New York dispatch. [volume], January 10, 1886, Image 1

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

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VOL. XLI.-NO. 13.
Entered at the Pest Office at New York,
N. ¥., as Second Class Matter.
THE NEW YORK DISPATCH,
PUBLISHED AT
KO. 11 FRANKFORT STREET.
The NEW YORK DISPATCH is a Journal of light, agree
able anti 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 by all News Agents of the city and
•suburbs, at FIVE CENTS A COPY.
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KBSISDEHSEEKK33M3azn3iESSM®Ea
PLAYS AND PLAYERS.
CAMILLES AND LEAHS.
From .Jean Davenport to Mocljeska.— Ma
tilda Heron—Mrs. D. P. Bowers—The
First Leah, Kate Bateman—Mar
garet Matlier and Her Per
formance — Her Theatric
Instinct—Her Meth
ods and Tal
ent, Etc.
BY JOHN CARBOY.
Marguerite Gautier, otherwise and more familiar
ly known as Camille was, according to her histo
rian M. Alexandre Dumas, fils, a nice young lady,
mentally, and very naughty physically.
There was nothing of the Leah in her composi
tion.
When she began business on her own account her
stock in trade consisted of personal beauty and a
miscellaneous assortment of good intentions.
Unfortunately, at the commencement of her trav
els, she boarded the wrong train of circumstances,
and instead of completing her journey to bliss and
happiness on the narrow gunge main track, she
found herself the victim of a misplaced switch, on a
aiding, and—was left.
That deceptive misplaced switch was her love for
Armand Duval.
Frou Frou, Adrienne Lecouvrier, Cora, Leah, and
other young ladies were diverted from the right
track by this same misplacement of the unlooked
for but inevitable switch.
Camille had a yearning to be a« good as any other
angel of the earth, earthy. She wanted the earth,
and she got it—in a consumptive’s grave. But the
best of men and women cannot have all they hanker
for in life, and remain truly good.
Purity without alloy is an article as unknown in
commerce as it is in the heroines of the drama.
Valued at a gold standard, Camille’s purity—in the
market—was not over ten carats fine; in the crucible
of love —at a white heat—its value apparently in
creased to a possible fifteen out of twenty,
Leah—by the same standard—began pure—the
alloy of her passion for Rudolph decreased her
rating to an extremely mailcable condition; and
when it was further reduced by the fusion of her
wicked curse it went out of the market and Leah
died.
I have looked upon many of these stage Camilles
and upon but few of the Leahs.
THE JUDEAN HEROINES
have found little favor with either amateur or pro
fessional aspirants. And of the heroes—the leading
characters, representative of the characteristics of
the race—Shylock and Siin’l of Posen are about
the only ones on call at the present time. And
I’oson seems to have had tho best run of trade in
the past two or three Seasons. You see this example
of the speculative Israelite asks for no pound of
flesh; ho compromises on sharing terms—half gross,
as nominated in the managerial bond.
Of the representatives of Camille who have come
forward upon the stage, and have commanded ad
miration for their art and sompolled sympathy and
pity for the character, the number is so small that
it can bo easily counted.
To Miss Jean Davenport belongs the credit of
being the first to present the English version of
Dumas’s work upon the American stage. As a mat
ter of fact, the character was not to her liking, in
an artistic sense. She added it to her repertoire
because at that time it was the reigning success in
Paris, Mid had in it the elements which she was
confident would make it successful upon our stage.
Her adaptation of the play, however, in some essen
tials, differed from the original drama. Passages
of tho dialogue were modified, and the nature and
conditions of the characters were made more ideal
than realistic by the art and delicacy of the actress’s
treatment of the theme.
MISS JEAN DAVENPORT
(afterward Mrs. F. M. Lander) is scarcely remem
bered now as an exponent of the part; her reputa
tion as an artiste rests upon other and more sub
stantial basis.
The actress who came down to tho present genera
tion from the “palmy days” period, with this sin
gle part under her arm as a memorial that she had
a lame and place upon tho stage, was Matilda
Huron. In her time she created a furore with her
weird and certainly original conception of the
charactor. To-day, were any actress to repeat it, it
would scarcely bo tolerated.
Her impersonation of Camille was broad and
effective only in its coarseness. She portrayed a
Camille which had no touch of that refinement, of
the easy grace and sensuous charm which would
win her tho homage of a duke of the ancien regime,
the adoration of a Count Varville, or the passionate
and sincere love of an Armand Duval. It
Camille of the Quartier Breda and the Jardin Mibille,
not the Marguerite Gautier of Alexandre Dumas. It
a Jwncy Sykes masquerading as a woman of
quality. 4. #
Thofi came Mrs. D. P. Bowers, a little actress,
once a leading favorite on the Philadelphia stage.
She caught tho “Camille” fever. She had already
played almost every part in the range of the drama,
from Bianca down to Betsey, the cook, with an
amount of nervous force, vocal power and staying
quality which was amazing to those who saw what
a little body it was that held it all.
She went through the part as a locomotive under
a full head of steam rushes through a tunnel—with
a prolonged shriek—and when she came out at tho
end, all there was left of the unfortunate part was—
Mrs. Bowers,
Then came Clara Morris, and she gave us . a Ca
mille which was a materialization of emotional hys
teria, made wonderfully impressive and memorable
by the occasional fitful flashes of genius which light
ened up the weird progress of her dramatic seances.
Then there camo to our stage tho greatest repre
sentative the character has bad in this country.
The woman of France—the discord fury of tho The
atre Francaise, '
SARAH BERNHARDT.
Her impersonation of Camille was the perfection
of art; faultless in color,;form and every detail;
this and only this. There was no Reeling in the
work. It was a wonder of artistic effort; but, at
least, to an American audience, it aroused no sym
patby for the character; tho humanly nature, the
softer and finer attributes of the wayward woman
of the Camelias, wore not visible through the Bern
hardt’s conception. Tho spectator, following her
from act to act, saw the work of a genius in which
the soul had no place; the mechanism, the study,
the mastery of all that there is in stage technicque,
every gesture, tone of utterance, and expression of
the face, were all there, fitted in the mosaic of her
task deftly, closely and firmly by her Art. As such
an example of Genius as tho servant of Art in its
most perfect form, and without any more warmth
of natural life or feeling in it than if it were an au
toiuatic image, her Camille was a magnificent per-
PUBLISHED BI A. J. WHLIAMSON’B SONS.
fnrmance. The fire, the tremendous force, of a
Rachel, has no place in tho composition of a Bern
hardt. Now, on Monday evening last, came
MADAME MODJESKA,
and hers is another sort of a Camille. Perhaps its
excellence, its sincerity, and humanly qualities
commend themselves more sweetly to the sense by
being brought into sharp contrast with the fluffy,
half-baked apology for an Armand Duval in the
cast, and the elder Duval's close resemblance in
make-up and manner, to a North Carolina farmer in
his store clothes.
Modjeska’s Camille is a creation of flesh and
blood; her art, fine as it is, is permeated with
feeling and a vitality which ensures and holds the
sympathy of her audience; it is the Camille of an
actress who effects her purpose in the creation of
character by natural, not distinctive and obtru
sively artificial means. Her art is not the domi
nating mistress—but the inseparable companion of
her nature.
Her performance of Camille now is infinitely more
perfect; infinitely more sympathetic than it was
when she was first seen in the character some sea
sons ago at the Fifth Avenue Theatre. Then one
fault—her imperfect pronunciation of her newly
adapted language marred her efforts; that fault is
now scarcely observable.
In many respects, especially in the refinement
and grace of action, in the charm of her presence
and tho delicacy of her treatment of a theme which
at best is not the most welcome for expression in
dramatic form—her representation of Camille is not
unlike that, as I remember it, of Jean Davenport.
There is one more Camille yet to come. I pre
sume in a season or two hence it will be an
nounced and tho town will once more in its dreas
suits and silks and satins, with its lorgnettes, and its
preconceived ideas rather of what fashion the
Camille will be, than what it should be, will
throng to the theatre and listen again to the old
familiar romance of Dumas.
This coming Camille, I fancy, is
MARGARET MATHER.
If she does not choose to challenge the critical
element with the Gautier, she will doubtless make
an effort in one of the companion characters in the
Cora of “Article 47’; as Gilberts in “Frou-Frou” it
may be, or—why not Adrienne Lacouvrier, or
Allxe ?
On Tuesday evening last she stepped down from
the Venetian pedestal of tragedy, and for the robes,
the potion and dagger of Juliet she substituted the
stufi dress, the disheveled hair and the woes of the
persecuted Jewess, Leah.
The last great representative of this character—or
rather the first who brought it into prominence—
was Kate Bateman, who first appeared in it on
Monday evening, January 19th, 1863, at Niblo’s Gar
den, her father being her manager. The adaptation
from Mosenthal’s drama was made by Augus
tin Daly, and ho was then at the beginning of
his career as a playwright. When this first night's
performance began, it is related that Daly was in a
high state of nervous excitement, and not until the
third act was on and the success of his effort was
assured, could he be induced to come within hear
ing or sight of either audience or the people of the
stage. It is not so now. I can hardly believe it
was so then.
At all events he now sticks to the stage, failure or
no failure, and if he is ever absent from his stage or
beyond the sound of its voices or that of the audi
ence. it is because some power stronger than his
own will is keeping him away.
The version now being played by Margaret Math
er is virtually the same, save possibly in a few of
the situations, as that first presented by Miss Bate
man. In the present representation the scenic set
tings are somewhat more elaborate and picturesque
and the action and costumes of the various charac
ters more in harmony with the demands of the ar
tistic taste of the playgoers of the present time.
I have, in commenting in a past issue of this
paper upon Miss Mather’s impersonation of Juliet,
held to the opinion that this actress will achieve
her greatest triumphs in that range of stage work,
in the olden time known as the melo-dramatic but
which is now dignified as the “Emotional.”
If there is anything more emotional in any ex
pression of the passions of humanity or any more
lurid and exciting examples of the romantic in the
melo-drama of a quarter ot a century ago—than
there is in the society drama of to-day I should
like to have it made clear.
LEAH IS A MELO-DRAMA
to-day as it was a score of years ago; it is tragic
only in its dismal and tearful ending; it is the old,
old story of love, of passion of blasted hopes, des
pair and retribution. Throughout its story the
strain for effect with the strongest of human pas
sions wrought up to the highest pitch of unnatural
expression never finds relief.
It is in this drama that Margaret Mather has come
forward and it is in this that she has shown
wherein she will one day gain a foremost place in
the list of the few actresses who have made fame
and fortune in what is now termed “the emo
tional ” line.
Her Leah is a revelation; it has faults, but they
are the errors of omission rather than commission.
From her opening scene with Rudolph to the awful
close of Leah’s life; in the despairing death scene
and the exhaustion of the ordeal of disappoint
ment through which she has passed, there is pres
ent the commanding mental vitality, the force and
nervous resources of a strong natural theatric in
stinct and the self-abnegation of the actress for the
individuality of the character, which were but dimly
apparent—save in two instances—in her more ambi
tious effort as Juliet.
In the scene in the tragedy where she rolls down
the steps and in the death scene at tho tomb, she
aroused the audience to its greatest expression of
enthusiasm and admiration, simply because—true
to her theatric instinct and without regard for the
demands for the higher form of dramatic art—she
resorted to the most effective devices of melo
dramatic action.
And here were her chief and really only memora
ble triumphs in her performance of Juliet.
In “Leah” there is the license for action, the
scope for following her inclination to produce ef
fects by theatric devices and tho exercise of her phy
sical forces which the diction and grandeur and lof
tier forms of tragedy will not permit.
IN THE CURSE SCENE
she arose to a tragic but in tbjs ghe was un
hampered by the formulas of blank verse and tho
j,. .
stately measures which custom and the very nature
of poetic drama demand. The language of this
curse is commonplace, but even considered as such,
it is capable of being made tremendously effective,
and it has never been delivered so effectively as it is
by Miss Mather, since the play was written. In the
love-making scene with Rudolph she is not so much
at her ease; she shows a tendency to a slow and mo
notonous method of delivery, and in one or two of
her more passionate efforts—notably when she dis
covers that her lover has turned from her—this mo
notony and halting slowness of utterance become
painfully preachy.
No doubt she is unconscious of this; if not, it is
because she has been wrongly instructed at her
rehearsals. Once this error corrected and the adop
tion of a more rapid enunciation of her words, she
need fear no rival near the throne as Leah.
I would willingly walk five miles through a snow
storm, and over the worst of roads to see this little,
ambitious, determined woman, who has fought her
way step by step, from obscurity to her present
position, in any one of the characters which the
fitful genius of Clara Morris made—as the public
at one time thought—her special inheritance and
property.
Perhaps—if she and her manager so will it—l
may do so without the snow storms, the walks or
the worst of roads.
An Heir-Loom.—Christopher Berg
ler followed a disorderly arrested to the station
house. Standing outside, he didn’t go quick enough
from the door, and was run in as a prisoner. Search
ing him, they found a pistol in his possession.
Chris, said it was an old rusty pistol—an heir-loom
from his great-great great-grandfather. The officer
said it was a bran-now pistol.
“Ten dollars,” said the Court.
NEW YORK. SUNDAY. JANUARY 10, 1880.
METHODISM IN NBW IONS.
How a Famous Church Began
and Grew.
A ROMANTIC COMMENCEMENT
The Card Party in Horse and Cart
Lane and Barbara Hicks’s Visit.
A MILITARY PREACHER.
How the Old John Street Church
Was Built.
EVADING AN UNJUST LAW.
The introduction of Methodism into this city
may be traced to the same source as a good many
other facts and persons of contemporary impor
tance —not to China, but to Ireland. A band of
Irish emigrants brought the new religion from En
gland to this city, in the second half of the last
century, or, to be more explicit, in 1760. The im.
migrants were led by one Philip Embury, who had
been converted by John Wesley eight years before.
Embury was a working carpenter and a preacher in
his leisure hours. He is called the father of the
Methodist Church in America, and Barbara Hicks
its mother. How the church came to be formed is
told as follows:
THE BIRTH OF A CHURCH.
Embury’s house was located on what is now
known as Park Place, near Broadway. It was a
small wooden cottage, one story high, with one
window and a door in front. Here he was in the
habit of assembling friends on an evening after
work. He was a religious man, but had not yet ex
perienced any call to preach, and was wont to
amuse his friends with a game of cards. One
evening they were thus employed, and the game is
said to have been an exciting one. While the rev
elers were in the midst of their pleasure, the door
opened, and Barbara Hicks walked into the room.
Barbara was a fanatic who was respected and
feared. The card players started up in consterna
tion as she advanced upon them. She seized the
cards and threw them into the fire, burning the
idols, as she called them. Like a prophetess of old,
with uplifted hands and earnest tone, she then re
buked the Christians in Zion who were crucifying
Christ afresh. She turned to Embury and said:
“ Brother Embury, you must preach to us, or we
shall all go to hell, and God will require our blood
at your hands.”
Her appearance and utterance spread terror
through the company. Embury, especially alarmed,
felt the call as from God, and resolved to obey it.
Without chapel or congregation, Embury began to
preach in his own house. Here he laid the founda
tions of Methodism, preached the first sermon, met
the first class, and formed the first Methodist
Society in New York. The room was small, but it
was large enough for the congregation, which was
composed of six persons. Barbara Hicks to wit and
the five card players she had harangued so severely.
IN “ HORSE AND CART LANE.”
The little sect soon outgrew its narrow limits.
A rigging loft, which occupied the site now known
as No. 120 William street, was hired as a chapel. It
was situated on what was then known as Horse and
Cart Lane. A tavern sign with a horse and cart
painted on it gave the name to the narrow street.
The room was rented at a small cost, and was plain
and comfortable. All sorts of converts and sup
porters came in to worship. One Sunday the little
band in the rigging loft were greatly alarmed by
the entrance of a military officer. He was dressed
in full uniform, scarlet coat and gold trimmings,
and his sword was by his side. He was tall and
commanding in appearance, and had one eye
covered with a green silk shade. He was an officer
of the British army. He lost his right eye in tho
memorable battle on the Plains of Abraham. He
had been converted under the preaching of Wesley,
and instead of coming to break the meeting up he
camo all the way from Albany, where he was
quartered, to share it. He always preached to his
Albany eonventical In full uniform, with his sword
lying on the Bible, and he requested the pleasure of
preaching here. The favor was accorded him, and
Thomas Wells, as his name was, proved himself as
good a preacher as a soldier.
By 1766 tho Methodists formed quite an influential
religious body in this city. They then sent to
John Wesley in England, for regular preachers,
competent to take charge of the interests of the
church. Richard Boardman and Joseph Pilmoor
were sent out at their own request, and in 1771
Francis Asbury and Richard Wright volunteered
for the same service.
When the troubles which led to the revolution
broke out, all but Asbury returned home; but na
tive preachers took their places and the creed grew.
By the end of the revolution it numbered over
13,000 members and forty-throe preachers.
3?HE FIRST CHURCH.
The first endowment made to the Methodist
Church was before the revolution. At this time
Methodism was regarded as an offshoot of the En
glish Episcopal Church rather than an independent
religion, and its preachers wont to the Episcopal
churches i'or communion. Mary Barkley, the widow
of the second rector of Trinity Church, owned a
piece of land called the Shbemaker’s Ground. In
1768 Mrs. Barkley leased that lot of land to the
Methodists. It was in John street and on it they
placed a chapel for worship. The deed of purchase
is dated 1770. On it was erected the first Methodist
Church in America, The present John Street
Church stands on the same site and worshiji is
conducted in it to this day.
The first Methodist Church was erected by tho
assistance of Christians of all denominations.
Among the donors were Robert Livingston, tho
signer of the Declaration of Independence; Duane,
the first Mayor of the city; Delaney, the Recorder,
Lieutenant-Governor of the State, officers of Trinity
Church and distinguished citizens generally. They
gave their money, so the paper ran, “to build a
house for the service of Almighty God, after the
manner of the people called Methodists.” The
chapel, named after Wesley, was of stone and stood
some distance from the street. It was occupied for
many years te an unfinished state, The galleries
were mere lofts, without breastwork or stairs.
The hearers ascended by means of a ladder. While
the chapel was being built, the preacher worked
as a carpenter on the He preached
the dedication sermon. The house was lighted
night by each hearer carrying his own candle. It
was contrary to law for Dissenters to build a church
or chapel in the city.
Anxious to have a house of worship of their own,
the conscientious Methodists sought the Dutch au
thorities to know how the law might be kept and
they have a house of worship, “Put a fireplace and
chimney in your building,” said the liberal guard
ians of the law, “and it will be a dwelling, and not
a church.” This was done. On the erection of the
chapel, the preacher s house, as it was called, was
built in the yard in front of the place of worship.
It was a wooden building, small and rough. It was
gloomy within, for windows were few. Those who
lived in It said it was cold as a barn. It was fur
nished by the congregation, but in the plainest
style. Stairs connected it with the chapel. Its roof
sheltered some of the noblest men in the land.
HOW METHODISM SPREAD.
A robust religion struggled into existence under
these rude circumstances. In 1784 Wesley sent
'Bishop Coke over, and he established the Methodist
Episcopal Church as an independent organization.
He made Philip Asbury coadjutor bishop, and the
latter did most of the hard work, Bishop Coke com
ing and going between the new country and the old.
Tho first Methodist Sunday school for the instruction
of “pooi’ children, black and white, in learning and
piety,” was established in 1786. By tho end of the
century the religion had spread in all directions. It
had nearly 100,000 members and upward of 300
preachers, who traveled from congregation to con
gregation, while nearly as many older mon officiated
antr liihfnibnit.
as resident ministers in the various places where
the faith had taken root. In 1787 the first Method
ist college was opened at Abingdon, Md. It was
burned down in 1795 and its successor erected in
Baltimore. This, too, was lost by fire, and then
Bishop Asbury began the system of establishing
schools all over instead of concentrating his educa
tional forces in one place, which has h£d no little to
do with making Methodism in America what it is.
The Methodist Book Concern, now one of the most
onormoui publishing businesses in the country,was
commenced in 1788 on a borrowed capital of S6OO.
It began in Philadelphia, and in 1804 removed to
New York. In 1818 the Methodist Magazine was com
menced. It lives still under the title of the Methodist
Quarterly Review, In 1820 Zion’s Herald was first
published, and in 1824 the Christian Advocate fol
lowed. By this time Methodism had become such
a huge interest in the West that a branch publish
ing house bad to be set np in Cincinnati. The Mis
sionary Society was organized in 1819. Its opera
tions now extend over the whole world. By the
latest reports American Methodism has over 12,000
itinerant and 13,000 local preachers, nearly 20,000
churches, and more than as many Sunday Schools,
with 2,000.000 members and scholars, about 2,000,000
lay members, and a yearly income of over
$15,000,000.
SPLITS IN THE CHURCH.
The Methodist Church has endured considerable
dissension in its time. In 1792 Jarnos G’Kelly and
some other ministers, supported by a considerable
number of members, drew out to form “ The Chris
tian Church.” In 1816 the colored con
ceiving that they were not as well treated as they
should be by their white brethren, met in Phila
delphia and organized the African Methodist Epis
copal Church. In 1820 the colored Methodists of
New York followed suit and set up the famous Zion
Church, now in Bleecker street and where tho
famous colored preacher, Henry Highland Garnett
once officiated with such fervor and effect.
In 1828, tho Canada conference withdrew, and be
came a separate church. This was, however, a
friendly separation, rendered necessary by circum
stances. In 1830 came the formation of the Method
ist Protestant Church, with eighty-throe preachers
and 800 members, and in 1845 tho famous Methodist
Episcopal Church of the South was formed. This
last split was occasioned chiefly by differences of
opinion in the matter of slavery.
The new division of the church was a powerful
body. It had nearly 500,000 members, and about
5,000 preachers. It received, by a decree of the
Supreme Court, a share of the Church’s wealth, and
set up its own publishing-house, newspapers, and
the rest, the former being estabished at Nashville,
Tenn. The war nearly ruined it, but it has since
got on its feet again. It is now about a third as
great in extent as the regular church at the North.
The Methodist Protestant Church, after some inter
nal troubles, has become also a powerful body, with
headquarters at Baltimore and Pittsburg. It is
about a tenth part as influential as the parent
church, and has a thriving college at Adrian, Michi
gan.
TWO PRINCELY GIFTS.
The first great gift made to the Methodist Church
was by Mrs. Garrett, of Chicago. She presented it
with $3,000,000 to erect a college, which bears her
name, at Evanstown, 111. The next and greatest
gift came from Uncle Daniel Drew, the great Wall
street operator. The centenary year of the church
occurring in 1866, two gentlemen called on Uncle
Daniel Drew, and requested him to make a donation
as a centenary gift. Without a moment’s hesita
tion, he replied :
“ I will give you two hundred and fifty thousand
dollars to found a Theological Seminary.”
That seminary was opened at Madison, New Jer
sey, in 1867. It occupies the superb old Gibbon
estate of over one hundred acres. Uncle Daniel
spent some $500,000 on tho college, and would have
rsised it to a million if he had not been caught by
the tidal wave of adversity and engulfed before bo
could carry his pious intentions completely out.
Hash and Liver vs. Pork Chops.
Favoritism that Did Not Work Well in a
Williamsburg Eoardiag-liouse.
A Fight in which Cups and Coffee
were Used.
The details of an unseemly row, in which hash,
liver and pork chops were the disturbing elements;
Mr. Michael Berry, Mrs. Berry, Miss Brophy, Mr.
Jack Brannigan, Mr. Ned Toole and Miss Mollie
Holohan were the principals, and Mrs. Delia Mar
tin’s boarding-house at No. 427 North Eighth street
the scene of hostilities, were developed in Justice
Rhinehardt’s court, Williamsburg, Friday al tor
noon.
Mr. and Mrs. Berry were the complainants in a
charge oi assault, and the two young gentlemen
and the young ladies were the defendants. The
six principals testified at such length that six
columns of the Dispatch would not be able to
contain a verbatim report of the proceedings.
Briefly stated, the facts are about as follows :
Mr. and Mrs. Berry have not been married long,
and Miss Brophy and Miss Holohan looked upon
her with envious eyes, although they affected to
rather despise or pity her. At breakfast and sup
per Mrs. Berry, in talking to Iter husband, never
failed to give the two yonng ladies a “shot,”
as Mr. Brannigan very quaintly put it. Mr. Toole
was attentive to Miss Holohan, and Ned was sweet
on Miss Brophy. As was to bo expected, the young
gallants took up the cudgels for their lady friends,
and, as a result, there was always a “ fusilade of
shots” at the dining-table mornings and evenings.
Mrs. Berry very frequently remarked to her hus
band, “It’s no wonder the girls that are going now
adays can’t get husbands,” and his invarirble re
sponse was, “ I’d pity any decent man that would
get one of them; but then they are good enough for
most of the young fellows going nowadays.”
“Mollie, where did he find it?” Miss Brophy
would inquire of her lady friend, who would reply,
“Fished it out of a barrel on the dumps.”
“Don’t it look dainty, though, in a boarding
house, Mollie ?”
“Just think how it would look with a hook in the
dumps now,” would be Miss Mollie’s reply.
Mr. Brannigan and Mr. Toole would encourage
their sweethearts and “fire shots” at Mr, Berry.
“How would you like to be henpecked, Jack ?”
Mr. Toole would say.
“Or tied to apron strings ?” Ned would respond,
“Oh, what mouths for potatoes in their jackets
the young ladies would exclaim, and then the four
would laugh.
Mr. and Mrs. Berry protested to the boarding mis
tress against the “hard shots” aimed at them by the
four other boarders. Mrs. Martin did not care
about offending any of her boarders, so she decided
on setting two tables in the dining-room, giving
Mr. and Mrs. Berry one for themselves. The ar
rangement progressed nicely for a few days.
Wednesday morning Mr. and Mrs. Berry were
served with pork chops by Mrs. Martin, who gave
Miss Brophy and Miss Holohan liver without bacon
and Ned and Jack a decoction designated hash.
The young ladies made running comments on the
liver, and Jack and Ned wanted to know who had
been out gunning for the meat from which they
insinuated the hash had been made.
“ Yez aren’t daling wud Mrs. Berry now,” cried
Mrs. Martin, “ an’ I’d have yez know that’s its
good enough for yez, an’ if yez don’t like it ye can
lump it, so yez needn’t get yer dander up.”
“These are delicious pork chops,” remarked Mrs.
Berry to her husband at this point.
“ They just are, but they would be simply thrown
away if given to some people,” was Mrj. Berry’s
reply.
“We want pork chops as well as them things
over there,” exclaimed Miss Mollie.
“Whin yez pay up yer two last week’s boord it
will be time for yez to give back talk, Miss Mollie,”
cried Mrs. Martin authoritatively.
“ You’ll get your money,” said Ned.
“Yez can’t give it to me for her, for yez can’t pay
yer own boord.”
** Take it easy, Mrs. Martin,” said Miss Brophy.
” Take is aisy, and yez too owe me boord too,” in
dignantly exclaimed the boarding mistress.
" You’ll get paid all right,” said Ned.
•* Yez bet I will, or I’ll take the worth of it out of
yez,” cried Mrs. Martin.
” And them are the people what Insult boarders
who pay for what they eat, and they want things as
good as their betters,” said Mr. Berry to his wife.
•'You’re no good anyway,” cried Miss Mollie, as
she threw a cup of coffee at Berry. Miss Brophy
emptied the contents of her cup on Mrs. Berry.
Mr. and Mrs. Berry threw their cups at the girls,
and Ned aud Jack caught Berry by the throat,
while the two girls pounded Mrs. Berry. Mrs. Mar
tin, with the aid of a chair, reduced the four young
people into a state of submission.
Mr. and Mrs. Berry immediately procured a war
rant against their four assailants. The accused
were put under bonds to keep the peace for six
months.
KBBSBKERBRXSGKSS&SnSBnSSSRSI
A BAFFLIiF MYSTERY.
Remarkable Case of a Missing
Girl.
The Detectives at Fault for Six
Years.
How the Young’ Lady was Re
stored. to Her Friends.
What Happened in a Garden of a Lon
don Suburb.
‘•I am going to give to you,” said the detect
ive, "a story which I believe is almost without
a parallel. Of course, I must use fictitious names—
but you may be sure I will confine myself to the
exact facts.” Having assumed an easy position and
produced his memorandum book, the detective nar
rated what is below :
On May 2, 1869, my services were sought to dis
cover the whereabouts of a missing young lady.
Her name was Ada Passmere, and her parents resi
ded in quite a pretentious dwelling- at Brixton,
which, as you know, is a pleasant suburb of Lon
don. Miss Passmore had quitted the house at five
o’clock in the afternoon the day before and had not
returned. She was the eldest of five daughters,
handsome and accomplished, and entitled when
she became of age—she was turned nineteen—to a
handsome fortune left her by an uncle. For some
time a young gentleman named Hythe sought her
company, but she never appeared to show him any
particular favor, and for some weeks he had not vis
ited the Passmore residence. During the afternoon,
she had been at work in the garden, which was ex
tensive and was seen to return the implements she
had used to the tool shed. It would seem that im
mediately on returning to the house she had dressed
herself and gone out.
I found that Miss Passmore had been fond of
reading sensational stories, and generally amused
her family by saying how she would have improved
the plot and enhanced the mystery. Singularly
enough, the very day when Miss Passmore disap
peared, the five year old daughter of a Mrs. Mo
thens, a widow residing near by, disappeared also.
A WILD-GOOSE CHASE.
Now, you will see that I was on what appeared
very much like a wild-goose chase. There was
absolutely not a clew. I found Mr. Hythe at his
place of business in the city and he solemnly as
sured me that he knew nothing of Miss Passmore
or her whereabouts. He was much surprised and
shocked, and it was evident to me that he had a
deop-seated affection for the girl.
I sent out the usual description and used all the
means at the command of the police to ascertain
any circumstance that might help me in my
search. Absolutely nothing resulted from it.
As great a mystery surrounded the disappearance
of Ella, Mrs. Mothens’ five-year-old child. The
same afternoon—May I—Ella went out to play
with a neighbor’s children. She remained there foY
an hour and about half-past three left for home.
i Her playmates saw her as far as the gate and then
she seemed suddenly to have sunk into the earth
and vanished forever. She had been a particular
favorite of Miss Passmore, and yet it was absurd
in my estimation to associate her disappearance
with Miss Passmore’s. Still I put every possible
inquiry on foot, but nothing came of it.
Perhaps I ought to qualify that, for something
did come of it and something very remarkable in
its way, though not in any way connected with the
missing young lady and child as it turned out.
An official at the London Bridge Railway station
remembered distinctly seeing a young lady and
child get on the train for Dover on the evening of
May 1. He remembered it from the circumstance
that his wife and daughter left on the same train
to visit his father at Maidstone, and he recollected
saying to his wife that the children were much of
an age and might be taken for sisters. I got a
portrait of his child and Mrs. Mothens agreed that
there was a strong resemblance between her and
Ella. The description of the lady hardly agreed
with that of Miss Passmore, yet I resolved te go
down the line and make inquiries. This took me
a good many days, for I had to inquire at every
station. Finally I traced the lady and child to
Faversham, where, after some trouble, I found
them living in seclusion. They were not the per
sons for whom I was looking, however. Neverthe
less, one month later, when inquiry was made for
the wife of a prominent member of Parliament who
had left her husband, taking their only child with
her, I remembered the lady of Faversham, and she
turned out to be the very person who was missing.
THE •MYSTERY DEEPENS.
As the mystery seemed to grow darker, I became
more earnest in my exertions to penetrate it. I
advertised, I sent likenesses of the missing young
lady all over the country. As to the child, the im
pression was that she had wandered to the river
and had been drowned, or had been kidnapped by
some wandering beggars. As I was not especially
detailed to her case, however, I cannot tell you all
that was done to discover her. Three months, six
months passed away, and I was fairly baffled.
Finally, after many hundreds of pounds had been
expended by Mr. Passmore, the search was given
up, aud the young lady’s friends made up their
pjind? that she had met sgme cruel fate which
would never be fathomed, or that, possessed by
some unaccountable whim, she had gone out into
the world to pursue her own way, and might some
day re-appear as suddenly as she had vanished.
You will remember that she disappeared on
May Ist, 1869. On September 3d, 1872, Mr. Pass
more presented himself to me at my residence, late
one night, to my very great surprise.
“ My daughter has been seen,” he said, in a tone
of great excitement.
“Tell me all the circumstances,” I said, “and be
as calm as possible.”
A GHOST. .
‘•At dark this evening,” Mr. Passmore continued,
“ when we were all seated at dinner, the laundry
maid came rushing into the dining-room, pale as a
sheet, and exclaimed, ‘Oh, my God, I have seen
Miss Ada’s ghost 1’ We arose from the table, and
my wife entreated the girl to give an explanation.
She was so overcome that for some time it was im
possible to understand her. I said to her:
“ ‘ Mary, you have seen Miss Ada—tell us where
she was, and how you came to see her ?’
“ •It was her ghost, sir, and not herself,’ she re
plied.
“ • Well, where did you see her ghost, then ?’ I
asked.
“ ‘I went into the rear garden to fetch in some of
the children’s clothes,’ she answered, 'and just as I
reached the large apple tree beyond the well, I saw
a female figure kneeling down and looking at the
ground. I thought at first it was one of the young
ladies picking flowers, and so I said nothing, but
went about my work. Having gathered the chil
dren’s clothes, I was returning to the house, walk-
OFFICE, NO. II FRANKFORT ST.
ing on the grass, when I turned to feel whether the ’
sheets, which were hanging over the line close to •}
the path, were dry. As I felt them I saw something j
move in the pathway. I p illed down the sheet to
look over it, and there on the other side stood Miss j
Ada. I saw her face distinctly, and it was very pale.
She stood stock still, and I gave a cry and came right
into the house.’ ”
FOOTPRINTS.
“As soon as Mary had got through her story, I
went out to the garden and searched all over it. No
one was there. I then procured lights, and went to
the spot where Mary said she first saw the figure
kneeling. The mold there was comparatively soft,
and there were three or four flower beds scattered
around. In the soft mold was the imprint of feet,
newly made. They led from the pathway to the
centre of the plot, and then back to the pathway.
The footmarks were just such as my daughter’s feet
would have made—we all agreed upon that. Of
course, we discard the idea of a ghost, and are firm
ly convinced that our missing child visited the gar
den this evening while we were at dinner.”
I listened to this story with interest, as you may
imagine. Next morning I was at Mr. Passmore’s
residence early, and saw the footprints for myself.
1 made inquiries in the neighborhood, but could get
no information that helped me. Then I found the
police officers who had been on the beat and the ad
joining one the previous evening, and learned from
one of them that just about dusk, as he was pass
ing the Passmore residence, he saw a young lady
standing close to the railings looking earnestly to
ward the house, in which lights appeared. The offi
cer passed her once and then returned, and seeing
her still in the same position, asked her what her
business was.
•' Oh,” she replied, “it is all right. This is my
father’s house.”
Thereupon, the officer said, she opened the large
iron gate and went inside. Thinking it was all
right, the officer went his way. This left no doubt
on my mind that the missing daughter, in her own
proper flesh and blood, had paid a visit to the
place. But what was her object? That was a
puzzler.
Well, tire old search was renewed. More money
was spent and the same result followed. Years
passed and the Spring of 1875 came. Understand;
what I am telling you now is what I learned after
ward and not part of my own experience.
FOUND.
Ono Sunday afternoon, Mr. and Mrs. Passmore
strolled out to visit some friends. Not finding
them at home, they resolved to prolong their walk
through the neighborhood, with which they were
unfamiliar. They came to a pretty rural street,
called, if I remember aright, Ventnor Terrace. On
one side were small, but tasteful villas, standing in i
their own grounds. One of them particularly !
attracted attention, for it stood upon a gentle slope j
and between it and the railed wall which separated j
the grounds from the street, was a deep miniature
valley, overgrown with beautiful turf, in the centre
of which was a small pond. A gentleman, a lady
and three young children were seated upon rustic
seats near the pond. Mr. and Mrs. Passmore might
well stand spellbound, for in the lady they recog
nized their long missing daughter, and in the gentle
man their former acquaintance, Mr. Hythe I
AT THE VILLA.
At first their impulse was to make their presence
known and ask for an explanation, but on second
thoughts they resolved to be circumspect and con
sider what must be done. The result was that they
sent for me, and I was soon at their service. They
related to me what I have just told you and assured
mo that there could be no doubt as to the identity
of the lady and gentleman.
I went straight to the villa and asked to see Mrs.
Hythe. I was in doubt as to whether the couple
went by that name, but resolved to use it, and found
I was right. I could see Mrs. Hythe. I was shown
into an elegant parlor, where the lady and her hus
band were. I recognized Mr. Hythe at once.
“ You will excuso me,” I said, “ but I desire to see
that lady alone.”
“ It makes no difference, sir,” the gentleman said;
“I have seen you before, and know that you are a
detective. My wife is prepared for anything you
may have to say.”
The lady arose, and, with an air of majestic calm,
put her right arm around her husband’s neck, while
he clasped her waist.
“I am ready, sir,” she said. “What is your
pleasure ?”
•‘Well, madam,” I replied, “since you seem to
know me, I need not make any introductory re-
I marks. Do you acknowledge that you are the young
lady once known as Miss Ada Passmore ?”
“ I do, sir,” she answered; “ what next ?”
•'Your parents discovered—”
I had just got out these words when the lady
raised her hands toward the ceiling,and with a
heart-rending sob, exclaimed:
“ Oh, my God 1 Did they discover it?”
Then she fell into her husband’s arms, and ho
laid her upon a couch.
“I suppose, sir,” he said to me, “you expect her
to accompany you ?”
•• Why, no,” I said; “ I think the best thing I can
do is to let her father and mother know that the
lady whom they discovered here is indeed their
daughter.”
••Go and do so, my friend, at once/’ the husband
said in tones so soft and sweet that I was non
plussed.
I cleared out of the house and in twenty minutes
Mr. and Mr. and Mrs. Passmore had their long-lost
daughter in their arms.
What I am going to tell you now didn’t come to
me officially, but it’s true for all that.
A STRANGE EXPLANATION.
On the afternoon of May 1, Ella Mothens, seeing
Miss Ada Passmore in the garden, crept in and,
biding among the bushes, which were already in
leaf, made her way to her friend. After romping •
together for a time, Ella wanted a ride and Miss
Passmorefihumored her by placing her in the large
swing at the furthest corner of the garden. While 1
the swing was at Its full sweep, Ella lost her grasp
and was precipitated head first against a tree. Her i
skull was fractured and she was dead in an instant, ]
Horrified at the accident, and not knowing what
the result might be to herself, and influenced some- 1
what without doubt by what she had read in nov- 1
els, Miss Passmore determined to keep secret the
dreadful calamity. Placing the body out of sight,
she procured tools and dug a grave in the centre of 1
the flower plot. In it she placed the body and cov
ered it up. The task was not difficult, for the soil (
was soft and moist The earth which remained, she t
carefully scattered close in by the garden wall. ]
Then she determined to quit her home forever. For j
three days and nights after she left, she traveled
back and forth on the Great Western Railway. T
Then she communicated with Mr. Hythe, and the 1
result was their marriage within a day or two. 1
First, however, she communicated to him the *
dreadful secret and her determination never to visit
home or friends more. They went about without 1
any concealment and, thinking that the last place 1
in the world where any one would be likely to look c
for them would be near Mr. Passmore’s residence, j
they made their home on Ventnor Terrace, less than
half a mile away. £
For nearly six years they lived there, and but for
that Sunday afternoon stroll taken by Mr. and Mrs.
Passmore might have lived and died there without
their identity ever having been discovered.
The ghost seen by the servant ? Why it was Ada c
or Mrs. Hythe as I should call her—of course. c
Propelled by a strong desire to see the spot whore r
she had buried the unfortunate Ella, she had more
than once, when the family were at dinner, visited I
the garden, but never after her discovery by the t
servant. t
I said at the outset the story I was going to j
narrate was almost without a parallel. There is a r
well authenticated case where a husband quitted j
his home and lived for seventeen years in an ad
joining street without ever being discovered, while
inquiry and search was being made for him all B
over. e
What was done in the matter ? Nothing. The
secret was well kept and, if the authorities knew 0
it, they thought it best to keep quiet f<
PRICE FIVE CENTS.
WHAT SHE IS NOW.
BY MARGARET EYTINGE.
I
Her hair is a lovely brown that turns
I To gold when the sunshine on it lies,
And, fringed with lashes of darker hue,
A golden brown are her radiant eyes.
And the milk white teeth that her smHes disclose
Are like pearls enshrined in the heart of a rose.
As fair as the snow are her helpful bands,
And her low, broad brow, and her slender throat
As she flits about with a fairy grace,
And her voice is sweet as a wild bird’s note-—
Ay, sweeter you’d say, if you heard her speak]
In the cheeriest way to the weary and weak:
To the weary and weak, for her life is passed
In scenes the saddect that one could find,
And the many prayers that are prayed for her
Are breathed by the maimed and the halt anfl
blind;
Some day, up In heaven, a saint she will be;
Now only a hospital nurse is she.
•THE
Modern Cinderella.
BY A FAVORITE AUTHOR.
CHAPTER VIL
“ OH ! YOU KNEW MB. WHITE ?”
“Of course ho has come hors to be near you..
He knew how intimate the Crofts are with us,
and that you were coming here for the shooting
season—ior you told him so yojirself, Ethel.” 1
" Did I?” Ethel Danecourt asked, with #
little conscious laugh. “ Perhaps I did 1”
The two sisters—Mrs. Miles Mowbray anti
Miss Danecourt—were in the former’s boudoir 1
at Mowbray Hall—a dainty room, all pink satin,
white lace, and Dresden china, a pretty, cosy,
modern nest in the heart of the stately old man
sion, which Mrs. Mowbary half liked, half do
tested, and which she would have been charmed
to exchange for a modern stuccoed mansion
with lofty rooms, gilded ceilings, and plate
glass windows. Mrs. Mowbray always declared
that she felt “ out of place ” in her country
; house; Parisian toilettes seemed unsuitable to
■ its gloomy old rooms. Ethol’s picturesque
; aesthetic style of dross however suited it ad
mirably, and once or twice her sister had fell
tempted to wear long straight velvet gowns and
falling lace collars, but the temptation was but
momentary—she remained faithful to Worth
and Pingat.
A very beautiful specimen of womanhood was
Mrs. Miles Mowbray; she was the reigning hello
of Loamshire, and quite a beauty in London
itself, where she had held her own for ten years
at least. Ethol Danecourt used to declare
laughingly that it was her sister’s beauty which
had spoiled her own chances oi matrimony
during the five years she had been “ out.”
“ People expect so much from Mrs. Mowbray’s
sister,” she said laughingly, “that I really have
no chance 1”
For Miss Danecourt was merely a fair, grace
ful English girl, with a pretty flower-like com
plexion and clear gray-blue eyes -not by any
means a beauty. But, although not a beauty,
Ethel gave herself the airs of one, her sister
would say sometimes; she refused all kinds of
good offers, as if she, the dowerless daughter
of an army colonel, had any right to be so diffi
cult to please.
“ Even I never had so many offers,” sho
would say, in an aggrieved way; and then
Ethel would remind her that she was only
nineteen when she married, while Ethel had at
tained and completed her twenty-fourth year in
single blessedness, although Mabel Mowbray
had done her best to introduce her into society
and make her a success.
“ Perhaps you did I” she echoed now, turn
ing her head toward her sister, who stood look
ing out of the French window at the fair
Autumn landscape before her. “ Why, I heard
you tell him yourself at Holland Park that you
were coming here for Septemberl”
“ He asked me.”
“ Did he ? So much the better; that shows
he is in earnest,” Mrs. Mowbray rejoined, turn
ing from her writing-table and. putting, down
the gold pen with which she had been disposing
of some arrears of correspondence. “It would
be a splendid match for you, Ethol.”
“ I suppose it would,” Ethel Danecourt sail}
dubiously, not turning from the window.
“ Suppose ? There is surely no suppositioil
in the matter ? Sir Alick is very rich, Wolfing
ham Abbey is a superb old place, and you havs
such a fancy for ancient residences,” she added,,
with a slight grimace. “ Beside, he is so’
handsome aud charming altogether.”
“Yes, ho is all that,” Ethel agreed. “But
then, Mabel, you see .”
She paused abruptly, and, turning away fromf
the window, moved slowly to her sister’s sidff’
and put her arm round her waist, as she stoo<|
with one foot on the polished-steel fender, look**
ing rather critically at the face and figure r<H‘
fleeted in the oval Venetian glass.
“ Well,” Mrs. Mowbray asked carelessly,
“ what do I see?”
“ Something very pretty,” Ethel
laughing, as she rested her own fair head upoq|
her sister’s shoulder and looked with fond ad<
miring eyes at the beautiful face, with it#
regular features, blue eyes, and ripe red lips.
“ Of course— el apres ?” laughed the
but for a minute Ethel made no reply, and iutQ
her eyes there crept a sudden wistful look.
“ You see, I have a slight prejudice in favo?
of husband and wife caring for each other,” sho
answered at last, with a touch of shyness; “and
I am quite sure that Sir Alick does not care fof
me nor I for him !”
“How are you quits sure ?”
Mrs. Mowbray sharply. “Is he wanting to
marry you for the sake of les beaux yeux de
voire cassette?”
“ Hardly,” replied Ethel, with a laugh. “ At
least, there is some consolation in being .t
penniless lass. Whoever marries me will
certainly not bo influenced by the length of my
purse.”
“ Then, if there is affection on one side ami
esteem on the other, there is no earthly reason
why you and Sir Alick should not make a happy
couple.”
“ I don’t know; it seems to me that there
ought to be plenty of love on each side to steer
clear of the shoals and quicksands of matri
mony,” Ethel responded, with a sigh.
“ Nonsense, Ethel; that is one of your absurd
notions. Two-thirds of the love-matchos
turn out badly, deplorably indeed, and end in
the Divorce Court. Look at my own marriage,”
Mrs. Mowbray continued, settling the Mechlin
ruffle at the neck ot her pale blue morning
dross. “ Could anything have turned out more
satisfactorily? And I am sure Miles and I
never pretended to be violently in love with
each other.”
The wistful look deepened in Ethel Dane
oourt’s gray eyes; the life which seemed so per
fectly satisfactory to her sister seemed empty