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A F«, Jl fez=gx /£zz ._ IvY c Jul I Ssolmw-Swl /ii z> jii v, 1 Ififrc i u TkIiTWI rir' Y JL V W JPWg&lw PUBLISHED BY A. J. WILLIAMSON’S SONS. VOL. XLI.-NO? 6. Entered at the Post Office at New Yorik, N. ¥., as Second Class Matter. THE NENV YOIIK DISPATCH, PUBLISHED AT NO. 11 FRANKFORT STREET. The NEW YORK DISPATCH is a.journal of light, agree able and sparkling Literature and Nows. One page is de voted to Matters, and careful attention is given to Music and the Drama. The Dispatch is sold by all News Agents of the city and suburbs, at FIVE CENTS A COPY. TERMS FOR MAIL SUBSCRIBERS: SINGLE SUBSCRIPTIONS... $2 50 a year TWO SUBSCRIBERS 400 “ FIVE SUBSCRIBERS 900 “ ALL MAIL SUBSCRIPTIONS MUST BE PAID IN AD VANCE. POSTAGE PAID EVERYWHERE BY THE DISPATCH OFFICE. Address NEW YORK DISPATCH, Post Office Box No. 1775. PLAYS AND PLAYERS. “I AM A ROMAN.” A New Casino Feature—Victoria Schilling in Tights—Another Name for Pride— The Roman Father’s Wrath— Modesty in the Chorus, Etc., Etc. BY JOHN CARBOY. "When, on Monday evening last, the curtains—why not call them portieres—were drawn apart, there was in front of them as large an audience as was ever be fore gathered within the walls of plucky Rudolph Aronson’s Moorish Castle of Music with roof garden trimmings—otherwise known as the “Casino.” It was the occasion of the first representation of the comic opera entitled “Amorita.” Of course this audience had something of inter est in the opera as to whether it would prove a fit ting successor to "Nanon” in the display of the fe male form as near the entirely nude as possible without arousing the holy wrath of Anthony Com stock. The dudes,mashers, men about town and the bald head contingent based great expectations upon the exhibition which Pauline Hall, Billie Barlow and possibly Madeline Lucette might make of their phy sical charms in behalf of the students in lyric anat omy. Alas, for their hopes ! Alas, for their misplaced ■interest 1 With the exception of Pauline Hall the line of •propriety was drawn disgustingly close. And even •Pauline, as the boyish Angolo, the sculptor, was ’somewhat unsatisfactory and limited in the revela tion which her Italian youth’s costume gave of her German robustness of limb. Aronson should have known better than to have followed such a luxury of suggestive lasciviousness as the terracotta chorus of “Nanon” with so meagro an offering of exposure as this “Amorita.” But all this shortcoming was forgotten, or at least for the time forgiven, in the feverish anxiety of almost everybody present to look upon VICTORIA SCHILLING, -tne aaugntcr or weorge Patrick Morisini and the ■wife of Ernest Hulskamp, late his coachman, and now a conductor on a Sixth avenue horse-car. Everybody who can read or can hear has become familiar through the press or has heard from scores of lips the story of this young woman’s escapade from her father’s home with the Knight of the Whip. It was the nine days’ wonder; that it was sc was the fault of the irate and indignant father. The great heart of the Italian patrician was lacer ated; it was, in fact, painfully wounded. Some Italian hearts, w’hen in this abnormal oon tion, are relieved by a poultice of macaroni and maraschino. Other hearts ol Roman origin, have found relief and cure in the stiletto in their own land; 4iere, in a cheese knife and a Crosby street-staba-you-in-the darka movement. The announcement by Manager Aronson that Mrs. Victoria Morosini-Schilling would be inclu ded in the cast of the new opera, revived the mem ory of her elopement and marriage and all the cir cumstances which attended them. A “ Romance in real life,” it was called in the usual sensational head linos—and if columns of in cidental slush and anecdotal rubbish, of imaginary interviews with every one connected with the affair, from the father of tha young woman to the lounger in the avuncular-Hulskamp’s beer saloon and of editorial twaddle could have made a romance of it— it would have been one in five volumes and a hun dred chapters. There was nothing of romance in it. The whole affair was matter of fact in its method, in Its pro gress, [in its conclusion. It was the resultant of natural causes. There was nothing poetic in it more than there is in tho love of a red-armed, freckledifaced, tow haired Milesian kitchen servant for the high toned valet of her swell master. Ernest Schilling is a.politic worm NOT THE LOVELORN HERO of a "penny dreadful ” story. He saw his oppor tunityin the favors of this girl; she saw in him and his use as her husband the man who could sat isfy the craving of her woman’s nature and relieve her of that parental restraint which she probably had come to regard as tyrannic oppression. Suppose that her father had decided, before the . coachman came upon the scene, that he would bring about a match between her and George Gould, the : son of his patron, Jay Gould ? Suppose also that . the daughter did not care for this young million taire, and that he had no fancy for her ? Imagine this tp have been the atato of affaire and :that in tho midst of this scheming to dispose of her in marriage against her will and, that watched and guarded .as she was, there came the unexpected fac tor who with her own consent was to settle her fate fore ver—tho. coach m an ®he unexpected always happens; this Ernest Schil ling was the unexpected; he happened to Lave op portunities of meeting.and seeing her from which his hetters socially were barred by parental vigi lance, he came, saw, and.conquered. It was all fact —no romance. No more romance than there is in her appearance on the Casino stage; no more than there is in her husband's daily .round of punching the faro of “ every f>assengaire.” With her it was a matter of necessity; with him a matter of policy, of ambition to grasp something more remunerative than the whip. From sitting on the box of the father's carriage he saw his chance to sit -on the father. All know the legend,. The flight, the marriage, the mother’s illness; the efforts of interested as well as disinterested part es to bring about a reconcilia tion; the obstinacy of tho father and THE GENERAL SYMPATHY FOR THE YOUNG COUPLE •SThich that obstinacy and the continued sensational etirring up of the case, aroused. Now has the lust hair been dropped upon the camel’s back. Up come the interviewers to do a little more etirriaj. “Schilling takes the fares;” “Vic and her hub at •work ?,nd “ Morosini Mad "—are the captivating <captions which greet the eye In the daily press. Of -course the weekly fellows will get in, and the cor respondents <f the out of town papers will spread tbest&ff over Uie country with their usual cheerful and florid disregard for fact. In this instance jt is all so much good, free ad vertising for. the Casfflo and its performances. Rud Aronson ought <4 be grateful to these nosing paragraphors snd their inventive faculties. No doubt he is grateful and perfectly willjiig that they J 4 fcpep it up for Euoatb? to come. But does it pay father Marosini to assist in keep ing this unhappy domestic imbroglio green in the public mind ? Of course wo all know his wrath is not abated ; that he would forego a place in Paradise hereafter, if now, in the flesh, he could have Ernest Schilling Hulscamp walked on by a procession of elephants, and afterward used as a self-baited eel trap. We know what he would like to do with his son in-law to gratify the vengeance of the father. But the “lacerated heart” and tho degradation business—how about these ? I think in this special instance Heart is only a synonym for Pride. It is Pride which has taken a “tumble;” not the heart which is “lacerated.” It is that mushroom pride which is born of wealth: that particular species of I am-better-than-thou ar rogance and assumption which goeth before a fall, and which wherever it goeth surely brings trouble to its possessor and invariably leaves him stuck fast in the slough of humiliation. You may call it Heart, or any other name you choose; in this instance IT IS ONLY PRIDE, and its vulgarity; its pretension and the bitterness of its disappointment are evident in the noise and clamor it makes. True grief does not put itself on exhibition in this manner. It seeks seclusion; it gnaws at the heart of its victim in secret: it is silent. It is not given to howling out bursts of wrath and anathemas as a relief. Why in the name of logic should not this girl have married this coachman; she was of lawful age; was her own mistress; she had intelligence, and knew precisely what she wanted and what she was doing. She chose the coachman, instead of tho man her father would have preferred. This is a free country ; this is a republic; the day laborer in the street is legally the peer, and very often the superior, morally, of the wealthiest • and most aristocratic man in the land. The man who earns his daily bread by his labor as the conductor or driver of a horse car, is not a “ loafer” because of his poverty or his lowly position; he shows his honesty in bis industry and the truest nobility of manhood in such an exhibition of his independence. If his daughter had married a professional gambler, a common drunkard, or a bunco steerer, there would have been something of propriety in his kicking with a forty mule power at her folly, and the whole community would have sustained him in it. Then indeed she would have married “ a loafer ” and a “ scoundrel ” —who would want her “ to sup him in his laziness”—as Mr. Morosini styled Ernest, to the reporter of a morning paper which claims a circulation of millions with several back counties yet to be heard from. A “ loaf-r” wants something easier than the position of a horse-car conductor, and a scoundrel isn't likely to worry himself physically and mentally for the sake of two dollars and a half a day. “SCOUNDRELS” are not seeking honest* employment—it is not in their lino. By a series of fortuitous circumstances they do sometimes turn up in Wall street as stock gamblers, and through unscrupulous methods amass wealth, but with all their “ luck” they are none the less scoundrels. If, as the irate sire asserts, “ she has passed for ever out of his life,” why should he be so awfully troubled by this conundrum which he put to the reporter—" Where is the modesty of a girl, trained as my daughter was, gone to, when it permits her to exhibit herself in tights before a public audience, to be gazed at, sneered at, criticised and laughed at by the crowd ?'* The reporter being dazed by the magnitude of the question, made no reply. I will answer it for him. It was her poverty not her modesty consented. Plainly, where hunger steps in at the front door, modesty becomes a very'week sister. But lot me say to Mr. Morosini there is as great a share of modesty in tights on the stage as there is in the thousand dollar dresses of the society woman who at their receptions, and in their boxes at the opera make more shameless exposures of shoulders and bosom than any decent audience would tolerate from an actress or a ballet girl. THERE ARE WOMEN “IN TIGHTS ” —young and handsome—choristers as well as prin - cipals on the stage, whose lives have been and are as pure, and whose ancestry is fully as reputable as those of the daughter of any pretentious millionaire who ever breathed tho air of either England, France or Italy. “ I can never forgive, for I am a'Roman and know how to hate.” “I do not know where they reside, and I do not want to know. They are nothing to me.” “She was loved by her parents with a devotion not surpassed by any father and mother.” “How did she repay it? By making herself and her family a by-word throughout the length and breadth of the country.” “A fellow whom I believe really intended to kill me by purposely throwing me out of my carriage.’ “Mr. Morosini exhibited a large scar on bis ankle.” "Personally, I do not care a straw.” Now these are choice excerpts from Mr. Morosini's recorded statement to the reporter. That repoitoi, ii hu is u. eiagl© young man. Will be very careful how he goes browsing into a rich man's family lor a wife. If she was ,sp loved by her father, what sort of parental love is it which can .never forgive any of fense of the idolized child ? Did she make herself and her family “ a by-word throughout the country”--or was that unpleasant result brought about by ths publicity given her elopement and marriage by the family or rather through the wrath of Mr. Morosini? So far as I can learn the daughter and her hus band HAD NO DESIRE FOR NOTORIETY; in fact as far and as long as practicable, they were anxious to keep out of sight. They did not ask Mr. Morosini to arrest them and bring them into public gaze at a station-house—nor did they particularly request any search to be made for them after they were released. Atter all, there seems to be another characteristic which Mr. Morosini, as a Roman Father, possesses in addition to Hate. That is forgetfulness. He forgets that he began himself, in his life battle, as a poor man, and at probably for less wages than his Teutonic son-in law is now receiving. He forgets that his attain ment of his present wealth is as much due to the chance which gave him a millionaire for a guide and patronin his business ventures, and that with out this advantage and solely dependent upon his own mental and physical resources he might have been much lower in tho financial scale than be is now. The -‘•moblest Roman of them all” did not forget, and while he had hi& bates, he had the divine at tribute of forgiveness. I do not think the mere fact that Mrs. Victoria Schilling Hulskamp has sought the stage for a live lihood and has-“appeared in tights” will disgrace the family. She is trying to honestly earn her week's wage; she is proving herself a helpmeet lor her husband, and is apparently content with her lot and love. But calling an honest man, because he is poor ami because he has shown no aptitude for becom ing proficient as a stock gambler and railway job ber and had rather work at the lowliest labor than be idle, "aloafer” and “a scoundrel,” is not apt to do him much damage. He will survive it. I not see that his social position as a car con ductor ora coachman is any lower than if he were a sailor before the mast, or a barber, who, in shav ing a rich rwlway magnate, had opened away for future advan cement. “I don’t sa® how you can endure that ' Pliffy girl. Jack,” sai-J his sister. “I’m sure there’s f nothing in her.” "Nothing in her, indeed ' I just j wish you’d been with us ie supper after the theatre j to-night!” and he dropped v a tear over hh buried j salary. NEW YORK, SUNDAY, NOVEMBER SUM OF ST. A Band of Unknown Revelers Take Possession of It. A. Grotesque and Xsloody CCx’aafedy- A STORY GF A NIGHT GF MYSTERY. In 1825, the Chateau of St, Aignau in Touraine, France, was bought by Monsieur Devourelles, a gentleman who had made a fortune in India and re turned to his native land to spend it. He was a widower with four children, Marie, Paul, Caasar and Eugenie. The chateau bad been empty since the revolution, but, thanks to the schoolmaster of St. Aignau, who acted as agent for the venerable owner, it had been preserved from destruction. Thus when Monsieur Devourelles bought it, it was in fair condition and required the expenditure of a small sum to put it into comfortable condition. The chateau was old-fashioned, rambling and very extensive. The gardens and lands stretched for many acres and the Cher, a small tributary of the Loire, flowed through tho domain and gave pictur esqueness and beauty to the scenery. Monsieur Devourelles took possession in May of the year named and by July had arranged things to his satis faction and settled down with his children to tho enjoymept of the delightful retreat. The narrative Which fellows is a liberal translation of the original! FROM THE DEPOSITION OF PAUL DEVOUR ELLES, THE ELDER. “On the night of August 17, 1825, I, Paul Dovour elles, of St. Aignau, was summoned by a servant to the hall where a stranger desired to see me. I went and found a tall, thin man wiih gray hair an l clean shaven face, dressed in a brown suit and bearing in . his hand a low-crowned hat and cane. On asking h m his business, he replied that he came from Or leans. that his home was Moineaux, and that he had au important statement to make. I took him into the library and asked him to be seated. He said he was hungry and thirsty and would be glad to have something to eat and drink. I summoned a servant and a plentiful meal was plac id before the stranger. Having eaten and drank, be drew from his coat pocket a leather book which ho spread upon the ta ble. Pointing with his finger to the page he said: “‘First of all. I desire you to read this.’ “ I arose and stood by his side. In an Instant ho seized me and threw me on my face. I felt that his strength was enormous. Drawing my hands to gether behind me, he tied them. He then slipped a noose over my feet and made it fast. I was shout ing for help as well as my situation would allow, but when 1 raised my voice, my assailant thrust his knees into my back and squeezed the wind out of mo. Finally he gagged me, turned me over on my back and tied my feet to the bars of the grate in which there was no fire. All this time he spoke not one word. Next be took from my pockets my keys and my money. The latter ho laid upon tho table; with the former he opened my library drawers and ransacked them, but took nothing. When I was summoned to the stranger it was nine o’cloak; my library clock pointed to half-past when ho quitted tho room.” FROM THE DEPOSITION OF PAUL DEVOUR ELLES, THE YOUNGER. “ I was present when my father was summoned to see the stranger. * * * * Alter a while, I began to wonder what could detain my father so long. My sisters and brother retired with Madame Maur, their governess, and I resolved to go to the library under pretense of weariness. As I crossed the vestibule, I saw a tall, thin man coming from tho library. Ho observed me at the same time and beckened me. I went up to him without hesita tion., for I thought ke might be some person from the neighborhood with whom my father bad busi ness. He said. ‘ a gentleman in there desires to see you,’ I b lid, ‘ltis my father, I suppose.’ He re plied. ‘Yes.’ I went toward the library door and opened it. The stranger I found was close upon my heels. I turned and he instantly seized me by both arms. I struggled, but ho was of great power and handled me as though I was an infant. He thrust me into the room and closed the door. Then he threw me upon the floor and bound me hand and foot. I cried for help, whereupon he said: •• ‘ I will have no noise, my friend. If you cry out, I will take off your boot and thrust it into your mouth, or I will put another cord around your throat and silence you once and forever.’ “ After this I kept still. Then he carried me to the far end of the library and lashed me to a table. I saw my father lying on the floor and said; “ • Have you killed him ?” “ ‘ We intend to hurt you as little as possible,’ he replied, ‘ unless you give us trouble.” “ Then he quitted tho room and I lay still for some time. Presently he returned and edming to me said; “ • How many domestics have you in the chateau ?’ “ ‘ Four 1 I replied; two men and two women.’ " Then he rang the bell the rope to which bung right over where my father was lying. Presently Guiltomene, the valet, entered the library. I could not see all that followed, but I could hear that the stranger was serving him in the same way in which he had served me.” FROM THE DEPOSITION OF JULES PRONY, COOK. “ I was in the servants’ hall with the maids Plum, t and oi>©vry. when suddenly a tall, thin m=n appeared in the doorway flourishing a pistol " • If you move or make any outcry,’ he said ‘I will shoot you ?’ " Then he moved toward the inside of the han. so as to prevent me from going toward the table, where I intended to procure a knife to defend my self and the maids. “ ‘ Where is the cellar ?’ he asked of me. «• I pointed to the door. •• • The key,’ he said, in a peremptory way. “• I pointed to the rack where it hung. He took it and opened the cellar door. Then, resting the pistol across his left hand, he said: ‘My friends, this way. It is our pleasure that you should spend a couple of hours in the cellar.’ " As it would have been madness to resist, we en tered the door and went dosvn the stairs into the dark vault. Then the stranger shut the door and locked it.” from THE DEPOSITION OF MADAME MAUR. “Hearing a great noise as of many persons in dulging in hilarity, and at a loss to understand what it could mean, I quitted rny apartments and wsnt into the corridor. Looking over the gallery, to my amazement I beheld below a multitude of men and women, some of them dressed in the most fantastic way and wearing the mosr extraordinary garments. They were laughing and talking, prom enading up and down the vestibule and the corri dors, aud passing in and out of the salons, which I saw were brilliantly lighted. I went to the head of the stairs and said: " ‘What does this mean ?' “Instantly ail eyes were directed toward me. Two elderly gentlemen sprang up the stairs toward me. I kept my position for a time, but, when they reached the gallery, 1 was about to retire to my apartments, when they rushed toward me. One of them seized me by the arm, and tho otuer, bowing very low, said: “ ‘Madame, we were not aware that you were in the cuateau, or we should certainly have asked you to join us. However, it is not too late.’ “ With that he drew my arm through his, and so preceded by the other gentlemen, we descended the stairs. My escort introduced me to many ladies and gentlemen with high sounding titles, and to some persons famous in history, who. I knew had long been dead. Then, to my surprise, I saw a line of men advancing from the direction of the kitchen and the pantries, bearing all kinds of viands and wines. -They were placed on the table and sideboards in the dining-room and every one helped himself or herself, ac cording to fancy. They mostly ate with a raven ous appetite and drank without stint. Their con versation was seldom intelligible to me, and, when it was, it seemed very childish. They divided into groups and danced in the strangest and wildest manner, insisting that I should join them, aud ad dressing me as Marchioness. •• In the midst of this confusion and uproar, I was glad to think that Cfosar and Eugenie were in bed and that Mademoiselle Marie was in her own apart ment. What had become of Monsieur Devourelles ot Paul, of the servants, I could not divine, and durst ask no questions. I was not permitted to be aioue a moment, and a tall, thin man, who seemed to have command of the grotesque intrud ers, was particularly careful that I should keep in the throng. Suddenly I became conscious that something was attracting the attention of the mot ley crowd and, following their gaze. I saw, to my horror, that Marie, clad in a white robe, was lean ing over the galiery, gazing with starting eyes at the strange scene below. At the same moment the t .11. thin man, of whom I have spoken, shouted ‘ By heaven ! a ghost!’ I was close beside him and saw him draw a pistol from his coat pocket aud fire at Marie. With a shriek she fell. A death-like si lence fell on the throng. I tore myself irom the grasp ot the mifli who held my hand, and ran up stairs. Marie lay bleeding to death from a wound in her breast. While I rested ber head on my arm, she breathed her last. "Finding all was over, I turned my gaze to the vestibule. It was empty ! Not a sound or au indi cation of a living being was there. I went down stairs, and in the kitchen all was vacant. Preseni ly I heard blows on the cellar door. 1 went toward it and unlocked it, the cook aud Hie maids emerged. Wo went in search of Monsieur Devnur elies Rad Paul, aud found them and Guillaume bound in the library. We freed them and informed them of the dreadful fate of Mane.” FROM THE DEPOSITION OF DR. MONJOL. “1 am superintendent of the Asylum for the In sane at Moatrichard, Touraine. * * * * q u t } )o fcveuivg of August 17th, 1825, we had seventy-eight patients, male and fernala, under our care, who were considered mild and thoroughly safe. They were psmitted that evening to give a fancy art fnhpnbnd. and decked themselves as they saw fit. While they were thus enjoying themselves, a deputation, headed by a Monsieur Moinceaux, waited upon me, and requested the pleasure of the company of my self, the medical staff, and all the attendants and servants of the establishment, to a collation, attended to tiie number of seventeen, and appeared to be greatly delighted at the display of a little'fruit and a few biscuits and a bottle or two of wine. Wo did not notice that our hosts were gradually quit ting the small room, which had but one outlet, and a small window high up in one corner, where the refection was spread. Suddenly, the door wasclosod and fasten* d upon ns, and we found ourselves— the whole staff of the asylum—prisoners in a room from which egress was hopeless without help from the outside. It was impossible to describe our sensations. * * Tho noise out sidewas for a time very boisterous, but it suddenly subsided, and we wore at a loss to surmise what the insane crowd could be about. We knew it was useless to attempt to escape by tho window, as it was strongly barred, and by the door, as the huge bit silent key shot six enormous well-oiled bolts into the oaken jambs. All we could do was to wait, and the time passed with maddening slowness, we listening in vain for a sound. When it was past midnight, we tried the door, and, to our surprise, found it open. * * * A visit to the various dormitories satisfied us that every patient was in the building.” THE SEQUEL. The reader would doubtless wish to preserve at length the testimony taken on the inquiry into the death of Marie Devourelles: but as it would occupy five or six columns, the wish cannot be gratified. Only the result can be given here. The design of locking in their keepers seemed to have been formed by the lunatics at the time when they proposed the fancy ball. Moinceaux, the tall, thin man frequently referred to, had once been a famous criminal lawyer in Orleans. He conceived the plan of quitting the asylum and going in search of adventures. Under his leadership they started out, and seeing lights in the Chateau of St. Aignau, only a short distance off, he led them thither. Sta tioning them in the shrubberies and other secluded places, he bade them await his signal, promising them a grand entertainment, and plenty to eat and drink. But how did he know anything of the chateau or of its occupants ? Tho answer is this: The school master of St. Aignau, be ore mentioned as being the agent of the former owner of the chateau, was ac customed to go once a week to the asylum and give recitations to the more tractable inmates. In his conversation with some of them he mentioned the fact of the old chateau having been bought by Monsieur Devourelles, described his manner of liv ing, and spoke in glowing terms of the generous en tertainment hfi had there received. Deeply inter ested in this account, Moinceaux asked question after question, and seemed never weary of hearing the schoolmaster describe the well-filled larders, the capacious wine closets, and the huge cellars beneath tho chateau in which many casks of splendid liquors were stowed. Probably a raid upon the chateau was in his mind when he conceived or approved the scheme of a fancy ball. Certainly the imprisonment of the managers and keepers was his suggestion, carried out under his own supervision. The pistol, which he used with such fatal effect, was taken from the closet in She superintendent's room close by the main entrance, and a hank of strong cord which he afterward used to such purpose was procured in the same way. Under bis direction, too, the wax can dles in the parlors, dining-room and vestibule were lighted, and ho superintended in person the attack on the larders and the wine closet. It is supposed that after the fatal shot was fired, some strange con sciousness of a deadly crime led to Moinceaux’s in stant departure with the army of lunatics. As all the offenders were insane beyond question, the law was powerless to avenge Marie’s death. Moinceaux and several of the chief leaders in the revolt were, however, placed in close confinement and a more stringent discipline was enforced inside the asylum generally. TEE BLACeT BRIGANDS. WOMEN THAT AKE REGULAR STREET DICK TURPINS— “STAND AND DELIVER.” The black female street banditti of the city is ter rible. It is said that only out of the many hundred colored street cruisers that are a terror, all known to the police are about eighty, and yet they cannot , be run in and kept out of sight for a reason able time on the Island by tho Police Justices. These women cruise in Bleecker street, the divid ing line of the two precincts—the Eighth and the Fifteenth. Cross the street, and they are in the Fif teenth Ward. Unless it is a crime on person or property, the officer can't follow. Back they come into the Eighth from the Fifteenth by crossing the street when the officer has gone along, twirling his stick byway of practice. lhe men on duty walk as if it were to cover so much ground in six hours, and that is police duty; but when the officer has passed, out come the thieves to operate--all protection ended. By accident or otherwise two of these black terrors were arrested last week. In the one case the prisoner was let off with a fine of $ 10, paid and dis charged. The other woman was held for larceny from the person, and committed for trial at the General Sessions. The story of the victim, William Kaiser, in the robbery is plain. About one o’clock, going home in the morning, at Greene aud Bleecker streets, the prisoner, Amanda Julus (colored), asked him the time of night. While taking out his watch to give the time, she began to palaver. While looking at the time, she put her arms about him, exclaiming “O, my dear!” Her assistant thief came up, another colored woman, and put her arms around the two and said with a giggle, “ What fooln we mortals be.” or something to that effect. Somehow, complainant does not understand how the outside woman got in his pockets, while he was in this double negro embrace, and he lost $7. The question was who robbed him ? He couldn’t say. The woman that embraced him hardly could. Her arms were fastened around his neck. The woman behind might have done it—if she had Rob Roy’s length of arm, who could tie his garter standing. But, be that as it may, the outside wo man escaped with the money, and Amanda, was ar rested and held to answer. Her pal, Frances Manning, who performed this legerdemain business, was aiso arrested, but got off with a fine of $lO, on the charge of disorderly con duct. on this subject there need be little said. The po lice of the Eighth and Fifteenth Wards know every one of these highway women. They can arrest them on sight when they see them on their patrol, ■ind keep sending them on the Island, for they are beyond reform. This is an extreme measure, but it is dealing with no ordinary class of offenders—extreme criminals. THE WAY OF IT. At a late hour a man is on his way home, under the influence of liquor. Perhaps a man should not drink so much as to lose his wits. The woman meets him. Braces him right up. He feels like talking back going home, knowing there will be no talk back there. In a wink ha is lifted off his feet in the street and robbed. Before he sobers up the thieves are gone; or if he makes a maudlin cry for help, up comes the policeman, locks him up in a cell, and next morning he is fined ten dollars for being intoxicated, sent back, aud then he has to pay a messenger to go to his home or his " Uncle,” to raise the flue on his watch. He dare not say a word. If holding a responsible position in a store, he may be discharged if he kicks; if a married man, the wife may then sue for divorce. Thus these negro street bandits rule the Precinct, and the police who have tho power to put them out of the way, don’t. Let Captains Brogan and McDonnell see to their men, and the women will follow. Not an Opium Joint.—Harry Develin, an opium smoker, who was arrested on the charge of smoking opium in his own furnished room, was acquitted on trial in the Court of Special Sessions. A man’s private furnished apartment is not an opium joint. THREE MERCHANT PRINCES. Genial John Jacob Astor, Sat urnine A. T. Stewart and Merry H. B. Claflin. THREE WIDELY DIFFERENT CHARACTERS. How the Astor Millions were Grub bed Together and Piled Up. A. T. STEWART’S CAREER. A Triumph of Hard Work and Frigid Determination. STEWART’S OM.Y HIVAI.. The death of 11. B. Claflin removes from New York one of the greatest merchants of the century, in this city. He represented to the present genera, tion a great deal the same sort of commercial enter prise and application as did John Jacob Astor and A. T. Stewart in the past. Each was. in his way, a very different character from the other two, but each possessed the same general qualities of coni' inercial intelligence, sharpdess of sight and intre pidity in taking advantage of his opportunities, FLUTES AS A MILLIONAIRE’S CAPITAL. The first of the great merchants of New York, judged by the modern standard, was John Jacob Astor. He was born on July 17, 1763, at Waldorf, near Heidelberg. One of his sons he afterward gave a middle name from his native place. At tho age of twenty ho came to this city, where he already had a brother engaged in the butcher business at the Fly Market. Ho had previously worked for an other brother in a flute factory in London, and brought seven flutes with him as his sole capital to begin a trader’s life in the new world on. In the steerage, on his way across, he fell in with a furrier, who gave him some points as to his business. Once in New York he sold his flutes as soon as be could an l bought furs with the proceeds. To keep him self afloat while he made his first struggles he went to work as a clerk for a wealthy Quaker merchant, Robert Bowae. With the help of some capital provided by his bachelor brother, in addition to his own savings, John Jacob became an importer. At one time his store was in South street, near South Ferry. After ward he took one on the corner of Pine and Pearl streets. During the war of 1812 he was largely en gaged in the tea trade. He also fitted out several blockade runners for Gibraltar. An odd story is told as characteristic of him at that time. A schoon er was to be loaded and cleared in twenty-four hours. The whole force of the establishment was at work, Astor among them. The loading began on Saturday morning. At ten o’clock at night Astor said to the company: “ Now, boys, all knock off. Come early to-mor row morning, and we’ll finish up the work.” Turn ing to the clerk, whom he knew to boa pious young man, he said, "You need not come. Go to church aud pray for us poor sinners hard at work.” He attended to his business himself at all times. When he was not behind the counter of his shop his wife was. He stuck to the fur business as long as it was worth sticking to. When he lived at Broadway and Vesey street, the little brick man sion, which he built, was filled with furs from the cellar to tho attic. He started the American Fur Company and got Washington Irving, the foremost literary man of the time, to give it a send-off in § book which Irving called "Astoria.” His name is perpetuated by that of a now thriving town on the great Northwest coast he did so much to open to the use of the world. A MUNIFICENT MISER. John Jacob, in his earliest days in New York, be gan to invest in real estate. Just before he died, some one asked him if he had not too much real es tate. He replied: •• Could I begin life again, knowing what I now know, and had money to invest, I would buy every foot of land on the Island of Manhattan.” He had a long head. His investments have made his descendants even richer than he ever dreamed of being. Thq founder of the Astor family was what would be called a crauk in these irreverent times. He was the incarnation of meanness and at the same time the soul of liberality. For vagrants, street beg ging, and miscellaneous calls, ho had no ear. His gifts, however, were munificent and constant. At tached to his house on Broadway, above Prince, was a narrow alley leading to his kitchen. This kitch en was as large as that of a hotel. A supply of beef and bread was always kept on hand for the poor. Fam ilies known to be needy, who were cleanly in per son, orderly in their behavior, who came and went quietly, were daily supplied with food. He kept a regular account of tho clUburaomontn in tills mat ter, as much as if he were keeping a hotel. Mr. Astor lived in a style becoming his wealth and position. .He purchased the block on Broad way. opposite the sife now occupied by the Metro politan Hotel. His house was large, and furnished in princely style. His apartments were adorned by costly works of art, and the richest plate was dis played on his table. He had servants and attend ants. some of whom camo from foreign nations. His dinners were princely. He dressed in good taste, was fluent in speech, very intelligent, met all comers with a genial smile, and was prompt and de cided in all he dium bight. quite stout, with a full German face radiant with intelligence and kindness. The closing weeks of his life were passed at his country-seat at the foot of Eighty-eighth street, on the East river. Under the old trees on his lawn, and in his splendid mansion, he dispensed an elegant hospitality to his friends. He died on March 25th, 1848, leaving his best monument to the city which had made him rich, In the library which bears his name. THE ASTOR MILLIONS. The amount of John Jacob Astor’s wealth has never been known outside of his family. Much of it was never included in his will. He dreaded a lawsuit growing out of the settlement of his estate among his heirs, and be prevented it by taking the matter into his own hands. The property left to his children and relatives he deeded to them out right before his death, making the consideration in each case one dollar. For this sum he sold the Astor House to William, and other property equally valuable he sold for the same sum. There Could be no contest when the property was bought outright. By the sales, much of the most valuable part of his property was not named in his will at all. He owned valuable real estate in other lands, the titles to which were recorded abroad. He made a valu able donation to his native village, which he held in fond remembrance till he died. His property has been estimated at various sums, by persons equally capable to judge. None place it lower than fifty millions of dollars, some carry it up as high as one hundred and fifty millions. The wealth of the Astor family to-day, taken in the aggregate, is nearly as great as that of William H. Vanderbilt, but it is scattered among numerous descendants of the first and greatest of the bouse. It is popularly supposed that John Jacob Astor Jived in the fine old mansion on Lafayette Place, adjoining the Library. This is not the case, how ever. This house he built for his son William. It is now a swell private restaurant. The founding of the Astor Library, by the way, was an accident. A member of the bar called on Mr. Astor to see if he would subscribe toward a Free City Library. A plan to establish such an institution had already been mapped out. He took time to consider the proposal, and announced his determination to found the library himself and he did. William W. Astor was the second son and heir of the old fur trader. His first son, named after him, was au imbecile, who lived to be au old man, always under watch and ward of a keeper hired for the pur pose. OFFICE, NO. 11 FRANKFORT ST. A. T, STEWART’S BEGINNING. A. T. Stewart went into business in thia city sixty years ago, when John Jacob Astor was already a millionaire, on a paltry capital provided by a small legacy left him by a relative in Ireland. Ho went into dry goods just as Astor went into furs. He opened his twelve-foot front shop at No. 2G2 Broad way, and faced life as his own errand boy, porter, salesman and bookkeeper. He lived in a single room over his store, where his wife cooked their meals. He worked day and night, and no work was too hard or long for him if it had a promise of profit in it. Ke made his first real start in business by being nearly ruined. While doing business in his little store, a note became due, which he was unable to pay. He mot the crisis boldly. He marked every article in his store down below the wholesale price. He flooded the city with hand-bills, originating the relling-off at-cost style of advertising. He threw his handbills by thousands into the houses, base ments, stores, steamboats, and hotels of the city. He told his story to the public and promised them not only bargains, but that every article would be found just what it was guaranteed to bo. He took New York by storm. He created a furore among housekeepers. The little shop was crowded with suspicious and half-believing persons in search of bargains. Stewart presided in person. He said but little, offered his goods, and took the cash. To all attempts to beat him down, he quietly pointed to the plainly-written price on each pack- He hardly time tp eat or eJeep. His name became a household word on every lip. Persons bought the goods, went home, and examined thorn. They found not only they had not been cheated, but had really got bargains. They spread the news from house to bouse. Excited New York filled Stewart’s shop and crowded the pavement in front. Long before the time named in the hand-bill for stopping the sale, the whole store was cleaned out and every article sold for cash. The troublesome note was paid, and a handsome balansa left over. Stewart resolved to purchase no more on credit. The market was dull, cash scarce, and he was ena bled to fill up his store with a choice stock of goods at a small price. In that little shanty on Broadway he laid the solid foundation of that colossal fortune which has become historic. A HARD MASTER. Thenceforth he adhered to his resolution to buy only for cash. That was the chief tenet of his com mercial faith. He sold on credit, as others did, be cause he bad to, but he bought only for cash. He monopolized everything he dealt in, and crushed out smaller houses without mercy. He was a hard master, and his store was ruled by despotic law. His rules were inexorable, and had to be obeyed. His store was regarded as the hos pital for decayed merchants. Nearly every promi nent man in his wholesale store had been in busi ness for himself and failed. Such a man had a cir cle of acquaintances, and could influence trade. If he failed without dishonor, he was .sure of a posi tion in Stewart’s store. No factory was run with more exactness or less heart. Personally, A. T. Stewart led a life as cold and ex act as a machine. He spent all day at his office, and often all night. Often he acted as salesman him self. He was a rather small man, slim, with a de cided Hibernian face; sandy hair, nearly red; sharp, cold, avaricious features; a clear, cold eye; a face furrowed with thought, care and success; a voice harsh and unfriendly in its most mellow tones. He could easily be taken for his bookkeeper or porter. He lived wholly by himself. His wife bore him no children. He had probably not a bosom friend in the world, and dying in the frigid splendor which he had built up about himself, his corpse was denied even the cold resting-place of the grave. Jacob Astor, Stewart was a believer in j§al He never lost an opportunity to in- Vest. No eligible property w£nt begging while he was around. Ho had a mania, ifl particub", buying churches. He bought Dr. Bap- tist Church in Amity street and Wooster, and made a stable of it. He bought the Dutch Church on Ninth street to complete the block for his uptown store. He bought Dr. Osgood’s Church and turned it into the Globe Theatre, and the old church at Eighth street and Astor Place to provide his carpet cutters and sewers with a working place. A TRUE MERCHANT PRINCE. H. B« Claflin was a much more amiable and ad mirable character than tho founder of the Stewart estate. He was a straightforward, jovial old man, fond of hie joke and full of the milk of human kindness. He does not leave as many millions as A. T. Stewart, but he leaves a memory that millions could not purchase. He was a true merchant prince, both in his commercial dealings and his per sonal ones. He was abundantly supplied with eccentricities but he purchased the right to them by his relations with his fellow man. For many years Claflin and Stewart were business rivals. The former bore the rivalry good naturedly, but Stewart hated his apponent with a detestation in keeping with his grim and vindictive character. It used to be said that Stewart would have given one of his stores to see Claflin's establishment wiped out, and indeed, he could have afforded to do so. PROSTITUTION IN FLATS. WHY NOT ARREST MEN WHO SOLICIT ? Prostitution will continue in all great cities while there is the demand to encourage the crime. The social evil cannot be suppressed entirely, but the ~ point with those who have the best interests of so ciety at heart is how best to put and keep it within decent control. It cannot be done by arraigning the girls found on the streets and fining them $lO. Nor can it be done by putting them under bonds to keep the peace—not to appear in the streets for the next one month or six months. By paying the bondsman, the woman arrested is made free to again resume her tramps. The fines financially help the treasury and enrich lawyer and professional bond bail-goers, but the evil goes on. How are we to stop this farce of arresting, only to oppress the women, who have no other way of liv ing but on the street ? It does not stop the evil to arrest. It only hurts the woman. First—The man escapes who solicits, if it hap pens to be an innocent woman. An apology gets him out of the scrape. Second—A woman solicits and she is convicted. This is all in tho interest of good morals. But why not arrest a few of the male solicitors ? Why should not the dudes that follow these girls coming from work not be treated the same as the women ? The women do what is now recognized as a trade, with its risks—the Penitentiary or a fine. The men can solicit decent girls that are forced to tramp the streets at all hours. Let the police go after the so-called solicited as well as the unfortunate solicitors. There is no reason why the men should be less insignificant in the eyes of the law than the wo men. But keep the social evil by all means out of flats. On Pbobation.—Michael Loyd, aged 28, business, pickpocket, was brought before Just ice Powers, yesterday, charged with plying his vo. cation on Broadway. He was arrested by Officer Murray, and held to answer for an attempt. In 1880 he was arrested by Superintendent Mur ray on the charge of " standing a man up ” in Park Place, for which he got three years in State prison. He was afterward arrested for a similar offense and sent to Elmira Reformatory for five years, and was out on probation when arrested yesterday. He was committed by the justice. Had a Wash.—John McDonnell was arrested in Watt street, drunk, with a large wash that be had stolen from some yard. There was no owner for the stolen property and he was commit, ted for ten days. The owner can have the stolen ■ property at the Eighth Ward station house, I • PRICE FI VE CENTS. contentment. Happy the man whose wish and care A few paternal acres bound, Content to breathe his native air In his own ground. Whose herds with milk, whose fields with breads Whose flocks supply him with attire ; Whose trees in summer yield him shade. In winter fire. Blest who can unconcern'dly find Hours, days, and years slide soft away. In health of body, peace of mind, Quiet by day. Sound sleep by night; study and easo Together mix’d ; sweet recreatiofl, And innocence, which most does please With meditation. Thug let me live, unseen, unknown ; Thus unlamented let me die, Steal from the world, and not a stone Tell where I lie. FAIR ROSAMOND. The Story of a Trifling Girt CHAPTER IV. “ I AM NOT WORTHY TO BE I’OVR WIFE.” One evening in the early Spring, John ob« tained tickets for the gallery of one of the West, end theatres, where a great dramatic "star’* was performing nightly to overflowing houses. When, after partaking of a hasty dinner in the city, he arrived at Acacia Cottage to fetch Rose and her mother, he found, to his undis guished delight, that his stepmother was con fined to her bed with a severe cold, and un able to accompany them, though she made a gallant effort at the last moment to get up and dress lierself. So John’s evening promised to be one of un alloyed enjoyment, and certainly, as far as the performance went, he was not disappointed. The “ star ” shone her brightest, and was sup ported by an intelligent, painstaking company. The house was crowded with the elite of society, and, looking down between the acts at the rows upon rows of fair women, clad in glistening silks and satins, sparkling with diamonds, he turned side a glow of boyish satisfaction to the girl he alth him, declaring that she, in her shabby cloth jocket and tawdry hat, surpassed in beauty every woman present—that there was not onefil to hold a candle to her brilliant dusky love liness. “ Y6il are enjoying yourself, Rose ? It’s as good as you expected ?” he asked, eagerly. She nodded in assent, but he needed no fur ther assurance, for he saw, in the color of her cheeks, the light in her great, dark eyes, that she was moved beyond the power of speech; so he troubled her no more with inquiries, and they sat out the play in silent enjoyment. There was a great crush in leaving the thea tre, for a heavy shower of rain kept the major part of the audience waiting on the stairs and in the entrance-passage. Hose found herseii jammed in behind a door loading to the stre^*r surrounded by the fashionable crowd from the stalls and dress-eirele, who were waiting for their carriages to come ~ ureathiow fascination, she was taking in • every detail Of the ladies’ dress and appearance, ■ wishiug vaguely that siie dojier hair like >. this one', or bunch up her dress like th® other,, 1 when a low, sweet voice addressed her, m her turn with a start. 1 “ I beg your pardon !My fan—l’m afraid I t have caught it in the fringe of your jacket.” She saw a tall, slight girl, with a fair, oval face fringed with soft, wavy hair of the faintest gold, dressed in white, a bunch of creamy-white ' roses resting on her shoulder. With trembling, clumsy fingers she freed the fan, and its owner, giving her a sweet, gra cious smile, moved a few steps forward. In-. , stinctively Miss Rose glanced into a mirror . lining the wall opposite, and saw her face and tliat of the young lady reflected therein, and, for the first time in her life, she turned away; with a feeling of dissatisfaction and disenchant-- ment irom the sight, and in her mind rose a. 1 chilling doubt as to the supremacy of her fair ness, after all. iilio »>ao roaa ol' Lor owu wvrlfl—H6T OWH and John’s narrow, common world, to be sure ; but would she bo the rose of a world in which that pale, lovely girl moved—the world of rank, wealth, refinement, culture ? How grace fully and easily she moved—how sweet and low her voice was, and how mean she made her look and feel 1 Her cheeks were burning, her eyes snarkling like an angry witch’s ; her dress —how abominably it fitted her I And then those horrid bunches of roses—twopenny soar let roses—tumbling out of her hat—how she wished she had not put them on 1 Yet her mo ther and John—poor, stupid John ; how could he know any better ?—said they were pretty and became her so 1 With a gesture ot pained impatience she moved out of the range of the glass, and looked up the gradually-th; lining stairs. Coming down, his sleek, sheeny head towering over every other, she saw the most pronounced type of Algernon the Ineffable her eyes had rested on as yet, though all the evening she had been haunted by shadowy revelations of his exist ence. He had violet eyes—deep, sleepy and sad; his nose was perfect, his mustache of silky, golden brown, and there was about his person a suggestion of grace, strength, and ease that attracted her more than his hand some lace. She watched him eagerly, wondering if he always looked as tired and bored as he did then, and what emotion would bring life and in terest into his hail-closed eyes, when, as if in answer to her idle surmise, his face suddenly brightened, and a sweet tender smile parted his lips. Looking down to find the cause, she saw at a glance that it was the pale girl in white, though she was not looking up, and had not moved from her mother’s side; but a faint blush colored her cheek, her long lashes flick ered nervously, and Rose knew that she had seen him before he had her. This was the meeting of Cyril and Ermyn trude at the opera after their tragic estrange ment I—this Adeline finding herself face to face with St. John Somerset, atter seven hundred pages of doubt, despair, intrigue and misunder standing—this oue ol the dramatic idyls in the world of rank and fashion which poor Rose was fated only to dimly see from the pit and gallery of life. He was by her side the next moment, his hand clasping hers under her white fur cloak. They drew back slightly, until they touched Rose, who listened eagerly to their quick whis pers. “ Alice I” “ Charliel” “ I tried twice to get near you, but the sheep dogs kept me at bay. You have enough of them about you to-night, Ally.” Charlie, for shame I Only mamma, Aunt Florence, and Eliza, who are staying with us« How can you speak like that—wicked bo/1”