purpose of constructing a railroad from the
centre of the city to Harlem. The road began at
Prince street, and in 1833 began to be used as far
as Murray Hill. The following year saw it com
pleted to Yorkville. Cars were drawn ,by horses,
ran every half hour on week days, and the fare was
cents. By 1851 the Harlem Railroad had been
extended through to Albany, forming the basis for
the enormous Hudson River corporation of to-day.
THE FIRST STREET CARS.
The first horse car route in this city was the
Fourth avenue one. It was started in 1832. It
was the first horse car line ever constructed,
and was not imitated until 1852, when the Sixth
avenue line was opened. The Third avenue
line began on July 3, 1853. The enormous vol
ume of travel up the Bowery and the growth of
the city in an outward direction on the East side
had made the old stages a princely property.
The success of the Harlem road in hauling heavy
railroad cars by horse-power through the city sug
gested the opportunity for lighter cars, operated
with greater convenience and at less expense. The
result was the construction of the first street rail
road. Like the present Broadway line, the Third
Avenue began making a fortune from the start,
though not as rapidly. One after another other
corporations were formed. By the time the war
broke out tho public of New York was so well pro-
sm’lws snir guhjjnhnt.
vided with the means of traveling to and fro on f
wheels at a moderate charge, that it wondered
heartily how it had ever been able to do without
them.
As soon as the street-car was introduced in New -
York invention went to work to improve it. It was
reduced in size and weight, set on lower wheels,
and its seating capacity was made greater as weil.
Altogether, however, with all its improvements, the
street-car remained a crude and imperfect invention
until after the war.
Since then the New York street-car has become the
model for the world. There is scarcely a quarter of
the globe where it is not known. You find it in the
cities of Europe, great and small, in the sun
scorched streets of our tropical cities, and among
the snowy thoroughfares of Canada and Russia.
Most of the street-cars in use the world over are,
indeed, built in this city. The house which devotes
itself exclusively to their manufacture has its work
shops here, and ships to all points of the compass,
at homo and abroad. It has large sums invested in
patented improvements, including the step up and
pay your own fare;” every man his own conductor
“jigger.” It is a noteworthy fact, by the way, that
no “jiggers” are ever built for use outside of the
United States. Even the slaves of Brazil rise in riot
when a rich corporation demands that they shall
become its servants for the precious privilege of
making it rich.
THE ELEVATED ROADS.
Rapid transit was a natural outgrowth of im
proved transit. As far back as 1860 there were pro
jects afoot for the creation of elevated and under
ground roads on which the speed of the horse cars
was to be discounted. The Greenwich street ele
vated road was chartered in 1871, but sold out un
der a mortgage foreclosure the year, its pa
tent being purchased by the New York Elevated
Railroad Company, which completed its organiza
tion in 1872. The New York completed the line
from the Battery to Central Park in 1876. It had a
rival in the Gilbert Elevated Railroad Company, the
scheme of a doctor of that name. Each of these
companies had a right to run a road from the Bat
tery to Harlem on both sides of the city. The New
York chose Greenwich street. Ninth and Eighth
avenues and Third avenue; the Gilbert selected
Sixth and Second avenues. The impossibility of
operating these roads independently of each other,
by reason of their crossings, conflicting terminal
necessities, and other natural result's of the entan
glements of their routes, led to their consolidation
and one of the most scandalous stock watering
swindles ever perpetrated even in this city of gi
gantic financial infamies and licensed robberies in
the name of speculation.
In spite of the colossal debt, made out of paper
but on which they have to pay interest regularly in
cash, the elevated roads have proved a complete
and magnificently profitable success. This fact has
led to a revival of an old project to run a tunnel
road under Broadway. A company was organized
for this purpose years ago, and actually cut a tun
nel from Park Place and Broadway into the City
Hall park, some three hundred yards. This tunnel
was abandoned and for a long time served the pur
pose of a shooting gallery. A year or two ago the
old project began to crop up again, and since then
a company has been organized and desperate efforts
made to secure the franchise. Thus far they have
been unsuccessful, but it would not be safe to wa
ger very heavily on their ultimate failure, all things
considered. Tho Arcade it stands, is the
hugest of all the rapid transit -schemes thus far
proposed. If it could be carried out as its projectors
propose, it would undoubtedly enjoy a triumph in
the commercial sense commensurate with the
grandoise character of its pretentions and demands.
PUNISHING PARENTS.
CHILDREN THAT HAVE TO OBEY
THEM, YET VIOLATE THE LAW.
At 9 o’clock in the morning Officer Young saw the
daughter of Schulem Margulis, a child, peddling
matches. He arrested her, and subsequently the
father, who had several children working.
The court fined him $25.
At the same hour the officer arrested the son of
Michael Hech, a boy aged twelve, peddling maches.
The father admitted sending the boy out; he said
he was no worse than his neighbors at No. 44 Essex
street. In the police court the father said his boy
was twelve, at trial he said he was fifteen. Ho
swore that he did not know anything about his boy
peddling.
He was fined $25.
PICKING UP CIGAR STUMPS.
Giovanni Bucci was arrested by Officer Barlando
.on Fourth avenue at 5 o’clock in the afternoon.
Bucci’s boy, aged eight, was ahead of him ten feet
pickjng up the etumps of cigars. He pointed the
stumps out to the boy who collected them. The
officer followed the two from Fourteenth to Twen
ty-third streets.
The accused presented a certificate of good char
acter from day and Sunday-schools of his boy. Ho
said he was on his way to Central Park with his boy
when arrested. The boy only picked up the stumps
in a playful manner.
Fined $25.
THE CAPTAIN OF A CANAL BOAT.
Four children, aged fourteen, twelve, nine and
seven, brothers and sisters, were arrested on Fourth
avenue begging, by Officer Stocking. He saw them
receive money. Their father, the prisoner, George
Heath, was captain of a canal boat. The father was
subsequently arrested at the dock where his boat
lay.
“Did the father say anything when arrested?”
asked the court.
“I asked if he had any children. He said ‘Yes,
sir.’ I asked where they were. He said ‘ out exer
cising themselves, walking around.’ I asked if they
were in the habit of bogging, he said * the boy was,
not the others.’ ”
The boy, aged twelve, had lost a leg.
The defendant said he was captain of a canal boat.
His wife and family lived aboard. He arrived last
Thursday from Phillipsburg with a cargo of coal
on canal boat No. 481, via the Morris Canal. He
never was arrested in his life. Had eleven children
out of fourteen, and always provided for his fam
ily. Saturday he gave his children a holiday, but
not to beg. He had known of the boy asking pen
nies, and often whipped him. After tho boy lost
his leg, the people spoiled him by giving him pen
nies. ■ • r
The oldest girl was called up and examined. §he
sobbed and cried,
‘‘HoW long uhve you been begging on the street ?”
asked Justice Smith.
“Only one day,” she replied. “We were going to
take the money home to mother. Father didn’t
know of it. Mother sent us out.”
The accused was discharged, but told to exercise
more care over his children in future.
CARELESS OF HIS CHILDREN.
Officer Wilson found two children, aged six and
eight, at half-past eight, sitting amid some broken
chairs and on a filthy mattress in the street, and a
heavy rain coming down on them. Neither father
nor mother could be found. The father, Charles
O’Neil, was afterward found in a liquor saloon, not
quite sober. He admitted to him (Wilson) having
recently received S7O from Mr. Chapman, but had
been dispossessed on Monday and left the children
on the street in charge of a sister. The sister at ten
o’clock at night, brought the children to the office
of the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Chil
dren, and they were cared for. Next day a home
was given them by Justice Welde. The prisoner,
the officer understood, was partner in a manufac
tory, and drew SIOO on the Monday before the ar
rest. When found, the children were filthy and
starving,
William Chapman, of No. 11l Broome street, said
the prisoner owned some shares in his manufactur
ing company. That week he drew out $77.
“He drinks a good deal?” remarked Justice
Smith.
“ No more than others,” replied Mr. Chapman.
“I understood he had a good deal of trouble with
his wife. I know he has had sufficient money to
provide for his family.”
Mrs. Blackburn, the housekeeper, said she did
not think prisoner cared much for his Children.
The month they-lived there they annoyed the whole
neighborhood. The : Cirildren were kept Pin a verv
filthy condition.
Prisoner said he gave his wife $9 td'pay' the rent
and $5 for herself. The rest-he spent. Always
gave his wife money when ehd-wan ted it, and pro
vided for the children. The wife, when she got the
money, left homeland children and went to a
friend’s house and g'ot drunk.
He did the same.
The Court found him guilty and sent him to the
Penitentiary for-one month.
THE SHATTERED MIRROR. t
A Cleverly Planned Robbery i
of Jewels. J
THE PARTY IN BLACK. <
The Valet’s Thoughtless Statement About ’
the Blood Mastiffs.
How the Gems Owned by Mme. Gretry
Were Recovered.
On July 7, 1869, there was a family gathering at
the residence of Monsieur Gretry, on the Boulevard
St. Germain. Monsieur Gretry’s father had died a
fortnight before at the great age of ninety-eight,
and had left an immense fortune. He had left ex
press instructions that certain relatives, distantly
related, should be provided for, and his children
and grandchildren had met, with some old friends
of the family, to arrange for the carrying out of the
dead man’s wishes.
In the rear of the parlor in which they were as
sembled was a magnificent salon. The walls were
adorned with costly mirrors, one in the centre, op
posite the grand entrance, having cost many thou
sand francs and being esteemed the most valuable
ornament of its kind in Paris. Suddenly there was
the report of a pistol, followed by a crash in the
salon. The party arose in alerm and proceeded to the
salon. Gas jets were lighted, and it was discovered
that the magnificent mirror already referred to was
shattered.
A GENTLEMAN IN BLACK.
Simultaneously with the crash, a gentleman in
black, with a Summer overcoat over his arm, ap
peared at the glass doors of the mansion, and was
admitted by a servant in waiting.
“ I am afraid I am late, Jacques,” he said.
•• No, monsieur,” was the reply. "They had just
assembled and were in conversation, when an acci
dent happened in the salon which has attracted
them all.”
•‘Ah, what was that?" the gentleman said; and
then, without waiting for an answer, added: "See,
I have soiled my hand getting out of the carriage.
I will step up stairs to the lavatory and wash it,
and will return instantly."
With that he placed bis bat and coat on the hall
table and ascended the stairs. The servant joined
the throng who were examining the shattered glass
in the salon.
Soon afterward Charles Gretry, a son of Mons.
Gretry, quitted the house, and on reaching the pcr
i ter’s lodge, informed the concierge of the occur
j rence and said that he was going to give informa-
L tion to the police.
I *• A gentleman has already departed for that pur
pose, monsieur,” said the concierge.
"Ah I” exclaimed Charles, " who is it?"
I "I didn’t recognize him,” was the reply. "He
was a gentleman of about forty, in black, carrying
3 an overcoat over his arm."
i "I cannot think who it can be," Charles said,
j "At all events, my going also, will do no harm."
3 He departed, and returned with three officers of
- the detective force. They examined the salon and
s the shattered glass and soon ascertained that a pis
-3 tol shot had been fired from the outside, and that it
r had passed through the plate-glass window and
a crossing the salon diagonally, had struck the mir
i ror almost in the centre. Examination of the
3 grounds around the dwelling disclosed no clow to
. the perpetrator of the outrage.
THE MISSING DIAMONDS.
Next morning one of the detectives, named Per
r clet, returned to the mansion. His arrival was
opportune, for Monsieur Gretry and his family were
in a state of great excitement. Madame Gretry’s
j jewel case, containing gems valued at three hun
; dred thousand francs, was missing. When Perclet
3 had listened to the story he asked:
" When was it last seen ?’*
•• We are in mourning and wear no jewelry at
f present," Madame Gretry said, " but I make it my
business to see that the case and its contents are
1 safe in my escritoire when preparing for dinner
: every evening. Last evening everything was safe
■ when I descended to dinner. I locked the escri
i toire and placed the key in a secure place. The
next morning, immediately after baeakfast, on go
ing to my escritoire I found it had been forced
and the jewels removed.
Perclet examined the escritoire, made a careful
, scrutiny of the grounds in the rear and at the side
of the dwelling and departed. With the concierge
he had a prolonged conversation and learned among
other things the incident of the gentleman in
black with the overcoat, who had passed out saying
he was going to notify the police of the occurrence
which had just startled Monsieur Gretry and his
relatives.
Perclet returned to the dwelling and inquired for
the servant whose duty it was the night before to
admit visitors. Jacques presented himself and in
answer to questions related how he had admitted a
gentleman in black with an overcoat on his arm,
who presented himself at the door just at the mo
ment of the crash in the salon.
•• He knew my name," said Jacques, " and I sup
posed he was a member of the family, and when he
proposed to go to the lavatory and wash his hands,
I supposed it was all right.
A CLEVER STROKE OF BUSINESS.
" That is the man,” said the detective, " and the
person who fired the shot was his accomplice. I
see the whole thing and a very clever stroke of
business it was.”
Neither Jacques nor the concierge could give any
accurate description of the man. They agreed that
he was about forty, medium-sized, with dark hair,
clean shaved, and a quick and exact movement.
Beyond that the officer could get no light.
" The gems by this time,” he said to himself,
" will probably be removed and the settings melted
up, unless tne thieves have some means of dispos
ing of such magnificent ornaments without destroy
iiijf their identity. I have beeij in the business
twenty years and never knew but one instance
where the jewelry was preserved intact, and that led
to detection,”
AN IMPORTANT QUESTION.
As he mused, a thought suddenly struck him.
How had the man who fired the shot got into the
grounds? Strange that he should never have
thought of that before I Ho went to Mons. Gretry’s
and once more examined the ground. They were
not extensive. On the side opposite to that on
which the shot was fired there was a very high wall
covered with foliage, which certainly had not been
disturbed. The rear Wall, equally as high, was sur
mounted by an impassable chevaux de frise. On the
other side the wall for one half the length was as high
as the others, and also topped with iron spikes. The
other half, reaching from the centre to the front,
was about one-half as high to admit the boughs of
some fine dwarf oaks growing in the neighboring
groonds to expand. These grounds belonged to the
dwelling of the Marquis de Suinne. He went there
and requested permission to examine the grounds
and the walls. .The marquis was just recovering
from sickness and could not be seen. His daughter,
Madame Bradier, and her husband, who dwelt with
the marquis, had that morning started for England
on their way to America.
" Monsieur Moyet,” said the concierge, " who is
the valet of the marquis, may see you, and you had
better ask for him." *
Perclet did so, and was confronted by a well
dressed, gentlemanly man of about forty, who in
stantly granted the favor sought, and accompan
ied Perclet through the grounds. The detective
saw that it was a comparatively easy thing for a
nimble man to ascend the wall on one side, and de
scend on the other, and then return. But tow
could the man enter the premises ? They were
even more carefully protected from intruders than
Mons. Gretry’s. The family of the marquis had
heard nothing of the robbery, and Monsieur Mayet
expressed unbounded astonishment when Perclet
informed him of the fact.
OFFICE, NO. 11 FRANKFORT ST.
TWO BLOOD MASTIFFS.
"It is almost impossible lor any one to have en
tered our grounds without our knowledge," said
Mayet; "as you see yourself, there is no way to get •;
in; and moreover every night at dusk two blood
mastiffs are let loose in the grounds and would in- r .
evitably attack any intruder.”
Perclet departed. If it was as Mayet said, then [
either some one connected with the household of
Mons. Gretry, or some one connected with the ,
household of the marquis, whom the dogs know,
must have fired Every person connected ,
with the former was put to a rigid examination,
but the exact place and occupation of {each at the (
time the shot was fired was fixed beyond question.
MONS. MAYET.
"It is a mystery," said Perclet to Mons. Gretry;
"for Mayet, the marquis’s valet, says that at the
time of the shooting two blood mastiffs were loose
in the marquis’s grounds, and that no stranger could
have entered without being torn to pieces.
"Mayet is a trustworthy .person,” said Mons.
Gretry; "he was in my employ for several years
before he went as valet to the marquis. We were
always very intimate with the marquis and his
family, and, when ho became an invalid, it was at
my suggestion that he .employed Mayet.
Perclet was lost in thought. Who was Bradier,
the husband of the daughter of the marquis? He
knew he was a broker, supposed to be wealthy, that
was all. He spent an hour with the chief of police
and then went home and rested. The same even
ing he visited the chief once more.
"My agents,” said the chief, "have discovered
that yesterday and the day before Bradier hypoth
ecated stocks and bonds worth three millions and a
half for five hundred thousand francs to a Jewish
firm of notorious usurers. What do you make of
that ?”
"I will see you later, monsieur,” said Perclet,
and departed.
LIGHT.
In a few minutes he was at the Gretry mansion.
"You say, Monsieur Gretry,” he said to that gen
tleman, "that your family and the marquis’s fami
ly were on intimate terms?"
"Certainly we were,” was the reply.
" When did any of them visit you last ?”
" The day before the robbery Madame Bradier
was here.”
"Did she tell you that she and her husband were
to start the next day—to-day—for England and
America ?”
"Certainly not. Did they do so?"
"They did. Now, with your permission, I must
see Jacques once more."
JACQUES.
Perclet bowed himself out of Monsieur Gretry’s
study and sought Jacques.
" The man in black, with the overcoat over his
arm, Jacques, did he remind you of any one ever
employed in this house ?” he asked.
Jacques was lost in thought. No, ho couldn’t say
that he did.
" Do you often see Mayet ?” he asked, slowly.
Jacques opened his eyes and put his hand to his
* mouth as one lost in astonishment.
"{Wei]," he said, "itis most surprising, but now
you mention the name, the man was just as I could
{ imagine Mayet would be if he was dressed in the
j style of a real gentleman."
"That’s enough,” said Perclet, and cautioning
j. Jacques to be silent, he departed.
j In an hour’s time he was on his way to Calais,
and the next day reached London. He made in-
3 quiries, and found that a gentleman and lady, evi
-5 dently French, had reached London at a certain
hour the previous evening and gone to a West End
hotel. He went to Mivart’s at a venture, and the
first person he saw there was Monsieur Bradier,
■ whom he knew well by sight.
3 "Who is that gentleman?” he said to an attend
-3 ant; "ascertain forme and I will give you a sov
s ereign."
In two minutes the attendant passed Perclet and
t said in a low tone:
" Monsieur Malher, from Alsace.”
FACE TO FACE.
' Perclet watched his opportunity and followed
Mons. Bradier, alias Malher, up stairs to the door of
his apartment. As he opened it and passed in, Per
clet followed and said:
1 " Monsieur Bradier, of Paris, lam Perclet, of the
Secret Service Bureau. I desire to see you and
1 Madame Bradier together.”
Bradier’s jaw fell and he trembled.
" Can this be settled ?" he asked.
"It can,” was the reply. "Hand me the jewel
case with all its contents, immediately, and I will
depart, and none shall be the wiser."
He made as if to enter a connecting room.
"Excuse me,” said the detective, "I can’t let
you go out of my sight. Call madame in here.”
Ho did so. As she entered and saw a stranger,
her face grew ghastly.
" Bring the casket, Julie,” her husband said.
"Stay," said the officer, "we will all go to
gether."
Without a word further, they entered the adjoin
ing room and Madame Bradier delivered the stolen
casket.
"Everything here?” the officer asked, examining
the contents. "Now, then, answer me. You, Mon
sieur Bradier, fired the shot and Mayet, who’knew
where it was kept, stole the casket, eh ? What was
his reward ?"
"You are right,” said Bradier, "he received
5,000 francs.”
"And you are off with the 500,000 francs to
America? Well, my instructions are to get the
casket and let you go. I wish you a pleasant voy
age.”
He quitted the room, but instead of leaving the
hotel, entered a parlor and watched. Presently
Bradier came down stairs and went to the telegraph.
" I thought so,” said Perclet to himself; "by the
time I reach Paris, Mayet will be flown. Well, that
may be another good job for me. I have earned my
10,000 francs and am satisfied.”
Rough on Rounders.
A LESSON TO STREET ROUGHS THAT WILL BE
REMEMBERED.
James Reynolds, Charles Fleming and James
Howe were before Justice Welde, charged with dis
orderly conduct.
Patrick Quin, residing at No. 234 West Thirty
third street, said a gang of loafers were in the habit
of congregating in that vicinity. They would get
cans of beer, go on the roof, drink, dance and ca
rouse, demolish chimnies, and throw the bricks
down on the heads of passers-by on the street. A
decent person could not pass through the street
without being insulted or assaulted. He did not
recognize Howe, but the other two were regular
street nuisances.
Officer McCormich, who made the arrest, said he
did not recognize Howe as belonging to the gang,
but he was with them. The other two loafers
he know well one of them got six months recently
and was out the nextday. Sometimes there were as
many as twenty-five in the gang. The two prison
ers were regular loafers; they never worked.
Howe was discharged, but the other two were
sent to the workhouse for six months each in de
fault oi SI,OOO bail for their good behavior.
Defacing Library Books.
A HEAVY SENTENCE IMPOSED.
John Fallon, a fairly-dressed young man, who
was an occasional visitor at the Astor Library, was
suspected of mutilating the books, and on the 23d
Inst, a watch was set on him. On the day in ques
tion he asked for the Scientific American, which,
with the supplement, was examined and found per
fect. When returned it was mutilated. He was
arrested out on the street, broke away, and was
again arrested.
No reason could be assigned for the malicious
mischief, unless by bringing some of the assistant 1
librarians into disgrace he might get them dis
charged and step into the position. All he said in 1
defense was that nobody had seen him mutilate the i
books.
He was convicted and sent to the Penitentiary for
three months. <
PRICE FIVE CENTS.
CAGED.
BY B. L. R. DANE.
The slanting sunbeams creep between the bars
All blackly lying sharp athwart the gold
That fades before the coming of the stars,
And low, dim moon ashine across the world.
The lisping, ebbing waters slip from land
To surge and thunder in the flowing tide,
And lash again the gray and patient sand;
" Alas!" she saith—" how sweet the world outside /”•
The moon and stars wheel down the vault of heavefljh
And sink into the deep abysmal sea
That rings the world; and when the dark is riven.
The great, fair winds come up across the loa
With wild wet feet. She hears the
wings
Of sea birds clanging out on pinions wide —
Beneath her eaves a swallow sits and sings—
" Alas!" she saith—•• how sweet the world outside >’• J
In the white dawn she beats against her cage
With wrathful lips and passion-broken cries?
Or sullen sits in silent hopeless rage,
Staring against the sun with sombre eyes
That know no more a hope or pallid fear;
A deep despair doth make them dark and wido.
And baffled as the eyes of death-struck seer.
" Alas!" she saith—‘•how sweet the worll outside I’ 9
Oh, most high gods! Why mock a patient soul ?
And in her eyes, her weak tears to deride,
Blow smoke from all your incense altars cnrlod ?
" Alas!" she saith—•• how sweet the world outside l >9
dramatic Sto.
lweletoied.
BY A POPULAR AUTHOR.
CHAPTER 111.
“an orphan and an heiress.”
“There must be no more trifling, Harry; either
you make up your mind to marry Geraldine at
an early date, or I wash my hands of you and
your debts. The estate is. heavily burdened
enough already—it will bear no more. Reside,
it is not fair to Percy.”
Sir Ralph Braithwaite spoke without temper;
perhaps he remembered his own youthful pec
cadillos too well to visit the sins of tbisßhis
younger and best-loved son too heavily upon
him.
“ Oh, Percy knows how to take care of him
self 1” the young man said, with an impatient
shrug of his shoulders. “Andi must say it ia
a little hard on me, at my age, to expect me to
settle down into a Benedik. One naturally de
’ sires to see a little of life while one is blessed
r with youth and freedom.”
“ I think you have seen a little of life, as yon
, call it,” the old baronet replied, laying hia
hand significantly on a pile of unpaid bills that
the escritoire beside him.
! | Vf . ... , wr-- %
I “ Well, one can’t live 6n iM air,” Harry de-
• dared, irritably, following his father’s glance.
• “ And it costs something to keep up the family
dignity if one is in a crack regiment and be-
’ longs to an ancient family like ours.”
s This was a sop in the pan, for Captain Braith
waite knew his father’s pride of race was a
weak point with him; but the old gentleman
. was not io bo thus mollified. ■;
“Ah, urn! What is this?” he questioned,•
turning up a blue document from amid tho
I heap beside him; then, after reading aloud a
list of expensive wines that had been supplied
to his son, he added dryly, “ That does not
look much like living on air, does it ? You want
; mo to settle with your creditors. I tell you I
'■ cannot afford to do so; but I will stretch a
1 point to oblige you—conditionally. It is a sim
ple question for you to decide.”
Harry fidgeted uneasily. In his mind’s eye
at that moment was a graceful little figure in a,
crimson kilted petticoat, with soft lustrous eyes
that sought his own in perfect trust. For a.
minute his good angel predominated, for a.
minute he bitterly regretted his selfish con
duct, and would fain have undone the work of
the last few weeks. It had been tho maddest
folly, and he had never intended to seriously
engage the girl’s affections—as for marriage,
such an idea as that between himself and Dolly
Jarvis was too ridiculous to bo entertained I
Yet those hours passed in the company of tho
village belle had not been without their charm.
Was it his fault, if, carried away by the excite
ment of the moment, he had spoken words
which should never have passed his lips, if his
manner to her had been such as to mislead
her ? Well, well, it was over now; he supposed
ho must marry Geraldine, since his peoplo
would have it so, and Dolly would wed one irx
her own station of life—Joe Smith perhaps. 18
would bo best so, an easy solution of all his dif
ficulties, and yet, with strange inconsistency, ha
bit his lip at the thought.
“ Well ?” queried Sir Ralph, who had been
patiently watching his son as he went through
this mental struggle, knowing full well how it
would end, how it must end.
“ I suppose I have no choice in the matter,
sir,” the captain said, a little sulkily.
“ I’m glad you’ve sufficient sense left to sea
it in that light,” Sir Ralph rejoined, taking cara
to suppress all signs of the satisfaction he felt
at his son’s decision, which he knew would on
ly gall the young man. “ Geraldine is warm
hearted and true to the back-bone, and, with
her money, she might do much better than wed
a graceless ne’er-do-well.”
“ Thank you I” Harry cried, rising hastily.
“Don’t try mo too much, father. I have con
sented to make the bargain you desire. You
pay my debts, and I marry my cousin, thero
the matter ends.”
“ Not quite,” Sir Ralph returned, still good
humoredly. “ While we are about it, we may
as well fix the wedding-day.”
“ Oh, hang it all, I’ll leave that to you !” tho
captain cried, dismayed at the other’s prompti
tude, and chafing to end the interview.
“This is August,” announced Sir Ralph
calmly; “ suppose we fix the first of February
for your marriage—that is, if Geraldine is
agreeable and does not consider it too soon af
ter my brother-in-law’s death ?”
Harry groaned, but made no audible reply.
“ It is settled then,” his father went on com
posedly. “ You had better speak to your cousin
at once.”
As Captain Braithwaite left his father’s pres
ence ho encountered the subject of their late
conversation, ready equipped for riding.
“ Oh, Harry,” exclaimed the girl, with a little
pout of the ripe red lips, “ I’ve been waiting for
you at least five minutes.”
“ What a sad trial of patience, ma cousine!"
he rejoined gaily.
Since it had to be done, he would put his fate
to the test without further delay, he decided, as
he swung Geraldine into the saddle, and then
himself mounted the chestnut cob the groom
was holding for him. Not that he had much
doubt as to what Miss Mainwarings answer
would be when he put the momentous question
to her, he thought, a little ruefully. Her pref
erence for him had been sufficiently n»arke«l,
and until lately Harry had proved himself ono
of the most devoted of the heiress’s worship-