New York dispatch. [volume], November 22, 1885, Image 1

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

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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,
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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”