New York dispatch. [volume], November 15, 1885, Image 1

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

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VOL. XLI.--NO. 5.
Entered at tlie Post Office at New York,
N. Y., as Second Class Matter.
THE NENV YORK DISPATCH,
PUBLISHED AT
NO. 11 FRANKFORT STREET.
The NEW YORK DISPATCH is a journal of light, agree
able and sparkling Literature and News. One page is de
voted to Masonic Matters, and careful attention is given
to Music and the Drama.
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Address NEW YORK
Post Office Box No.
playslnTplayers.
ABBEY’S NERVE.
A Manager’s Gliost—The Sleepless Man
ager-Abbey’s Operatic Season—
Sclioeffell and Dun!ap—Trou
bles ot a First Night-
How it is Done, Etc.
BY JOHN CARBOY.
I ha Vo about come to the conclusion that there
are a few managers in this locality who never sleep,
never sit down, seldom eat, can always drink —
something—and who seem to be continually night
■and day haunted and worried by the ghost of an
unfinished task.
There is Abbey, for instance. Is he not haunted
foy this ghost? You meet him here, there, every
where; always on the move, always with his head
lip as if the ghost were curbing him with a chock
rein; always with that hard expression of-cheer
■fulness, which men wear as a facial make-up to
conceal the presence of a troubled mind.
On Wednesday morning early I met him passing
‘through the Molt on House Cafe. Behind him
trbtted Marcus Mayer—at his side was John B.
Scboeffel, his partner. The make-up expression was
on his face; the ghost was in his mind.
The unfinished task was the arrangement of the
heavy and complicated sots for the production of
“ Romeo and Juliet ” at the Star.
Mayer had also his little ghost on wheels, which
made him look like a man who had swallowed a
dose of henbane and epsom salts, and didn’t know
which of the ingredients had got the best of him.
Mayer’s ghost was in this instance the extraordi
nary and inexplicable “ mix” he had made in the
distribution of the first-night press seats.
Scboeffel had a tired expression creeping out
from beneath his mustache, but there were no
signs of the presence of the ghost in his action.
Probably he had left it over at the Grand Opera
House, or “ wired ” it to the Park, in Boston. But
to Abbey—and
ABBEY’S GHOST.
For four days and four nights had tho thirty or
forty stage hands and the dozen extra men in tho
flies been struggling, pulling, lifting, shoving, drag
ging and perspiring to get the great heavy and
cumbersome English scenic settings of “Romeo
and Juliet ” in proper order for the opening night.
The first performance was to have been on Mon
day evening; the ghost of the unfinished task post
poned it until Tuesday, and again to Wednesday.§
“Haven’t had an hour’s sleep in three nights.
Don’t expect to have one for three nights more.”
I believed him. Since my first acquaintance with
him—and that was when he became the lesseo and
manager of the Park Theatre, in Broadway, I have
never heard of his sleeping anywhere. He finds rest
and recuperation from mental and physical exhaus
tion—how ?
The conundrum is easily answered.
From his indomitable Nervo.
It enables him to make rest and sleep his slaves
who keep their distance. It forces him on, on, 00,
to the end—a managerial Salathiel to whom neither
financial disaster, disappointment, delays, pros
perity, or good lortune can bring pause or quiet.
It was this Nerve which sustained him in his tre
, mendous wrestle, single-handed, with Italian opera
In that one disastrous season at the Metropolitan
Opera House.
He couldn’t speak Italian, but his Nerve proved a
most excellent interpreter. Did the soprano asso
luta or tho contralto object to singing according to
contract, in consequence of having eaten too hearty
a breakfast at noon time, and back up her declina
tion with a doctor’s certificate —Abbey’s Nervo made
never a plea to her and never an apology to his
audience.
Said the Abbey Nerve: “You sing or you get no
salary. Heavy breakfasts, indigestion, hoarseness
and doctors’ certificates may work all right with
Mapleson down there at the Academy. The direct
ors are used to it. What I want—is your presence
and your voice upon my stage.”
ABBEY HAD THE NERVE
to give Italian opera with a magnificence of scenic
settings, of appointments and. costumes, at a cost
which more than doubled that attending any pre
vious lyric enterprise in this country.
He had the Nerve to gather upon the vast stage of
the Metropolitan the greatest of, the artistesand
. artists of Europe,.with Nilsson at their head, and
with a weekly salary list large enough to make the
, capital of a bank.
To use the phrase of an esteemed contemporary
, of the daily press, “He gave Italian opera for all
t it was worth.” >
Abbey discovered that -it was worth nothing in
: the way of profit. x
Worth, in fact, precisely what it had been to all
. who had preceded him in the production of Italian
opera in this city.
Excepting to Mapleson. %
To Mapleson failure is a ; mere bagatelle. Italian
opera is worth more-to him : than, it is to the stock
holders of the Academy. iTheir loss is his gain.
And.his gain has nothing to do with the artistes,
the choristers, or, in fact, anybody but himself and
his immediate personal comforts.
Mapleson sleeps o’ nights; ho is not haunted by
the ghost of an Unfinished Task. Cheefk never is
■disturbed by such trifles as broken promises,
change of bill, failure and the clamor of creditors.
There is a vast difference between Chgek and
.Nerve.
Cheek is .the capital of the .charlatan ; Nerve is tho
attribute of the hero.
Heroes are made in the employments of,peace as
.well as in the smoko and caamage of the battle*
There is .as much nerve i.u boldly meeting
bankruptcy as there is in facing a battery of can
non.
Cheek devotes itcelf to small achievements. Nerve
(fhas a wider a nobler ambition, and an
jhonesty Gf purpose. It is never obtruoi.ve. Abbey
essentially
A MATERIALISATION OF NERVE.
jge had the Nerve to.becomo the manager of the
Theatre after it had gone to seed in th© keep
ing i&i William Stuart and Chandos Fulton.
Everybody predicted failure.
Stuart had lailfei in its conduct so utterly that
toward the last the poor mag was reduced to .the
necessity,of eating twi'dollar dinners—ten dollars
being about the average nighty receipts—while
Fulton’s only sustenance was hU personal beauty
and an occasional cocktaiL
Abbey’s Nerve took the theatre; Abbey's Nerve
feeid it against allcomers. Y«u see A&Uey was not
jb sleeper even then.
Heart’s management was melted td in
Oak, y /fall’s “Crucible.”
“Crucible” also, very happily for the
public, molted Oakey from the stags as drama
tist azjd aetor.
It required something more than a bad play and
an age-stiffened ex-Mayor to get Abbey and his Nerve
out of this theatre.
When on tho eve of Langtry’s debut in this coun
try the theatre was burned up, out, and down, the
Abbey Nerve merely changed base and braced up,
as if the fire had been only that of a match light
ing his cigar, and possessed himself of Wallack’s
stage and gave the Jersey Lily her Innings.
From the Park to the Grand Opera House, from
the latter to the Metropolitan, then to the Lyceum
in London. From bis engagements of Edwin
Booth, the Langtry, Bernhardt, of Patti in concerts
to th© Nilsson and Henry Irving, his firm Nerve
had never trembled, nor has it permitted him to be
loquacious. He may be interviewed by the space-*
stuffers, but they do all the talking, they ask the
questions and imagine his answers.
And the answers thus far which they have re
corded in print have been about as far from any
thing he would sny, were he to speak, or from be
ing indicative of what he really intended doing, as
the apocalypse is from a comic song-book in the
matter of humor.
Nerve is too entirely’ occupied in facing and over
coming difficulties, to planning for the future, tak
ing care of the present, avoiding repetition of the
mistakes of the past, to waste its strength in words.
John B. Scboeffel, his partner and the acting man
ager of the Grand Opora House here and the Park in
Boston, is one of the restless sort who are the mate
rialization of Nerve.
But Scboeffel admits that he does sometimes in
dulge in thio luxury of sleep.
I remember in the dark December days, when
the Italian Opera business, to all appearances, was
getting the best of tho Abbey Nervo,
SCHOEFFEL AND ROBERT DUNLAP
■v^ere —like tho jolly good friends that they are—con
tinually together, alternating between the Grand
Opera House and the Metropolitan, each prodding
the other to keep him awake.
And they succeeded, and were a comfort and a joy
to Abbey.
Now, in the present instance Scboeffel is side by
side with the Abbey Nerve —in the Anderson strug
gle.
“ I do sleep once in a while,” said Scboeffel.
“ Where ?”
“ Well, you recollect General Pope announced
that his headquarters were in the saddle. For the
past three days of the “ Romeo and Juliet” cam
paign my headquarters have been in my shoos.
And there’s where I have slept.”
Whenever Abbey’s lieutenant, Gains Marcus
Mayer, feels, after the manner of Bottom, “an ex
position for sleep,” ho swallows a dose of cathartic
pills, or some other similar medicinal stimulant—
and thereafter bedecks himself with a new neck
scarf. And is wide awake.
He is in thia regard totally unlike the polished
and placid Matthews, who is a member of the Abbey
Cabinet, Wbfin Matthews dawns upon me with his
irreproachable toilet and his bland sadness of ex
pression, his presence suggests the idea that he is
some other man looking for somebody else.
I notice however that with all the members of
the Abbey Cabinet Nerve predominates.
It is barely possible that Abbey may on rare oc
casions go through the empty formality of betaking
himself to. bed, and once extended upon it he may
close his eyes.
But his Nerve is wide awake—and the haunting
ghost of an unfinished task is still hovering near
him.
He can go through the motions of sleep—physi
cally.
Ho may with all the unction ho chooses repeat
Sancho Panza’s utterance —“ God bless the man who
invented sleep.” But
HE WON’T SLUMBER.
He will never rest mentally until he has finished his
task—and that will bo when ho has crossed the
dark river and joined the great majority.
And let me say hero for a fact, men of Abbey’s
nature have no time for dying. They are too busy.
Their Nerve is never troubled by the cholera any
more than it is weakened by a financial frost.
They are never shipwrecked; they move right on
defying alike the dangers of railway collisions, and
losses bv fire or flood; through illness, discourage
ment as through prosperity and success, they go
forward, with their heads held high by the curb bit
and rein of Nerve, unto the eud.
They never know when they are beaten. They
take the defeats which come to them as you take a
handful of cents thrust at you in change; you
don’t want them, and. “kiek” s ~but you take them,
all the samo.
Were I told that Abbey had really been caught
napping, or, still worse, found fast asleep in his
bed, or oven in a chair, I would begin to think his
Nerve was giving way; that it no longer held him
up to his work.
I would think, too, that at last the ghost which
since boyhood had haunted him was about to be
laid, that th© end was near, and the task almost
completed.
I don’t believe, however, that the Nerve will give
way, or that the Ghost will relieve him of its haunt
ing presence until there are no more stars—lyric
and dramatic—in Europe or America for him to
capture.
He has already brought us the best of them—but
I fancy when be has closed with Mary Anderson,
and has once again given us Sarah Bernhardt, he
will have yet another—English, French, Italian or
German —with whom to brighten our-stage, and to
prove that the Nerve is still strong in its purpose.
But I do not think even his hitherto indomitable
Nerve could withstand another struggle with Ital
ian opera.
SHORT WORK.
WHAT IS SEEN IN THE SPECIAL
SESSIONS.
George Spence, aged eighteen, pleaded guilty to
assaulting his father. He said that was nothing.
He had been on the Island twice for assault. The
court gave him three months.
After him came a boy of seventeen, who pleaded
guilty to stealing a loaf of bread at six o'clock in
the morning. He said he was hungry, The court
gave him three months. He will be hungry again
when discharged, and will again steal and again be
arrested.
John O’Donnell got home on election night drunk,
and gave his sister-in-law, Mary Power, two black
eyes, because she would not concede that it was all
in the family. He got six months, but the brother,
if a man, should have hoisted him out of the win
dow.
John McCauley, aged seventeen, pleaded guilty to
larceny. He had been three times in the House of
Reluge for theft, he should have been kept
till he was twenty-one. Too old to send to the Ref
uge, he naw went to the Penitentiary for six months.
John Fritz, a lad seventeen years of age, took the
shutters Gii Mrs. Berne’s window to make a bonfire
to demonstrate his fealty to Tammany Halt He
was fined fiwe doilars.
Ambrose Hughes, of No. 425 East Eighteenth
street, who bad given his wife two black eyes, said
. it was only medicine he gave her. She told him to
go out of the house and never come in again. He
was a good foe nothing,
“You have been Rare three times,” laid the
court. “ What was ithe last charge ?”
‘Nothing.”
“The time before?”
“Nothing.”
“ Do you drink ?”
“,i haven't been drunk in ten years.”
“ Why—why,” said the wo,man, “he once gave
biinselX up and had himself sent, up for nine
mon the I”
“Did he serve it?”
“No, not much. When he couldn’t get rum and
tobacco and was sobered, he got himself dis
charged.”
“Two.m?r.<hs,” said the court.
Benjajniu Davidson was charged with assaulting,
Elmira Schenck. She desired to withdraw the com
plaint she had made, if he would promise never to
come near jiqf molest her. Was he a relative ? No.
Had he been living with her? Yes: he boarded
with her. as husband? Yes. She supported him?
A.ter some hesitation she said. “No,”
•“He struck you, kicked you, and knocked you
down, and you want io forgive him ?'*
“ Yes, sir.”
“Ife has done it before ?”
“Yea, sir.”
j “Step around and sign your withdrawal and pay
NEW YORK, SUNDAY, NOVEMBER 15, 1885.
WALL STREETS IW6S.
Three of the Monarchs who Ruled
before Jay Gould was Reared.
JACOB LITTLE, THE GREAT BEAR.
A Real Napoleon of Speculative
Romance.
UNCLE S>RH\¥.
The Miser Millionaire Whom Re
ligion Made Generous.
COMMODORE VANDERBILT’S BUGGY.
A Narrow Escape that Did Not Please Him,
It is a common trait of human nature that the
dead are soon forgotten. In the hurry and whirl
of such a commerce as is carried on in Wall street
this is more completely the case than elsewhere.
How thoroughly a great man on tho street can ‘be
forgotten once he drops out of it was illustrated a
few weeks back. A magazine published an article
on the Stock Exchange, and in the list of its illus
trations included a portrait of Jacob Little, which
was copied, indeed, from one that hangs in the
Exchange. The morning the magazine appeared
the brokers were all asking themselves who the
duse Jacob Little was. Yet ho was one of the great
mon of the street—one of the greatest, in fact. To
him more than any one else do we owe tho dashing
and desperate system of stock speculation now so
common, and by which fortunes are won and lost
in a day.
THE GREAT BEAR.
Jacob Little came to this city in 1817, from New
buryport, Mass., where he was born. He worked
as a clerk for Jacob Barker, a big local merchant,
for five years. Then he opened a basement office in
Wall street. Here, for twelve years, he worked
from dawn till dark. After dark he worked till
midnight, traveling around town buying up Stat©
bank-notes which wore at a discount, and sending
them out to be cashed in specie. He made hun
dreds of useful acquaintances in this way, and built
up a business in which he had tho greatest bankers
all over the country for correspondents.
Twelve years of this put him at the head of the
street. He made and lost enormous fortunes—al
ways as a bear. He was as big a man on the street
as Jay Gould is now, and was far better liked.
When capitalists regarded railroads with distrust,
he comprehended the profit to be derived from
their construction, took them up and rolled up an
immense lortune as a Railway King. He was the
first to discover when the business was overdone,
and immediately changed his course. At this time
Erie was a favorite stock and was selling at par.
Little contracted to sell a large amount of this
stock, to be delivered at a future day. Wall street
formed a combination, took all the contracts he
offered, bought up all the new stock, and placed
everything out of Little’s reach, making it impossi
ble for him to carry out his contracts. His ruin
seemed inevitable, a© his rivals had both his con.
tract and theatock. Little kept his own secrets;
he asked no advice, solicited no accommodation.
The morning dawned when the stock must be de
livered, or the Great Bear of Wall street break. He
came down to his office that morning self-reliant
and calm as usual. He said nothing about his busi
ness or his prospects. At one o’clock he entered the
office ot the Erie company. He presented certain
certificates of indebtedness which had been issued
by the corporation, exchangeable for stock. That
stock he demanded and got, met his contract, floored
the conspirators, and triumphed.
DEVOTION AND SPECULATION.
The great bear was a character. He was a six
footer, as haughty as a king, good-hearted and
proud of the reputation of never breaking his word
or repudiating a contract. He was a devout mem
ber of the Episcopal church and a liberal giver to
its contribution plate. For more than a quarter of
a century his office in the old Exchange building
was the centre of daring, gigantic speculations.
On ’change his tread was that of a king. He could
sway and disturb the street when he pleased, but
he was as proud of his Bible class as of his colossal
victories in the great gaming hell which made him
famous.
Wall street, which made him. ruined him too.
Three times he became bankrupt, and what was
then regarded as a colossal fortune was in each in
stance swept away. In each failure he recovered’
and paid his contracts in full. It was a common re
mark among capitalists that “Jacob Littles sus
pended papers were better than the checks of most
men.”
Finally the Civil War cleaned him out for good.
He died a poor man. Shortly before his death, while
walking with a friend through Union Square, then
the abode <Jf our wealthiest people he glanced at
the rows of elegant houses, and remarked:
“ I have lost money enough to-day to buy this
whole square, Yes,” he added, “ and half the peo
ple in it.”
When he died he was not possessed of a shaving
of the regal winnings of his great game of chance.
He believed, eve«i on his death-bed, that he could
have retrieved his broken fortunes had he been able
to get back on the street again.
UNCLE DAN’L DREW.
Another very similar character to Jacob Little was
Uncle Dan’l Drew. He too was a devotee by inspi
ration and a gambler by trade. Uncle Dan’l was
born at Carmel, up in Putnam county. He was a
farm boy, and came to New York in 1812 to seek his
fortune. He enlisted as a substitute and went to
the war. Then he became a drover. In 1829 he
came to New York for good, and set up the Drovers
exchange in the Bull’s Head Tavern, up Third ave
nue. He built up an immense business, and in 1834
went into steamboating in opposition to Commo
dore Vanderbilt. He started with a little boat
named the “Cinderella,” purchased for a trifle.
Vanderbilt looked with jealousy on his advent in the
steamboat business.
“You have no business in this trade,” said the
commodore. “You don’t understand it, and you
can’t succeed.”
“ Let her go, William,” replied Uncle Dan’l; “ I’m
young enough to learn, if I ain’t too dumb.”
In 1838 the Hudson River Line, with fine boats,
and at three dollars to Albany, monopolized travel.
Uncle Dan’l ran his opposition to the old line, at
one dollar fare. A compromise was effected, and
the old price restored. In 1840 he formed a partner
ship with the steamship king, Isaac Newton. The
floating palace “Isaac Newton” became a night
boat through the suggestion of Mr. Drew, and
the People’s Line became a success. The “ New
World ” followed, and the hiitory of the line is well
known since. When the “Dean Richmond” was
lost, Uncle Dan’l paid the full $200,000 damages in
curred by old shippers without a groan. Yet he
was mean enough to sc an penny before he spent
it.
The Hudson River Railroad was opened in 1852.
Boorman, the president, told Uncle Dan’l that on
the opening of the road to Albany his steamboats
would go under. Uncle Dan’l carried passengers
for a dollar. The fare on the road was three. The
president urged him to put his fare up to two dol
lars.
“Our company makes money enough at one,”
said he. “You can regulate the fare in one way.
Buy out the People’s Line, if you have money
enough.”
UNCLE DAN’L ON WALL STREET.
In 1836 Uncle Dan’l appeared in Wall street. For
eleven years his firm, including Robinson and Kel
ley, were very celebrated. He was a rapid, bold and
eucc-essful operator. His connection with the Erie
railroad, guaranteeing the paper of that company to
the amount of a million and a half of dollars, sho w
ed the magnitude of his transactions. In 1857, as
treasurer of the company, his own paper, endorsed
by Vanderbilt to the amount of a million and a
t half of dollar*, .saved the Erie from bankruptcy,
art Inhprtent
During that year, amid almost universal commer
cial disaster. Uncle Dan’l’s losses were immense,
but he never flinched, met his paper promptly, and
said that during all the crisis he had not lost one
hour’s sleep. In connection with his old foe, Com
modore Vanderbilt, he relieved the Harlem road
from its floating debt of over half a million dollars,
and aided in placing it in a prosperous condition.
Ilis battle with Jim Fisk for possession of Erie is
historic. But Uncle Dan’l went down as he came
up, and died a poor man.
He was a curious combination of the miser in
business and the prince of devotees. Religion was
his crana. He was a devout member of the Meth
odist Church, attended promptly and punctually to
all his duties, was a member of his class, and vis
ited the class-meetings regularly, and was present
at the devotional meetings of the church, where he
spoke and prayed with great acceptance. He gave
huge sums to h's faith, but nevor whefi he was
asked for them. Once, at a meeting of the trustees
of his church, the question came up about finishing
a mission chapel. One of the trustees said:
“We expect a generous sum from Brother Drew.
Brother Drew, I put it to your conscience. Don’t
you see your way clear to give us ten thousand dol
lars ?”
“No I dont,” replied Uncle Dan’l, and he got up
and went out in great indignation at having been
solicited. “ When I want to give I give,” he
grumbled, “and it’s time enough to wait till then.”
COMMODORE VANDERBILT.
Commodore Vanderbilt is not as completely for.
gotten on the street as Jacob Little or Dan’l Drew;
but most of the brokers of the present day would
not know his picture if they saw it. He probably
would not bo remembered even by name were it
not for the existence of his son and grandsons.
Jacob Little left no family and Uncle Dan’l’s sons
and daughters vanished into obscurity when he
died. But tho millions the old Commodore heaped
up have served to create a throne for his descend
ants and shed a golden gleam upon his name to
keep it from being lost.
How many of the boys nowadays can recall the
old Commodore, erect as a warrior, with his hair
white enough to have been powdered, and his fine,
old-fashioned get-up, driving down Broadway in
his buggy with his white-footed trotter that no
money could buy? The Commodore was as fond
of horseflesh as his son is. He.built a magnificent
stable behind his Washington Square mansion and
took a spin every afternoon on the road, He was a
wild and fearless driver. It is told how he once in
vited a friend to ride with him. He proposed to
cross the Harlem Railroad. The express train was
in sight. In spite of remonstrance, he gave the
well-known word and his steeds started with the
fleetness of deers. The wheels had scarcely left the
track when whiz went the locomotive by as on the
wings of the wind, lifting the hats of Vanderbilt
and his friend by the current which it created.
“There is not another man in New York that
could do that 1” the Commodore said, calmly.
“ And you will never do it again with me in your
wagon his friend replied, with a good deal less
san<7 froid.
Wail street has some big men of the present, but
in the romantic interest of their careers and in the
developments of their personal characters they do
not compare with these great men of the past.
They are mere money-making machines. They
have no time to think of being men.
THE SCARLET LETTER.
HOW THERE MIGHT BE MUSIC
MABE IN THE AIR.
West Twenty-seventh street has got a bad name,
but it is not beyond hope to bring it back to a
respectable character.
If the citizens will only go for th© landlords, as
well as the girls and the madames, success will
crown their efforts.
It is all fudge to fine the girls—the madame pays
it, and they get in her debt so deep after that they
dare not leave the bouse, or they would be arrested
for larceny for leaving with the clothes on them.
L’he madame owns the girl, soul and body, and the
clothes on her back. She is a helpless, degraded
white slave.
The madame herself is also in fetters to a higher
power. Sent officially once by the Police Commis
sioners to take the testimony of these girls, to break
a certain police captain, when assured that they
would be protected, certain madames said they paid
as high as SSO a month not to be interfered with.
The girls said for the right to cruise on the street
they paid $lO a month and some $5.
If it were now as it was then, and the women are
to be believed, fortunes can be made in a very few
years.
The Citizens’ Committee and the police are not in
earnest to make the Twenty-ninth Precinct what it
should be—respectable. Why not go for the land
lords, or the agents of the landlords. Thus the
code reads:
“ * * or who, as agent or owner, lets a building,
knowing that it is .in tended to be used for any pur
pose specified in this section, or who p&rmits a build
ing, or portion of a building, to be so used, is guilty
of a misdemeanor.’’’
The landlord agent, under the law, is as liable
to be for letting to the madame as the
madame herself her girls, and be sent to the
Island.
Now, why not go to the root of the evil ? Why
not prosecute these men, who let their places at
extortionate renta| which they well know the honest
and the virtuous fcannot pay ?
It is a farce to try the subject when the king can
be reached.
Wednesday a week ago, Simms, a poor colored
wretch, was tried in the Special Sessions, charged
with violating the Excise law at the house of bad
repute, No. 125 West Twenty-seventh street.
He pleaded guilty and was remanded.
Citieen Jumelin said he went in the place and
called tor a bottle of beer, got it, paid for it, and
irank it. Was he (the prisone/) proprietor of the
place? No. Where was the proprietor ? He didn’t
know. Who was she ? Her name was on the calen
der,Virginia Bolden. She was charged with keeping
a disorderly house.
The court ordered the colored man to stand aside,
and Virginia was cited to appear to answer the
charge of keeping a disorderly house.
She was on bail and did not answer. The court
looked at the paper and said she had not been prop
erly notified, and the case went over to Friday.
Again the citizens who had prosecuted were pres
ent, but Virginia did not answer to her name, and
again the case went over.
On Tuesday the case of Virginia was again called,
the citizens were all on hand, but Virginia did not
answer and the bond was forfeited.
Now, this may strike the citizens who are trying
to get a clean street, without police aid, as anything
but funny, to dance attendance again and again at
court to no purpose.
But just let these gentlemen read that section of
the code, given above, and go for the landlords, and
they will do themselves and the community some
substantial good.
Go for the landlord or his agent, and then, won’t
there be music in the air—of the Twenty-ninth Pre
cinct.
Working the Rule Both Ways.—
The effort to make a servant girl's college in Chicago
a success, says the Chicago Tribune, is certainly a
commendable one and has the best wishes of all.
On the other hand, would not a college for mistress
es be an excellent thing? The manufacturer who
puts bad goods on the market would be laughed at
were he to explain that it was because his em
ployees had failed to do their work well. It is his
business to know how to get good work from them,
and if he fails he gets no sympathy, nor does he de.
serve any. Why should not the same rule apply to
mistresses, whose business it is to, in one sense,
manuiacture the food their husbands eat ? Why
should the wife’s excuse of inefficient help be ac
cepted any more than would be the man’s were ho
to plead the same reason for failing to supply her
with the necessaries and luxuries of life ? What
mistress will admit that she has anything to learn
in the management of servants ? These remarks, of
course, are brutal, but this is a brutal world,
MRS. BREWER’S LODGER.
The Murder of the Peddler from
Leeds.
Circumstantial Evidence Pointing to Two
Brothers.
The Lost Cap and the Explana
tion.
Wtiat John Ainsworth in
tile Cottage.
At the beginning of this century, Halifax, now a
thriving town of England, was a small village lying
along a hillside. The neighborhood was wild and
the inhabitants were notoriously ignorant. At the
west end of the village stood a large square house,
occupied by Richard Waters and his family.
Waters was a mason by trade and had the lease of a
quarry in the hills beyond what is now known as
Bridgehouses. His sons George and John were idle,
worthless fellows, working when it suited their
fancy, which was very seldom.
Waters’s house stood in a close or field entered
from the road by a gate. To the left of the house
was the residence of the vicar of the parish and to
the right a small cottage occupied by a Mrs. Brewer.
At regular intervals one Macdonald used to come
from Leeds and travel through the neighborhood
with a pack, selling such articles of apparel as the
people were likely to need. It was his custom to
stay at the house of Mrs. Brewer for one or two
nights on his route and the Waters family and others
were his regular customers. He reached Mrs.
Brewer’s, according to her statement, on the even
ing of October 7, 1802, and having placed his pack
in the room where he usually slept and eaten his
supper, he went out for a stroll to the village inn,
Mrs. Brewer having promised, as she said, to lock
the door inside and place the key on the ledge of
the back window, so that if he was late be might
open the door and let himself in without disturbing
her.
MISSING.
In the middle of the night Mrs. Brewer averred
that she haard a noise, and supposed that it was
Macdonald returning home. The moon was shining
very bright, and Mrs. Brewer, after lying awake for
some time, arose and closed the shutters. As she
did so, according to her account, her eye caught
sight of two men crossing from her cottage to
Waters’s house, and she thought she recognized
them as George and John Waters. She went back
to bed, and did not awake until broad daylight.
She hurried up, thinking the peddler would be
waiting for his breakfast, and, having lighted the
fire, went to his room to arouse him. Her knocks
were not heeded, and so, opening the door, she
entered. He was not there, and the bed was undis
turbed. His pack, however, had been opened, and
much of its contents was scattered around. As
hour after hour passed, and the peddler did not
appear, Mrs. Brewer, as her deposition set forth,
grew anxious and then alarmed. Night returned,
and no sign of her lodger. Morning dawned, and
be was still absent. So three or four days passed
away. Then* Brewer went to the vicar's house
and told him her story. The vicar, by name Ains
worth, went to the cottage with the woman, and
saw the contents of the pack scattered around.
"It looks like theft,” he said; "and pray God
there be not murder.”
With that he began to move the goods, and pres
ently it was apparent that there was blood upon the
floor, and that the goods had been purposely cast
loose around to cover it up. This blood seemed to
come from a closet in the room, and the worst fears
of Mr. Ainsworth were aroused. Having removed
the pack, which lay against the closet door, the door
opened of itself and disclosed the body of the mur
dered peddler, his throat cut from ear to ear.
CIRCUMSTANTIAL EVIDENCE.
At the coroner’s inquest it appeared that Macdon
ald had quitted the Woolsack Inn at eleven o’clock
on the night of October 7, and started in the direc
tion of the cottage. It appeared further that he
was seen to stop and talk with the Waters brothers,
and that then all three of them went into an ale
house kept by one Leader, from which they de
parted in company at about a quarter to twelve.
Mrs. Brewer soon after this, as she stated, saw the
Waters brothers crossing from her cottage to the
fence close by their dwelling.
The young men had gone on September 8 to the
quarry up by Kirkburton. Constables went after
them and arrested them. They seemed to be the
subject of general surprise, and, though they ad
mitted having met the peddler and gone to the
very door of the cottage with him, they sullenly
averred that beyond that they knew nothing. The
Waters residence was searched and in a hovel or
shanty in the rear of the jdose were found a silver
watch, a pair, of silver shoe buckles, and several
other articles which, it was shown, were in the
peddler’s pack when he left Delph to go to Halifax.
Apart from this, it was proved that both John
and George Waters had spent money freely at the
inn at Kirkburton. They explained this by saying
that they sold on September 8 a quantity of stone
without their father’s knowledge, and used the
money, a fact which one Gregg corroborated,
though he was such a drunkard that it was very
hard to get any one to believe him. Upon all these
facts it seemed as though the two young men
would suffer for the crime of murder, for they were
duly convicted and left to be tried at the Spring as
sizes.
JOHN BOTTOMLEY.
In the meantime Waters, the elder, had taken very
little interest in the circumstances narrated. It so
happened, however, that both his sons being in
jail, and his only daughter with her grandmother at
Huddersfield, Waters felt lonely, and so, strolling
one evening listlessly along, he happened upon an
old resident named Philip Entwistle. The two men
had been companions as lads and up to within
twenty years, when Philip became a Methodist and
changed his habits and associates.
On this night Philip, knowing Waters’s troubles,
stopped and spoke, and finally invited him to go
to meeting. Waters went, and from that time be
came a changed man. One of the first things he
did was to set about aiding his sons, and for that
purpose he sent for old John Bottomley, a constable
of Leeds, who at that time had become famous for
discovering and hunting up criminals.
Bottomley and Mrs. Brewer had a long talk to
gether, and Mrs. Brewer related, as she said, all
she knew both before and after the crime. Bottom
ley was very anxious to know just how everything
was in the room when she entered it with Parson
Ainsworth and what was done. She lay back in a
rocking-chair and called to mind everything ; how
the vicar lifted this thing and the other, and how
at last the blood was seen, and how the cloths and
calicoes stuck to it as the parson pulled them away ;
and how, right by the side of the bed, something
lay upon the ground which she picked up and laid
upon the bed, remarking that
IT WAS A CAP,
which certainly, she said, was like nothing that the
peddler ever wore.
" Where is that cap ?” asked Bottomley.
"Ah, I can’t tell you that,” was the answer ; "it
vanished from the bed, for when I was leaving the
room I turned around to look for the cap and it was
gone, I said, ‘Parson, where’s the cap I picked up
and placed upon the bed?’ and he said, ‘What
cap?’ I said, ‘The cap I found upon the floor. It
may tell us who killed my lodger.’ ‘That is very
proper,’the parson said, ‘and sol put it in my
pocket.’ When I spoke to him about it at the in
quest, he said, ‘Hush ! I have lost it, and if it be
known I shall be blamed for being so careless ?’ So
I said nothing of it until I tell you now.”
Bottomley looked steadily at Mrs, Brewer for
some moments. Then he asked:
"What kind of a cap was it, Mrs. Brewer.
"It was a fur cap, with ear flaps, which were tied
up over the top,” she answered.
Before two days were over Bottomley had discov-
OFFICE, NO. 11 FRANKFORT ST.
ered the only man who had ever worn such a cap
in that neighborhood was the son of Parson Ains-.
worth, a wild scamp, who had recently been ex
pelled from Queen’s College, Oxford, for evil pranks
and practices. This peemed to throw a light on the
disappearance of the cap from the bed.
THE OWNER OF THE CAP.
Bottomley went straight to the parson and asked
for the cap.
"I was waiting for this,” he said; "now we must
get at the truth.”
Then he stood at the door of his study and called
out:
"John Ainsworth, come hither, and bring the cap
with thee.”
Presently a robust, pleasant-faced young man ap
peared, bearing in his hand a fur cap, such as that
described by Mrs. Brewer.
"This is my son, sir,” said the parson, "and
this, John, is Constable Bottomley, of Leeds, the
thief-catcher, andHbe wants to know how this cap,
which is in thy hand, came to be in the possession
of Mistress Brewer on the night of the peddler’s
murder ?”
"On that night,” was the reply, "about eight
o’clock, Mistress Brewer came to the vicarage to
borrow a small cheese press. I carried the press
across the close for her and set it down in the back
passage of the cottage. I carried the press on my
shoulder, and, in doing so, knocked off an old fur
cap which I picked up in the hall and wore for the
nonce. I said nothing at the time about the loss,
but tho next day went to look for it, when Mistress
Brewer said she had seen no such article around.”
“ When I saw the cap upon the bed,” said Parson
Ainsworth, " I recognized it as my son’s and judged
it best to remove it lest there should be trouble, for
my son had gone into Wharfdale to visit a friend
and would not be back fora few days; so I kept still
waiting for his seturn and the explanation.”
IN THE ROOM.
"It seems to me,” said John Bottomley, " that
Mrs. Brewer knows more about the death of the
peddler than she cares to tell.”
" I will tell something for her,” said John Ains
worth; " lor it seems to me that I am in a fairway
to get my neck into a noose, if I keep silent. The
day after I lost my cap, I went, as I have already
said, to look for it. I walked around the cottage to
the front door and so into the passage. Going to
the rear, I saw a door open and heard a person
moving. I looked in and saw Mrs. Brewer examin
ing sundry pieces of cloth on the bed, which one
after another she cast upon the floor. 1 said noth
ing, but departed silently. Then I came up whist
ling to the front door with much clamor, and she
came out to speak with me.”
" What room was she in when you saw her ex
amining the cloths ?” asked Bottomley.
" The rear room on the right hand side as you
enter,” was the answer.
" The room occupied by the peddler. Young
man, you are a very important witness and must
not be out of the way.”
Mrs. Brewer was arrested and finally convicted of
the murder of the peddler. When she found the
evidence was overwhelming, she made a confes
sion, admitting that she killed the peddler when he
came home pretty drunk, and that she took all his
money and much of his smaller wares. When she
found the fur cap, the idea struck her of putting it
in the room with the murdered man, as likely at all
events to throw suspicion away from herself, if it
did not fix it on young Ainsworth. George and
John Waters were discharged, and in due time Mrs.
Brewer paid the penalty of her crime.
t fen
SADDLING RESPONSIBILITY.
THE KEEPERS OF CRIME CREAM
ERIES ANO THEIR BARKEEP
ERS ARE THEMSELVES
CRIMINALS.
Antonio Brieco, an Italian, was charged with be
ing the ostensible proprietor of a liquor saloon and
a dance hall, an adjunct, at No. 240 Spring street. It
was the resort of girls, minors, who danced with
young boys and men up in years. The dancing
was free, but at the close of a quadrille, or what
ever it might be called, the man dancing with a
girl was expected to take his partner up to the bar
and treating himself treat the girl or child to what
she asked for, liquors, soft or hard.
It was only one of the many half-way road houses
in the city in which children without homes, or
living in barracks, are apt to be induced to while
away an hour outside of an uncomfortable home.
There was a separate entrance to the dance hall,
through an alley, without going through the bar
room to it.
An attempt was made to show that the girls came
in the place without defendant s knowledge. That
was disproved. Tho girls danced in defendant’s
presence. Defendant’s wife was behind the bar.
Edward Becker, an officer of the Soeioty for the
Prevention of Cruelty to Children, said he went in
the place on the 7th inst., at half-past one in the
morning. His friend Stocking, of the same society,
was outside. He (witness) took a drink at the bar
and went in the dance hall, and danced with tho
girls. He took his partners (minors) up to the bar,
as was the custom of the place, and treated them.
They drank liquor. The orchestra consisted oft wo
bones and an accordeon. Ho was there half an hou r
Defendant was there acting as proprietor.
Defendant through the interpreter said he de
sired to state that he was but a servant to the pro
prietor of the place; he only earned $9 a week as
such. As for the bar, another person attended to
it, and all the affairs of the placo.
Officer Perkins said ho had been on that post
several months, but knew nothing of the place till
five weeks ago. The entrance to the dance hall
was through an alley. Five weeks ago the mother
of a girl requested him to take her girl out of there
—aged fourteen years. He went in to get her, but
she got out the other way. Four days ago another
mother came to him on post, and asked him to get
her daughter out of the place. He had seen men
and children go into the dance house.
Defendent said they had a dance every Saturday
night, and girls came in to enjoy the fun. He was
only bartender, and in the old country held a very
responsible position.
Officer Stocking said he visited the place on
several occasions, and saw the frequenters come out
of the alley intoxicated. A hard crowd of young
fellows went there and floated between the dance
hall and the bar-room. Saturday night bar and
dance halls were crowded with young girls.
Defendent was found guilty and fined $250.
a fighting’woman.
THE CHILD GOES TO THE ISLAND
WITH HER.
James Quinn’s eyes looked like the moon under a
full eclipse. Just a shade of white circled under
them. Margaret McCann, the mother of five babies
at home, and one in her arms, was the cause of it
all. The two lived at No. 548 West Forty-third
street, He ought to have photographed his phiz
but on second thought he thought best to let the
court look on the original. He described the blows
that Mary gave with something like * * *
as quick as the click on a telegraph machine.
" Did you strike this woman ?” the Court asked
him.
"No, sir; I hung out the window to escape from
her.”
" What did you do to this woman ?”
" I’ll tell you.” After a pause, " Nothing.”
She took the stand.
" How did this man come to get these black
eyes?”
"That’s shust vat I’d like to know,” said the
woman.
" Oh you know something?” said the Court.
" Veil, he vas in the door an’ the door slam agin’
him, so much as I know.”
" Have you any children.”
" Yah, Yacob has got five.”
" Guilty,” said the Court. "What do you know
about this woman, officer ?”
“ She was arrested before for a similar assault
and got ten days. On another occasion she got ten
days lor assault. She is on bail now for assault.”
•‘ Six months,” said the Court, Her child went
to the Island with her.
PRICE FIVE CENTS
PASSE D.
Beneath an Indian palm a girl
Of other blood reposes;
Her cheek is clear and pale as pearl
Amid that wild of roses.
Beside a Northern pine a boy
Is leaning fancy bound,
Nor listens where with noisy joy
Awaits the impatient hound.
Cool grows the sick and feverish calm—
Relaxed the frosty twine;
The pine tree dreameth of the palm,
The palm tree of the pine.
As soon shall nature interlace
Those dimly visioned boughs,
As those young lovers face to face
Renew their earthly vows 1
faiFrosamond.
The Story of a Trifling Girl.
CHAPTER I.
“ THE BRIGHTEST, LOVELIEST GTTST FACE.”
One bright frosty morning in Christmas week,'
young John Sterling, a loose-limbed, raw-bonei I
school-boy of thirteen, came tearing down tha i
High street of Middleham, and, nearly knock.i
ing down a couple of women carrying babies,?
who were blocking the dark, narrow hall of hia ;
father’s residence, dashed into his
room. This being empty, he called out lustily: '
‘ “ Father, father, where are you ? It’s I, John ■
John—home for the holidays 1 We broke up i
three days sooner than expected— hurrah I
Where are you ? ’
But, no answer coming, he passed into-’ ths
old-fashioned parlor, half dining, half sitting i
room, on tho left side of the half, then stood on
the threshold, staring in amazement at the fig
ure of a woman, lying m his dead mother’s easy
chair by the fire, her feet propped up with a
pile of cushions, languidly reading a novel—a
woman with a sallow, peevish face, brightened
by rather fine dark eyes.
“Jane,” she cried, without looking round,
“is that you? Will you never learn to shut a
door when you enter a room ? It’s really—
oh ” She stopped abruptly, as she saw the
boy; then, with a faint blush, continued— “l
thought it was the servant. Won’t you come
in? You are Doctor Sterling’s son John, aren’t
you ?”
“You are waiting to see my father, ma’am?’'
he asked, aloud, thinking at the same tim.
that, if ever a patient knew the art of waiting
comfortably, this was certainly tho patient.
“ I cannot imagine what takes him out at thii
hour.”
“ Oh, he’ll be back in a few minutes. He—J
mean we—did not expect you until Saturday,
. John. Come over hero to the light, so that I
I may see you better. Dear me, what a great boy
t you are ! And I suppose you have not done
l growing yet. You quite frighten mo, John,”
. simpered the lady, ri-ing slowly and lightly
pressing her lips to the lad’s cheek.
He started back, and, with an unconscious
> gesture of boyish repugnance, wiped the caress
away ; then, hearing his father’s voice
he hurried from the room and accosted him.-,
eagerly without preiaco or greeting.
“Father, father, who is she—thehidyin the
parlor ? Such a queer woman : she called me
' John, and—and kissed me—who is she? I
1 never saw her before.”
s “My—my dear boy,” stammered Doctor Ster-
1 ling, the thin worn face flushing uneasily, “ how
’ —how you startled me I We did not expect you
a till Saturday. I meant to have met you at the
r station and explained everything to you. You.
t see, it was done in such a hufrj'-rftnd I have,
been so very, very busy during tho last mout!?/
s since scarlatina set in, that I ”
r “Explained what?” asked the boy, with a
0 gasp of apprehension, seizing his father's arm.
“ That tho lady who kissed you in the parlor,
'■ John, is my wife aud your mother -come to
take care of me and you and the old house, that
o has been going to wrack and ruin over since—”
t “ Oh, father, father !”
s There was a ring of pain, of infinite reproach
in the cry tho man evidently could not bear at
a the moment, for ho walked hastily away to tho
i upper end ot the hall and addressed one of the
> women waiting.
“Mrs. Ferguson, is that you—one of your
r twins bad again? Come into my study, and
let’s see what is tho matter. I'll attend to you
presently, Mrs. Smith; sit down, sit down.”
0 John moved away sorrowfully, without an
. other word, too stunned to realize as yet the
. full meaning of tho hurried confession.
At the top of the kitchen stairs ho met Jane,
• the one indoor servant, who had been in the
s family since the doctor began practising in the
a High street.
“ Well, Master John,” she began, with a sigh,
1 “I suppose you have heard the news at last 1
I You have seen her ladyship, maybe ! She’s a
picture, isn’t she ? If ever I thought your poor
3 father would ”
t “Jane,” the boy interrupted, “ tell me quick
r ly how it happened—who is she ? Why was I
t not told ? Where did he meet her ?”
i “ He met her here in Middleham, little better
than two months ago, when he was called in to
' attend her child, who was sickening for tha
• scarlatina.”
' “ Then she was a widow ?”
“Of course; how could she have got over
J him in such a short time, if she hadn’t been ?
; Oh, them widows ! If I had the mailin’ of the
j laws of the land, I’d have every one of them
I scorched up to cinder on their first husband’s
graves, like they do out in the Indios—that I
would I”
“Go on, Jane—go on. She was., ”
“ She was a Mrs. Egerton, daughter, I’ve
heard, of a small tradesman in Portsmouth, and
’ she got one of the young gentlemen in the Naval
College to marry hr privately, but he soon re
pented of his bargain, deserted her after a
couple of months, and died out in China a lew
years later, makin’ no pervision for her or her
child, which none of his lamily—very grand
people, I believe they are—would recognize or
have anything to say to. Her own people cast
' her off, too, an’ she was pretty much at her wit's
end how to live, when ill-luck brought her to
Middleham, and made her take lodgings over
the hairdresser’s in Surrey street. The very
first day she set eyes on your poor, helpless
father, Heaven help him I she must have
marked him for her victim, for she did not lose
an hour; an’ all the same she worked so sly
an’ stealthy-like that not a soul in the parish
suspected what she was up to until the banns
were actually cried in church I I thought I’d
have had a fit when I heard them. Oh, it’s a
bad business—a bad business from beginning
to end, Master John 1 But, after all, we must
try to make the best of it. It’s no good kickin’
against the traces now. Come down to the
kitchen with me, poor child, an’ I’ll give yon a
cup of tea and a slice of fried pudding ; that will
put the heart into you again, for you look fam
ished with misery.”
But John was beyond the power of such ex
ternal comfort. Shaking his head, he wau-