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New York dispatch. [volume] (New York [N.Y.]) 1863-1899, November 29, 1885, Image 1

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PffiKHED BY A. J. WIUJAJWB BONB.
VOL. XLI.--NO. 7.
Entered at the Post Office at New York,
N. ¥., as Second Class Matter.
THE NENV YORK DISPATCH,
PUBLISHED AT
NO. 11 FRANKFORT STREET.
The NEW YORK DISPATCH is a journal of light, agree
able and sparkling Literature and News. One page is de
voted to Masonic Matters, and careful attention is given
to Music and the Drama.
The Dispatch is sold bj’ all News Agents of the city and
suburbs,-at FIVE CENTS A COPY.
TERMS FOR MAIL SUBSCRIBERS:
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Address NEW YORK DISPATCH,
Post Office Box No. 1775.
PLAYSAND
”YO’J CAN ACF, BJr YOU CANT PAINT.”
■An EnglisJi Actor’s Blast—Cardboard Sets
—Btic-a-Brac Store Houses—Daly anti
A. M. Palmer-Tire Set of the Dan
iclieffs—Margaret Blather and
Mary Anderson—Nat Gcccl
win and Dixey—Mars
ton and Voegtlin—
Etc., Etc.
BY JOHN CARBOY.
Two seasons ago an actor came over hero from
London seeking an opening in some one of our lead
ing theatres. In London he was and is regarded as
an actor of more than ordinary merit. He is a man
•of culture, of good social connections, and does not
drop his H’s. Not long since he returned to Lon
don, It is from him I have received this opinion
upon our methods of stage setting and scenic paint
ing, as well as his ideas concerning some of oar lead
ing actors and actresses. The missive is dated from
London, and was written a few days prior to his de
parture for Australia.
“Your set houses are like cardboard sots. There’s
no appearance of solidity in them. When you set
the stage you give it too much light—it’s a glare of
colors—it’s too filling for the eye. Beside, the
scenes do not look real. There’s no weight to them.
They’re thin; the doors in your flats have nothing
substantial in them. When a character in the play
rushes off angrily and . slams a door after him you
see the painted panels shako and hoar a faint sound
as if a child had struck the canvas with a lath.
Why, the slam of that door ought to be as impres
sive as his exit speech—as expressive in the noise of
its sudden closing of the character’s mental condi
tion as his gestures and his tone of voice are of tho
Intent of the text. When you arc to have a draw
ing-room sot, supposed to be an English manor
house or in a French chateau, your artist gets it up
as tawdry in color, as bright and flashy and profuse
in ornamentation as the newly-papered barroom o;
one of your magnificent hotels. It catches the fan
cy of the vulgar, and they applaud the set vocifer
ously when the curtain rises, call out tho painter,
and all that sort of thing. All the while it is nei
ther the saloon of a chateau nor the drawing-room
of an English mansion. You set your stage
“TO PLEASE THE COMMON HERD OF PLAY
GOERS.
“ who are tickled with tho glare of a limo light effect,
and pleased with tinsel and Dutch metal. You dis
gust the finer sense of the bettor class; you insult
■ art and degrade nature.
•' You go to extremes for the sake of effect; you
produce the effects of exaggeration. Then your
manager, having caught the public with this vio
lation of tho purposes of tho scene-painter’s art.
pats him on the back and says, ‘By Jovo, you're
• tho best in tho land: you've hit ’em strong.’
“Then your critics extol this brilliant daub of
pigments, flaming with its incongruities of dash,
flash and slash, and pronounce the scene as one of
the finest examples of realism over seem upon the
• stage I
“ There is as little realism in ono of your palace,
■drawing, boudoir, or even street sets as there
is bulk in a soap-bubble. In your sets of your
parlors, and the apartment of a merchant, a prince,
• or a banker, there is little difference in the appoint-
■ monts; the manager, with great (esthetic pretense
crowds tho stage with flashily-upholstered furni-
■ tnre; with a cart-load of bric-a-brac, fire-board
paintings, gaudy curtains—4n fact, making his
- stage jesemble tho store-house of a curiosity shop—
a sort of branch exhibition place of your Cypher’s
store.
“ YOUR MR. DALY, A VERY CLEVER MAN
“In his way, has thia method of catching the popu
lar eyo by these tricks of bric-a-brac. Ho is an
export in this lino, and ho pauses at nothing as to
expense. What he has is of the most costly. He
makes a museum of his drawing-room interiors.
The collection of cUrios deftly arranged about the
stage, on: the tables, on the floor, against the wall,
and filling every nook and corner where it is possi
ble to put anything, from a Japanese fan to the
complete armor of a crusader, from a stag’s antlers
to an Etruscan vase, are as matters of value and
attraction, very frequently of more interest to the
audioyce than some.of the plays he produces.
“YOUR MB. PALMER
“is inclined to this sort of exhibition of the resources
of the American upholsterer and the curio gather
ers, but I give him the credit of drawing it mild,
and of having som« regard for tho dem ands of Art
and its use and less icr effect and its abuses. He stops
at the half-way bouse in making his stage settings
.complete* He■ endeavors to kill two birds with one
stone. I mean that while he sets the stage as nearly
as practicable to catch the fancy of his audience,
,ho does not neglect tho demands of the time and
•place in which the action of the play occurs; there
;is something o; fitness in tho appointments to the
■events of tho play and tho social position of its
■ character*. Moreover, in his arrangement of his
•settings there is an evidence of culture and refined
'.taste, which I have not yot seen in your Mr. Daly’s
■efforts. 1 am, you must understand, not speaking oi
any one special production of cither of these mana
gers as an example of their method, but in general
■of all.their
“I think th© most correct illustration of a play
and which was all the more effective in being thor
oughly artistic in every respect was that given by
Mr. Palmer to
‘ “THE DANICHEFFS,’
“which bo produced some seasons ago when he was
tho co-manager with Slieridau Shook, of the Union
Square Theatre.
“I have never seen upon the London stage nor
uponjtbat'-of Parisja finer example of stage setting,in
which tho proprieties of time and place were so
clearly and minutely considered in scene, in prop- :
ortios and costume. Mind you, lam not speaking
of the acting. From what I have seen of your leading
actors and actreasea, I regret being compelled to ad
mit that they are more capable and are brighter than
ours. Of course there are excoptious. You haven’t
an artist on your stage who in the comedy roles of
Shakespeare can equal Ellen Terry. At loast in my
Limited experience I have not seen one. Upon the
Luglish stage we have no tragic actress at present
Who I think is the equal of Mary Anderson. There
is another ono whom I saw while I was in Chicago,
during my last season in your country—l mean
JWargarqt Mathor--whosa acting ] watched very
/closely on two occasions; oneo as Juliet, and again
jie Leah. Ker Juliet did not impress me very great
ly as to her reading. But she did impress me as a
jovag neophyte in the profession, who,
possessing a greaift .natural theatric instinct, with a
Btrong will of her ziwu, was struggling to make
manifest her ideal of tf<?e character and break away
from the sot formulas t?s iiio 'coaching ’ which had
prepared her for the impersonation of Juliet, When
? 1)$ (Rd hl’Qilk Aiyay was /or the p)o.
meat free, she betrayed the lack of experience in
technique, and with all her natural intensity, phys
ical force and vocal strength, she could not make
clear her conception of her ideal. She was like a
young bird trying its wings. The instinct and the
will wore there, the example of the older birds wore
before her, but the wings were weak; they had not
grown as yet.
“ But when I saw her in the less exigent char
acter of Leah, I said to a friend who sat beside me:
“ Frank, here is a young woman who will in time
be one of the for- most of the modern school of melo
dramatic artistes of her time. In a few seasons she
will be the greatest exponent of that school now
upon the American stage. I read, as I think, her
nature, as I have seen it developed in her acting.
She is
“A WOMAN OF INDOMITABLE WILL,
" of passionate impulses; as a rule politic and sub
mitting to dictation when no other means to aid
her in the accomplishment of her purpose are
available. But once aroused and all the passions of
her being loosened from control, I would not like to
be the unfortunate object of her wrath or the
obstacle in her way.
This is the sort of nature which, combined with a
strong theatric instinct, and sustained by physical
strength and intelligence, are the attributes which
are the making of a melo-dramatic actress.
“ I caught, in her Leah—brief glimpses of those
attributes. I have since thought, that I would like
to see her in Camille, Cora, and in Adrienne Lecou
vrier—atter a few seasons of experience had given
her a more complete knowledge of stage craft—l
mean that knowledge gained entirely by and
through her own observation and study, and with
out being an automaton in the leading strings of a
coacber, I think she would achieve a brilliant
success.
“ You have another wonderfully strong artiste —
Fanny Davenport—and in her cast ot Sardou’e
“ Fedora ” there was a young man, Robert Man tell
—an Englishman I believe—who played Louis
Ipanoff— who I have since heard has not made any
marked success in any other character in wh ch he
appeared.
“MISS FANNY DAVENPORT
“could she play in French, would find I am sure im
mediate favor in Paris—even upon the stage of the
Theatre Francais. I have an idea that she would
make a magnificent success in “ Theodora,”
Sardou's latest sixcceedant to his “ Dora” and
“Fedora ?” There may not be as much of what a
writer in Punch once termed the “ point lace of
dramatic art,” the finesse and subtlety of Bernhardt
in Miss Davenport s work, but there are grander at
tributes which are the outgrowth of the English
speaking stage—physical health and strength, a posi
tive and direct, method, and a warmth and breadth
of comprehension which does not weaken itself with
the trivialities of technique in art, but sweeps on
with a fervor and magnificent dash which vitalizes
and makes memorable the character she imperson
ates.
“ But—l began mv diatribe with my op'nion of
your American stage settings and no intention of
interpolating so ioagthy a reference to your repre
sentative actors and actresses. Therefore I will te’l
you now what I think of Joe Jefferson, for whom as
I have for William Warren, Edwin Booth and Mr.
B.irrott — the proioundest respect, not only for their
great and commanding talent, but for the generous
and kindly greeting and encouragement they
extended to myself as well as to so many of the
wanderers irom our stage who have sought a hear
ing in your country. *
“ Nor will I weary your patience, my dear Car
boy, with any present experiences of the delight
afforded me by the acting—broad and humorous—
the very soul and vitality of fun and merriment it
was too—of those two mimes—Dlxey and Nat
Goodwin—the like or the peer of whom in bur
lesqtie we have not on our English stage.
“I began, as I propose to end this, my first mis
sive, to you since we parted company now four
months ago at Brown’s Chop House. I repeat, Ido
not like your
••AMERICAN STYLE OF SCENIC SETTING,
“There is too much Of the wall-paper.fire-board
coarseness in it. You have one admirable artist,
bis name, I believe, is Marston, who, in his painting
of interiors, especially of French interiors, is the
equal of any scenic painter I know of. His effects
are produced not only in drawing, perspective and
in the lines of architecture, but by the use of a
quietude in color, if I may so term it. There are no
violent contrasts; there is no obtrusion of the. stiff
nes.? and monotony of pattern work. His pictures
do not burst upon you and daze the sight with their
exuberance of color; they growpipon you and before
tho curtain falls they have fixed themselves in your
memory.
•• Of the boldest of your scenic artists, the most
rapid, picturesque, and because of the dash and
brilliance of his effects, Voegtlin is perhaps the
most notable example. He has the advantage of
having in his time been a great traveler, a close ob
server of the special characteristics of the architec
ture and natural scenery of many countries. He is
a firm believer Tn strong effects made with strong
lights and shades. He Is at his best, as I regard his
ability, in spectacular work and heavy sets and in
landscapes, where the grander forms of architec
ture are demanded.
" I understand that Voegtlin’s scenic illustrations
of 'Romeo and Juliet,’ which were painted for Mr.
J. M. Hill’s revival of that tragedy, are regarded as
being superior to any that have herdfifore, on your
stage, accompanied an American JShakspoarean pro
duction in your city.
“This, however, is an exception. The rule is
that your scenery is too light. It is effusive—it is
bright—but it is not art. It is the daub, the pot
boiler sort, got up to sell—the public. Did you not
notice the beauty and harmony in the color, the
total absence of your method of glare and glitter,
in Mr. Henry Irving’s scenic settings; with what
beauty and charm of effect one of his stage sets
seemed to melt from the toregrouud into the van
ishing point of the perspective, and bow every ap
pointment of the stage, every costume and every
gradation of light thrown upon the n seemed to be
an indispensable part of that set, and, in fact, to be
a part o: the painted picture, without either of
which it would be lacking in one of its most es
sential features?
“You noticed, too, how solid and real the archi
tectural sets were, with no suggestion of the card
board structure ? You noticedhow admirably the
sets and all their stage finishing were in accord
with the age and condition of the country and lo
cality in which the action of the play was supposed
to occur?
“Noticing these features of English stage set
tings which I have thus hastily pointed out, do you
not think there is something more of truth than
prejudice in my assertion that your American Ideas
and the popular taste which that idnt has created
and to which it still panders, in sc< >aintiug, is
not only an insult to Art, but a desecration of the
usages of stage decoration ?
“Lt you do not agree with me, I have at least the
hope that even in your obduracy you will believe
that I have spoken only in a spirit of fairness, and
cherish toward your country and its dramatic pro
fession no teeiing of dislike because my own experi
ence upon your stage was that of a failure.
“Perhaps, old boy, I was too good an actor to
succeed. That’s what some of my fellow-pro es
sionais who go-over to America say when they re
turn.
“Let me say, as a closing paragraph, you can act
over there, but you can’t set a stage."

Mme. J ebomb Bonaparte. —ln her old
age Mme. Jerome Bonaparte, of Baltimore, the
American beauty who married a brother of the
great Napoleon, and was repudiated by him, de
manded a great deal more admiration than she got.
At an entertainment she considered herself neg
lected by the gentlemen, who paid most of thei
attention to a couple of newly-married J die*. Sho
endutftj it or som > time, and then remarked to the
first ous who found a little time to spare wiifi her :
•• Do you jtDOw, -Ur. X., that 1 consider it the most
foolish in the world for a gentleman Lg pr.y
atte :t oos t.c young married lady?” * Ir.dc.-h
madam respoysded the gallant, "and why ? '
“Because a youi<u married woman is only a girl
NEW YORK. SUNDAY, NOVEMBER 29, 1885.
The Funny Man who Coined
His Agonies Into Jokes.
TOM HOOD’S SAD CAREER.
A Short Life of Labor and a Long
Battle with Misery.
THE ROMANCE OF HARD WORK.
Artemus Ward and His Brief and.
Mournful Record.
MURDERED BY GOOD FELLOWSHIP.
The following paragraph recently appeared in a
local weekly:
‘•I remember a long talk I once bad with tho
present Tom Hood, when he was the editor of Fun,
in London. He spoke, among other matters, of his
fatb r s t’-rrific straits in his literary career, and
told me that <mi more occasions than one he had to
send out, when bis illness was too lar advanced to
permit him to go out of doors himself, to borrow
money to buy tho next day’s food for his family.
This statement has a grim sign ficance, for when an
Englishman's credit with his butcher runs out, he
must be poor indeed. Humor, like poetry, must be
valued lor quality, not quantity. Yet, even when
it is thus estimated, it is never, to say tho least,
overpaid. We hoar of Lord Tennyson receiving
$5,0U0 lor a couple of verses, but never of a Jerrold
or a Hood receiving even SSOO for a couple of bon
mots.
A MARTYR OF LITERATURE,
The life of the humorist thus referred to is prob
ably the most conclusive evidence that could be
raised in support of the common theory that those
who contribute to the merriment of mankind are,
as a class, among the L ast happy of their species.
The life and death of the author of the “ Song of
the Shirt.” is one ot the most pathetic tragedies of
modern times. It is well summed up in this an
nouncement in his own magazine, “Hood’s Own,”
a few days before his death:
“Up to Thursday, the tweniy-third, Mr. Hood did
not relinquish the hope that he should have
strength to continue in the present number the
novel which be began in the last. . . . On the
same evening, sitting up in bed, he tried to invent
and sketch a few comic designs; tut even this effort
exceeded his strength and was ollowed by the wan
dering delirium of utter nervous exhaustion.”
| Of this miserable episode of his carear bis wife
wrote in a private letter, as follows:
“All Tuesday Hood has been in such an exhaust
ed state he was obliged to go to bed, but I was up
all niffd read'i io write, al his dictation if he. felt able;
but it was so utter a prostration of strength, that
he could scarcely speak, much less use his head at
all. The doctor said it was extreme exhaustion
from the cold weather, want of air and exercise,
acted upon by great, anxiety of mind and nervous,
ness. . . . The shorter the time became tiie
more nervous he was, and incapable of writing.
. . . His distress that the last post was come
without his being able to send (manuscript to a
magazine) was dreadful.”
Yet on this very night described by his wife,
when racked by agonies of body and torn by anxi
eties of mind, he managed to draw two humorous
sketches, which were afterward published in his
magazine. One was a magpie with a hood, such as
is used to blind hawks when they are taken to the
hunt, on its head, which was called “Hood’s Mag.”
The pun was a poor one, it must be admitted. The
other picture was more to the point. It represent
ed a collection of bottles, leeches and blisters, and
was called, with sardonic humor, “The Editor’s
Apologies.”
THE BIRTH OF A FUNNY WRITER.
Tom Hood was born in London, in 1798. His fa
ther was a bookseller and author—more successful,
however, in selling than in making books. He
wrote two novels, which have long since passed in
to oblivion; bnt as a bookseller he was successful
enough to rear his family respectably and give his
children such education as was usual at that day,
in his sphere of life. Young Tom, who was h s sec
ond son, was put in the office of a Russian mer
chant after leaving school, but he was a delicate
boy, and soon broke down. Sent to Scotland lor
his health, he returned to London at the age of sev
enteen, and entered the office of his uncle, who was
an engraver, to learn the art.
The close confinement of an engraver s office soon
told upon his health. He was therefore sent again
: to a relation in Scotland, where he remained lor
two years as clerk in a counting-room, and it was
in Scotland that he first began to write for the pub
lic. Returning to London in his twenty-second
year, he obtained employment on the “Lon.lon
Magazine” as a proof-reader and editorial assistant.
He at once began to write, in the iamiliar humor
ous vein, all sorts of stuff inprose and verse, which,
as he himself said, always astonished him by get
ting into print. They appear to have been very
poor productions, indeed, to judge from the few
that have survived, but they caught the popular
fancy at the time and raised him to a confirmed ed
itorial position.
At twenty-five he married the admirable and de
voted wife who Tgave herself up so entirely to her
suffering husband, and upon whose che ring pres
ence he was at last so dependant that he could
hardly write at all if she were not near him. The
first fyears of his married life were happy and
fortunate, for he enjoyed tolerable health; he could
produce saleable matter with astonishing ease, and
he had a sufficient income. But the Englishman’s
manly ambition to provide well for bis family
proved too much for him. He had saved some
money and determined to go into trade.
THE FIGHT WITH MISFORTUNE.
He went into the one his father had been in be
fore him. He took his couple of thousand pounds
and invested then in a publishing business, as Sir
Walter Scott did in the great Edinburgh house that
published his novels. The firm of which poor Hood
was a silent member failed in 1834, by which he lost
all that he had saved, and was plunged into debt.
His friends advised him to avail himself of the
Bankrupt Act, or as he expressed it, to “score off
his debts with legal whitewash or a wet sponge.”
But he chose to follow the example of Scott, and re
solved, if health continued, to discharge his obliga
tions by honest toil in his profession. With this
object in view, he removed with his family to Cob
lentz, a.town on the Rhine, where the necessaries of
life are much cheaper than in England. On the
passage over he narrowly escaped shipwreck, and
suffered so severely that his delicate constitution
never recovered the strain. His first desire, to die
an honest man made a lifelong martyr of him.
to his failure. Hood had published
“ Eugene Aram s Dream,” in a little annual called
“ The Gem, ’ which ho edited. His novel “ Tylney
Hall.” was also written previous to the sad crisis in
his affairs. He spent six years on the continent,
and when he returned, took charge of the “ New
Monthly Magazine,” leaving it in 1844, to start
“Hood’s Magazine,” which be continued till his
death. It is scarcely likely that he suffered the ex
treme poverty hinted at in the paragraph now float
ing about, as at the time of his death be enjoyed a
pension of £IOO a year, secured for him by Sir Robert
Peel. But he is known to have been miserably
poor in all that concerns the higher comforts of life
during the entire tw-dve years of his final m irtyr
dom. Such scenes as the one described in bis
wife’s letter, occurred many a time in the author’s
room, he so racked with agony that he could neither
write nor draw and his wife sitting patiently dur
ing the slow hours of the night, waiting to see if her
husband would have an interval ot ease when he
could exercise his powers.
AN IRREPRESSIBLE HUMORIST.
Sick or well Hood was an irreclaimable farceur.
Not even the anguish of twelve years of invalid’3m I
could quench his spirit. His last letter is a case in
point. He wrote:
•• Dear Moir—God bless you and yours aid
good-by 1 I drop these lew lines as m a bottle irom
a ship water-logged and on tho brink of foundering,
being in ths last stage cf dropsical debility. But
though suffering in body, serene in mind. Ho with
reversing my Union Jack, I await my last lurch
TiH WL’cb, believe ma, dear Meir, yours most i
“ Thomas Hood.”* I
Fearless and Independent.
A thousand stories are told of Hood as a punster
and practical joker. One of the best is that of tho
plum J adding. When they were living in Germany,
Mrs. Hood volunteered to make an English plum
pudding for some of tho officers of tho garrison of
Coblentz, Hood was writing lato at night, when
the servant took the pudding out of tho pot, and
put it smoking on a tabic near him. She then went to
bed. There was a large quantity of new wooden skew
ers lying about, which he proceeded to thrust into the
pudding in every direction, and did it so neatly that
the pudding presented no visible sign of the mischief
that had been done to it. In tho moring it was con
veyed to the officers’ mess, where it figured upon
their table at dinner; and in the evening one of
them came to thank Mrs. Hood for the gift. When
the officer arrived tho lady was not present, and he
began to pour forth the admiration and gratitude of
the officers to her mischievous husband.
“Don’t you think it was well trussed?” asked
Hood.
To this the officer replied, “Yes,” so simply and
gravely, that Hood supposed they meditated a joko
in retaliation, and kept a bright lookout upon tho
parties concerned. Days passed, and nothing hap
pened. Ho discovered at length, by accident, th it
the Prussian officers, totally ignorant of the nature
of pluni.pndding, supposed that the skewers
were a proper and necessary part of it, and it was
not until some one informed tlu-m to the contrary
that they Became aware that a joke had been played
upon them. George the Third, we know, was puz
zled to account for the presence of the apple inside
of a dumpling; and these Prussians were no better
informed respecting the nature of a plum-pudding,
Ono of his bon mots is related of the time when
he visited Ostend, and it was suggested that he
might obtain a consulate the re. He wrote in con
sequence to an influential friend:
“ Why can’t the Qu* en make me consul here ? I
don’t want to turn anybody our, but can’t there be
nothing-to-do enough for two?”
HOOD’S AMERICAN RIVAL.
Hood died in London, on May 3, 1845, and was
buried in Kensall Green Cemetery. A fine monu
ment was erected over him by public subscription.
It is a fact to be noted that the “Song of the Shirt,”
on which so much of his fame rests, was first
published in Punch, and that a verso of the original
manuscript was cut out by tho editor, who con
sidered it too strong for the moral British public.
It has been said by an eminent American literary
man who knew them both, that Tom Hood's nearest
approach in tho field of our own humorous litera
ture was Artemus Ward. Tboir characters were
very similar, though the distinction between their
veiws of humor was as wide as the Atlantic. But
their.deaths partook of the same premature and
painful character, though poor Artemus suffered
less and had his own irregularities of habit to biamg
for his early end.
Artemus Ward, otherwise known as Charles
Farrer Browne, was boin in Waterford, Me., in 1834.
His father was a surveyor there. He was appren
ticed to the printing business, - and at the Rge of
sixteen found his way from the office of the Show
hegan C’arion to Boston, where he set type on the
Carpet Bag, a famous funny periodical of the time
Here, as Hood did, on the “ London Magazine,”
he worked on his first funny story, sending it in
anonymously and to his great delight getting a take
of it to set up. A reading of Bayard Taylor’s
“ Views Afoot ” started him on the tramp and he
wandered West, footing it and seetting type for a
living when he went broke.
“I didn’t know,” he once said, “but what I
might get as far as China, and set up a newapaper
one day in tho tea-chest tongue.”
THE ARTEMUS WARD LETTERS.
He stopped short of China, however. At the town
ot Tiffin, Ohio, he a place as compositor
and assistant editor, at four dollars a week. From
Tiffin he removed to Toledo, where he procured a
similar place in the office of the Toledo Commercial,
at flvo dollars a week. It was upon this paper that
his talent as a humorist first attracted attention,
and he was soon permitted to devote his whole
t ine tet filling tha local columns with amusing
abuse of the rival paper. Ha acquired so much
celebrity in Ohio as a writer of facetious para
graphs, that he was offered at length the place of
local editor of the Cleveland Plaindealer, at a salary,
munificent for the time and plac ■*, of twelve dollars
a week. One day in 1859, when the local editor of
the Cleveland Plaindealcr was in desperate want of
a topic, he dashed upon paper a letter from an im
aginary showman, to which he affixed the name of
a Revolutionary General, which had always struck
him as being odd—“ Artemas Ward.” The letter
made a hit and ho kept them up until they won a
reputation for him.
But except the reputation which the letters gave,
they were of little advantage to their author. His
salary may have been increased a few dollars a
week, and he added a little to his income by contri
butions to the comic papers of New York. Artemus,
anxious to buy back the family homestead in which
to shelter the old-age of his widowed mother, soon
discovered that he could never do it by making
jokes, unless he could sell them over and over again.
So he tried comic lecturing. The first night the ex
periment was a failure. A violent storm of snow,
sleet, and wind thinned the audience—in Clinton
Hall, to such a degree, that the lecturer lost thirty
dollars by the enterprise.
A tour in New England, however, had better re
sults. He lectured a hundred nights, by which he
cleared nearly eight thousand dollars, and he was
soon able to establ sh his mother in the comfortable
village home in which he was born. For five years
be enjoyed a career of unbroken success before the
public. Then the collapse came.
He was not a particularly deep drinker, but he
was convivial and social, and with the seeds of con
sumption in him he wasted his nights in good fel
lowship, instead of resting from his days of labor.
He died in London in 1867, and, oddly enough, the
last message he was known to have rea I was that
from one of his own books, where, having offered a
stage driver on tho plains a drink, the latter re
plied:
“I don’t drink. I won’t drink I And I don’t
like to see anybody else drink. Im of the opinion
of those mountains —keep your top cool. They’ve
got snow and I’ve got brains; that s all the differ
ence.”
The quotation might a.most have served for his
epitaph !
HOW DID HE LIVE?
PERHAPS HE COULD HARDLY
TELL HIMSELF.
The most of us lead a humdrum life—the same,
day in and out, the year round. Getting up in the
morning it is breakfast, then to work—the same
task to be done—recess and lunch at noon, a few
more hours of the same work, home to supper, and
afterward to bed. It is sameness the week through
With James Sullivan, aged eighteen, a fairly well
dressed young man, who pleaded guilty to larceny,
there could not be the same even every-day life that
is the lot of many others. Where he slept nobody
knows, and when he got up in the morning he never
knew where he would get a blessed bite durin-j the
day. or again at night where he should sleep.
And yet he said this was the first charge of lar
ceny and this was the first arrest.
“What do you do for a living ?” asked the court.
“Nothing. I have been out of work for the last
seven monts.”
“Where have you been living?” again asked the
court.
“I couldn’t tell you.”
“Have you no home?”
“No, sir.”
“No friends ?”
“No. sir.”
“V. here were you born ?” asked the court.
“This city.”
The three Justices locked at each other a moment,
then decided to send him to the Penitentiary for
s x months. When discharged from prison he will
be placed as he was six months before—without
character, work or home. What is he to do, if he
wili not starve or drown himself, but again steal?
THE MVIUURED SENTINLL.
Circumstances Which Pointed
to a Naval Officer.
A DISCONCERTED DETECTIVE.
A Fresh Start Whic > Ended In the Pun
ishment of the Guilty.
During the night of November 7th, 1839, Private
John Burton was stabbed and killed while on sentry
duty at the Barracks, Sunderland, England. There
was apparently no clew to his assassin. Once before,
according to a statement said by a comrade to have
been made to him, some one had attempted to kill
Burton while returning one evening to the bar
racks, His cromrade, said, however, that Burton
had asked him to say nothing about it, and he had
kept it secret. The government took the murder in
hand and placed expert detectives at work to find
out some explanation of the crime.
First pf all, it was ascertained easily enough that
Burton enlisted at Woolwich in May 1838, and that
be had speedily proved himself a very efficient re
cruit. He read and wrote well, was possessed of
superior intelligence and spoke totally unlike the
class of men who usually sought the army for a
livelihood. Ho was a tall, finely formed man of
about twenty-five and was remarkable for his affa
ble ways and attractive conversation.
He had never, to his most intimate associates,
mentioned any circumstance in his past life or
made any allusion to his friends or the place of his
birth, nor was there among his effects any letter or
thing that served in the slightest way to connect
him with any person or locality. Only one fact
seemed to throw any light on his murder, and that
was the statement of his comrade that once before,
and only a short time previous to his death, some
person had attempted to assassinate him on his
way to the barracks, and the particulars of even
this could not be obtained, as his comrade said he
had not communicated them.
AT WORK.
The officers managed, however, to get the com
rade to fix the date of the attempt at murder as be
ing early in October, and consequently reached the
conclusion that the person who made the first at
tempt had rcmained*in the town until he had an
opportunity to accomplish his design. Then they
applied themselves to the task of finding whether
any suspicious stranger had been seen in the neigh
borhood. This was no easy task in a seaport town
to which scores of strangers were coming every day.
Still the officers had a hope that they would succeed
in getting some information which might guide
them, as the probability was that if any person had
been in the town lor a month or more, with the
express object of killing Burton, he had passed his
time in idleness, or. at all events, had not been en
gaged in any occupation that would absorb all his
time and attention. Such a man, they thought, in
so busy a town, would be observed, and their object
was to find out whether this was the fact.
The place where idle mon usually spent their
time was ou the pier, watching the vessels come
and go, and, especially near the custom house; as
there was always a crowd of old salts, pilots and of
ficials round that spot, very frequently some inter
esting scenes were to bo witnessed between the rev
enue officers and the captains of foreign vessels who
failed to heave to, to allow them to go on board.
Lambert and Johnson, the officers who were in the
case, visited this spot and soon ascertained that for
a month or more prior to the killing of Burton a
man bad been often seen there, and that, on one oc
casion, when a French brig came into the harbor
before a fresh breeze and with the tide, and was so
badly handled as to make a collision with a fine new
bark almost inevitable, this stranger had seized the
trumpet from the hailing master and given a few
short, sharp, ringing orders in French to the sailors
on board, which bad startled them into motion and
prevented a serious accident. This man was traced
to a small hotel iu Monkwearmouth, across the
river, where it was found that he had stayed for
some weeks and from which he had departed on the
very morning after the killing ot Burton. Without
difficulty the officers traced him to Newcastle and
on board a steamer there which had sailed the same
day lor London.
IN THE GREAT CITY.
“This is our man, beyond a doubt,” Lambert
said, “and our work now lies in London.”
Thither they went, and used al! those means with
which detectives are familiar to discover the sup
posed assassin. For a long time their search was
fruitless. At length one day, when Lambert was on
other business, be saw a man come out of tho ad
miralty who answered precisely the description of
the person for whom he had been so long looking.
He followed him to a West End Hotel, and with
out difficulty ascertained that he was Lieutenant
Charles Merlin, of the Royal Navy. Lambert's in
quiries showed that Merlin was the san of a gentle
man of private fortune, residing near Thetford.
Finding that he was a man of high standing in the
navy and in society, he was anxious to have the
clearest proof of his guilt it was possible to obtain
before charging him with the crime of murder.
Another detective was appointed to watch him and
Lambert went down to Thetford, There he heard a
remarkable story.
AN ELOPEMENT.
Two years before, Beatrix, the sister of Lieutenant
Merlin, was at a boarding school in the city of
Norwich. She became acquainted clandestinely
with a young man of prepossessing appearance,
who gave his name as Robert Jephson, and repre
sented himself as wealthy. In an evil hour she
eloped with him. Mr. and Mrs. Merlin were terri
bly shocked at the conduct of their daughter, and
Lieutenant Merlin, who was on leave at the time,
started iu pursuit of the fugitives. After several
weeks he found them at Bath, living in good style,
and, being satisfied of their marriage, though far
from being assured of the truth of the representa
tions made by Jephson, he advised his parents to
allow things to take their course. A reconciliation
was about to be effected, Jephson having solemnly
pledged himself to present indubitable proofs of bis
respectability and wealth, and a day was fixed for
the return home of Beatrix accompanied by her
husband. A week before that day came, Jephson
disappeared, leaving his wife without the means of
support.
Soon afterward her father journeyed to Bath and
brought his daughter home, and within a month it
was ascertained beyond a question that, over a year
before his marriage to Beatrix, Jephson had mar
ried a rich widow at Cheltenham, much older than
himself, and, after possessing himself of a large
sum of money belonging to her and her jewels, had
desorted her. It was further ascertained by De
tective Lambert that Lieutenant Merlin had vowed
vengeance against the betrayer of his sister, and
hud used all the means at his disposal to discover
his whereabouts. A miniature of Jephson was pro
cured and forwarded to Sunderland, where it was
identified by officers of the regiment and others as
jin exact likeness of the murdered Burton.
AN ARREST AND AN EXPLANATION.
Things having reached this shape. Detective Lam
bert thought it was time to move, and arrested
Lieutenant Merlin at his hotel. He briefly told him
the suspicions under which he rested, and asked
him to accompany him to Scotland Yard. There,
in the presence of the Chief of Police, Lambert
related the facts as already disclosed. Merun ad
mitted their truth, and said that, however circum
stances seemed to point to him as the. possible
kilier of Burton, he hud a full and complete explana
tion of all his actions which appeared to lay him
under suspicion. He said that the Admiralty, hav
ing been informed of irregularities in the Preventive
Service at Sunderland, where a great deal of smug
gling at that time was go ng on, sent him t ather
mccg. to investigate matters. He did so. and. hav
ing finished his business, quitted Sunderland, sin
gularly enough, the v ry morning of the killing of
Burton. The authorities at the Admiralty fully
corroborated this statement, and tho head of the
Customs Department at Sunder and proved that
from eight o'clock to two on the night of the mur-
OFFICE, NO. 11 FRANKFORT ST.
der be was w th Merlin at his hotel, helping him to
prepare his report. The facts showed that Burton
must have been assassinated before midnight, as'
his body was found still warm when the guard
was relieved at that hour.
A FRESH START.
Lambert was justly disconcerted at his signal fail
ure. He returned to Sunderland and the investiga
tion was begun afresh. He carefully collected every
scrap of information that seemed to bear on the
case. Facts, which had before seemed insignificant,
were carefully examined and weighed. On the day
before the murder, the Duke of Sussex had laid tho
foundation stone of a public building in Sunder
land, and in the evening the officers of the regi
ment had attended a reception in the town.
One of the orderlies in attendance was Jackson, the
comrade of Burton, to whom he had communicated,
as alleged, a previous attempt to assassinate him.
Lambert found that the officers returned to the
barracks at twenty-five minutes to twelve, and that
Jackson, before entering the gateway, complained
that his nose was bleeding and steppod aside. Bur
ton’s rounds terminated within fifty yards of the
gate at the east side, and the night was too dark to
see whether he was then on bis post. Jackson en
tered the barracks about eight minutes after the
officers.
Detective Lambert found that Burton and Jackson
had been in the habit of visiting a public house
kept by one Gillespie, a retired pilot, on Sans street,
and that Jacksou had continued his visits to the
place after Burton’s murder. He learned that Gil
lespie’s daughters were not remarkable for their
modesty, and Jane, the elder, had formerly been
AN INTIMATE FRIEND OF BURTON.
A little finessing on Lambert’s part reveale.l the fact
that Jane had thrown over Jackson for Burton and
that, alter Burton’s death, she had renewed her in
timacy with Jackson.
Lambert, assuming the character of a London
coal merchant of a low grade, and securing the as
sistance of the captain of a collier brig, got an intro
duction to Gillespie’s place,and soon became on easy
terms with the landlord and his daughters. He
took them to the theatre and treated them with a
lavish hand, and on more than one occasion ex
tended his generosity to Jackson. He soon got on
terms familiar enough to refer to the killing of Bur
ton, and expressed surprise that the murderer had
never been discovered. He was quick enough to
observe that whenever this matter was referred to,
though Jackson was always ready to toll all he knew,
Jane Gillespie found some excuse to get away. He
observed, furthermore, that Jackson always had
some new point or suggestion in connection with
the crime not before made, and speedily discovering
that the intimacy between Jackson and Jane was
something more then mere friendship, he came to
this conclusion : “If Jackson killed Burton, Jane
Gillespie knew all about it after the crime was com
mitted.”
TO A HEAD.
When be had made up his mind to act he brought
things to a speedy issue. He invited Jackson to meet
him at Gillespie’s the next afternoon, saying that
he would take him and the girls to Newcastle for a
trip by tho new railroad, recently opened. When
tjie came he found Jackson there, and Jane
with him.
“Look here, Jackson.” he said, “I’m afraid we
shan’t be able to go to Newcastle to-day.”
•Why not?” Jackson asked.
“For the simple reason,” the detective replied,
“that I have some very important business to at
tend to.”
“What kind of business ?” Jackson inquired.
“Well,” was the reply, “business with you and
Jane. I have a warrant hero to arrest you, Jacks on,
for the murder of Burton, and. another to arrest you,
Jane, as being accessory after the crime.”
With that he laid the papers upon the table and
looked the man and woman sternly iu the face.
Jackson turned pale, and Jane fell back in her chair
as though she had been stunned.
“It’s no use making any fuss,” said the officer.
“My name is Lambert and I’m a London detective
and know my business. I have half a dozen officers
within call if you make any row or resist.”
They made no show of resistance. They tried to
talk, but speech seemed to fail them. Then the
woman began to weep, and Gillespie came forward
and wanted to know what was the matter. Lam
bert told him in a deep, steady voice, and added:
“Mr. Gillespie, it will be best for you to say
nothing.”
With that he drew a whistle from his pocket and
blew on it. In a moment three men entered.
“’Take him away,” said lambert, pointing to
Jackson; “ I’ll attend io tho woman.”
THE WOMAN PEACHES.
When Jackson had departed with the officers,
Lambert said:
•’Now, Jane, you can send for your bonnet and
shawl and walk with me.”
Gillespie procured the articles of dress, and when
the woman had resumed them with trembling hands
and tearful eyes, Lambert said:
"Jane, if you are willing to tell all you know
about this matter, I can promise you that noth
ing will harm you.”
The woman protested that she know nothing;
bnt, on her way to the jail, she admitted that Jack
sou had confessed to her that he had killed Burton
through jealousy. He told her that ho had made
up bis mind to do it, and that, on returning with
the officers from the reception, he had resolved to
do th > deed at once.
Ou pretence that his nose was bleeding, he stayed
behind, bnt almost immediately entered the gate
and went toward the barracks after giving the sen
try the countersign. Then he turned back and
went at an angle toward where he knew Burton
would be on sentry. Burton challenged him and
Jackson atter responding drew near and said :
• ftfcre’B a drop of the right sort for you. Burton.”
Then he handed Burton a small flask which he had
unsealed, and, while Burton was drinking, stabbed
him to the heart with a jackknife. Burton fell with
the knifejin him, and Jackson going to his head
reached over and drew out the knife, which he
thrust into the earth to clean it. He carried it with
him to the barracks and threw it the same night
down the watercloset.
The prisoner Jackson was formally delivered over
to the civil .power for trial and punishment, He
was tried and, on the testimony of Jane Gillespie,
convicted. Before the sentence of death was exe
cuted upon him, he confessed everything, admit
ting that the story he had told to Jane Gillespie was
true. As to his statement that Burton had told him
that an attempt had been made to assassinate him
while returning one evening to the barracks, Jack
son confessed that it was a fabrication, devised to
avert suspicion from himself.
QUEER RELATIONSHIPS.
DESERTING TH E WIFE FOR THE
SISTER.
Richard Godfrey, aged 28, printer, was charged
with disorderly conduct, annoying his sister in
law, Annie Jones. The wife did not appear in
court, the sister-in-law did, a puffed up lager beer
keg. She admitted that her brother-in law had
been living with her lor a long time past, she was
tired of him, but he wouldn t give her up. He an
noyed her by coming to her, and she wanted to got
rid of him.
“ And I wanted to get rid of her,” said the man.
Justice Kilbreth thought it strange that two
earthly bodies, should not be governed on Heavenly
principles, that wheu tha celestial wanderers ap
proached each other, their near approach repelled
and turned their backs on each other, and re
sumed their travels through the solemn silence of
the realms of space.
“ How came you to leave your wife for her
sister ?” a'ked Justice Kilbreth.
•• 1 cannot tell you, unless it was the devil’s de
vices and her flattering tongue,” said defendant.
“ But you did desert your wife for her sister ?”
“ I did. I wanted to get rid of her and go back to
my wife. To make it square with her I paid her
rent and sot her on her feet, but she was not satis
fied with that. I told her to go back to her hus
band. I’d go back to my wife.”
“ She says you didn’t work regularly; where did
you get this money you say you gave her ?”
“ From my wife.”
“Togive to your mistress, and she your wife’s
sister.
“ Yes, sir. I got the money from my wife to pay
this woman’s landlord’s bill, and meeting her I
found the landlord hadn’t been paid. I wanted to
go back to my wife who wanted me, she wouldn’t
have it. We had words on the sidewalk, an officer
came up and she charged me with following her.
Heaven knows I would be glad to shake her off and
get back to iny wife.”
“Is your husband living?” asked Justice Kil
breth of Mrs. Annie.
Mrs. Jones was understood to say that she did not
know, he had deserted her.
Defendent said he wanted his sister-in-law to let
him alone; his sister-in-law no longer fascinated
him.
Mrs. Jones said she too was no longer fascinated,
his supplies had given out.
Justice Kilbreth ordered Godfrey to find S3OO bail
to keep the peace.
The sister-in-law should have been put under the
same bonds and that would have ended the trouble.
It seldom happens that a sister seduces the hus- ;
band oi the sister, and makes the man bleed his
wile to support her, and she at the same time
having a husband.
it is, however, one of those curious cases, that
only once in a whil? loom up in a Police Court,
PRICE FIVE CENTS.
■ A WINTER’S NIGHT.
v BY M. E. WILKINS.
Snow ia on the cottage-roof,
Snow is on the cottage-eaves,
Snow is on the dry rose-tree,
Snow is on the dead oak-leaves.
In his splendid jeweled belt,
'Cross the sky Orion strides;
Silently the frozen moon
O’er the eastern mountain glides.
All the village lights are out,
Sweet the tired people sleep;
While, among their silent homes,
God his watch and ward doth keep.
FAIR ROSAMOND.
The Story of a Trifling Girl.
CHAPTER VI.
“ WHAT A PERVERSE FOOL I AM.”
“Oh, John, I told you at least twenty times f
you don’t listen to a word I say ! Alice is my
cousin, my sister, my dearest friend, the sweet-’
est duck in the world ! Oh, it was so strange/
so romantic, all about her I Do you remem
ber, John, one night, a couple of years ago, tak
ing me to the theatre, and our noticing a tall*
fair girl with lovely golden hair, who was wait
ing in the hall for her carriage ? You didn’|
I notice her ? Well, I did, and envied her, too M
and almost hated her, because she had every
thing I wanted, little dreaming that a few years
later I should actually be the means of robbing
her—sweet, forgiving darling—of the fortune
that would have certainly been hers, that every
one ”
“You, Rosie—how?”
“She was grandfather’s nearest of kin, aftei*'
mo, the daughter of his late nephew, Randal
Egerton, and the only person he ever asked to
stop at the Park. She used to go there twice a»,
year, and she and the old man got on very well
together, for he always liked to have young anil,
pretty people about him, until, during her last
visit, acting on the advice of some parson she
had met at an aunt’s, she refused to read aloud
a French novel in-which the old man was inter
ested, substituting foy it an awakening tract
supplied by the parson, unfortunately for her,
relating to the horrors of death-bed impenitence.
The next morning he sent her home to her mo
ther, wrote to his lawyers to try to find me and
mother out, if we were in the land of the living,
and finally, when he died, left her only a couple
of thousand pounds, instead of forty or fifty, a&
he had originally intended.”
“She bore you no ill-will ?”
“Not the slightest; she and her mother wera
the first to come forward and congratulate ua
on our good fortune ; now we are bosom-friends
—the closest allies, and she is going abroad with
me in the Autumn. You must get a month’s
leave and join us in Switzerland without fail,
John : do you hear? Come in now, and be in
troduced. You have my leave to fall in love
with her on the spot, remember.”
John saw a tall, fair, willowy young lady,
dressed in dark green, standing beside his step
mother, who hastily presented her before Rosa
mond could interpose.
“Alice, love, this is John Sterling, whom I'
dare say you have o ten heard us speak about—
John Sterling—my dear son, and Rosie’s best of
brothers.”
They bowed, and Alice, with a sigh, stole a
quick look at John's plain, honest face, and the
little romance she had been building on her
friend's account fell to the ground. John had
no lover’s eyes ; to poor Alice, the eyes of
were of one color—deep violet-blue-and his
were light gray.
Presently the room began to fill with dowagers,
damsels, and dandies, and John learned to hia
dismay that this was Mrs. Sterling-Egerton’a
day at home.
Rosie, at the tea-table, was soon surrounded
by an animated Pourt, while John, remained in
a retired corner with Miss Alice, who seemed
to haye very little to say for herself.
“Can you tell me,” he asked, breaking a long
silence, “ who is that tall military-looking man
speaking to Rosamond just now?”
“He is a Captain L’Estrange—that is his
mother, Lady L’Estrange, in black, next to
Mrs. Egerton—l mean, Mrs. Sterling-Egerton.”
“ L’Estrange! Are they any relation to tho
family who were lost yachting off the coast of
Scotland last Autumn?”
“The same; at least, I mean it, it was Lady
L’Estrange’s eldest son, his wife and young
family; it is for them she is in mourning.”
“It was a tragical story. I remember hear
ing all the particulars from a friend who had
met them abroad the year before. The whola
family perished, I believe ?” j
“Yes, father and mother and three children;
it was very sad. We knew them all so well,
over since we were children; the L’Estrangea
are our nearest neighbors in the country.” •
“There was also some loss of fortune, was
there not?” pursued John, more for the pur
pose of keeping up the conversation than for
any interest in the subject. “ The L’Estranges
are not well oft ?”
“ Wretchedly poor for people of their posi
tion. They have not been able to keep up the
Priory since the son’s death. He married a
great heiress and would have restored the fam
ily fortunes, but, as he left no children, hia
wife’s money all went back to her own people.”
“ Captain L’Estrange is heir to the baronetcy
now?”
“Yes.”
The conversation flagged for a time, and John
and his companion silently watched the chang
ing groups gathered round the tea-table, watch
ed the handsome lace of Captain L’Estrange
smiling into the sparkling eyes of his young
hostess, whose light perpetual chatter and ring
ing laugh reached poor John’s uneasy ear oveu
every other sound.
“I hate that fellow!” he muttered fretfully.
“I never saw a man I took such a dislike to at
first sight, I’m sure I don’t know why—there’s
such a sense of insufferable ease and self-pos
session about him, as if he felt himself to be so
superior to his company as not to require the
slightest effort to assert himself—it’s what I
call the supremacy of swagger, that’s what it is I
Those other heavy dandies, with their petrified
airs and graces, aren’t half so objectionable, be
cause you can see they are uneasy, watchful,
and don’t half believe in themselves yet. I sup
pose Rosie, little goose, thinks him the perfec
tion of grace and fascination, an edition de luxe
of her sixpenny heroes of romance—nothing
less—they have enough to say to one another,
at any rate. By Jove, what a little chatterbox
she is ! I wonder what they are talking about.
He looks now as if he were pleading passion;
ately for her hand and heart, but I supose he
iSn’t—the situation is rather too public:”
“Pray, Miss Egerton,” John said, turning
abruptly to the young lady, who was listlessly
turning over the leaves of an album, “ can you
tell me if Rosa—if my sister knows Captain
L’Estrange well ?”
“ Well ?” she repeated, with a slight catching

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