New York dispatch. [volume], February 14, 1886, Image 1

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

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PUBLISHED BL A. J. WILLIAMSON’S SONS.
VOL. XLI.-NO. 18.
Entered at the Post Office at New York)
N. Y., as Second Class Matter.
THE m YORK DISPATCH,
PUBLISHED AT
NO. 11 FRANKFORT STREET.
The NEW YORK DISPATCH is a Journal of light, agree
able and sparkling Literature and News. One page is de
voted to Masonic Matters, and careful attention is given
*to Music and the Drama.
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PLAYS ANT PLAYERS.
CONCERNING FREDERICK B. WARDE.
The Sneer at tit e “Palmy Day” Period-
Tire Study of Past and Present—The Tie
Wigs and Stilt Stalkers—Tlie Career
of Frederick Warde—Climbing
tlie Ladder—From Second
Murderer to Hamlet—With.
McCullough and Monta
gue—A First Season
as a Star, Etc.
BY JOHN CARBOY.
Yon sneer at the “ palmy day ” period of the
stage do you ?
Mention the days of Forrest, of Addams, Booth,
Scott, Murdoch, or going still further back, of Alex.
Drake, John and Mary Duff, Henry Wallack, and all
the host of pioneers of the American stage whose
greatness, like their names, are to the present
generation almost unknown; mention these to your
one part leading man of to-day, and with a super
cillious lift of his brows he will get off the usual
reference to “ tie wigs,” pumps, shoe buckles, atilt
stalkers and old muffs.
These one part fellows whose wardrobe is that of
an escaped convict in the first act and a dress suit
in the last act; these one part women whose coiffure
and Worth dresses with the proper display of
hysteria, grimace and expressionless gesture are
the chief elements of their talent as actresses—glare
with contempt if you tell them that of your own
personal knowledge the utility people of an old
time stock company were in all the essentials of
acting infinitely their superiors; that these humble
and uspful servitors of dramatic art in their time
not only studied, but played many parts, and that
for the miserable pittance of salary which they
received and gladly too, they worked hard, studied
late and early and were devoted to their calling, and
the answer will be “Rubbish I”
A night or two ago while in search of a book
which I failed to find in its accustomed place, I
found one in which was recorded
THE NUMBER OF PARTS OR CHARACTERS,
studied and played by a score or more of the lead
ing actors and actresses of the '• palmy day” period
during their professional career.
The first one was John R. Scott, who had played
and repeated four hundred parts; the famous John
Duff, three hundred and twelve; Mrs. Mary Duff,
two hundred and eighty: Edwin Forrest, two hun
and five; Thomas Hamlin, four hundred and six;
Charlotte Cushman, three hundred and seventy
one; J. B. Booth, Sr., three hundred and twenty
nine.
Then following the long list of these are half a
dozen pages devoted to the ” study ” of the lesser
lights, the walking ladios and gentlemen, the second
low comedian, the more notable of the “Respecta
ble” and “General Utility ” people. The average,
roughly estimated, of parts played by each, male
and female, is two hundred and fifty.
The average length of the professional career as
signed each in this statement is twenty-five years,
from which there must be made a fair deduction of
the periods when, through lack of engagements,
illness, and in traveling, they were not in active
service.
Now, them Mr. leading mau of the present time
think of all tfiis amount o/ work, this constant
round of rehearsal, study, acting; think of it as
you arrange your bang; think of it, you leading
lady, with one eye on your admirer in the box, and
the other upon the newest designs of your modiste
and with your mind contemplating the coming
midnight luncheon at the Hoffman, or in your cosy
flat.
Think of the toil with which these “palmy day ”
people of your profession ensured the advancement
of their art; think of the privations they endured;
of how nobly—with all their faults and hindrances,
with their poverty and the social ban which was
upon them—they served the public, how manly and
womanly were their motives, and, as compared
t-ho present era, how pure and self-sacrificing
their lives ? \
“ Tie wig Stiltstalkers—forsooth ?
Excepting John Gilbert, Lester Wallack, Charles
Fisher, Harry Edwards, Madam Ponisi, Mrs. Gilbert’
William Warren, Joe Jefferson, Mrs. John Drew,
McVicker, Ed. Lamb, and perhaps half a score more
of that “old guard,” how many of the dress-suit
and Worth wardrobe airy nothings—the leading
curled darlings of the stage, who sneer at the palmy
day regime— have studied and played a baker's dozen
of parts in the whole course of their professional
careers ?
Ah—but you see; this fellow will tell you he has
“CREATED” THE PART
ho has played three or four seasons. It fits him—
“great hit, my boy.”
aotresi will tell you, as she toys with her
napkin ring at the midnight luncheon—“ Dear me,
yew] don't know the exhaustion of acting. So try
ing to the nervous system.”
His leading part which he has “ created ’’—(mind
you, in our later fashion it is the actor, not the
author, who creates a character)— is a part of possi
bly ten lengths or 420 lines—with two changes of
costume.
Her part is ten or twelve lengths—there are a
couple of hysterical emotional scenes in it; its busi
ness is principally a display of make-up, handsome
dresses and diamonds. The hardest work she does
Is changing her dresses and managing her train and
as a fact the beauty of her facial make-up and the
train are all there are of any noticeable import in her
acting.
Ho may have made his debut as Richelieu or
Othello; but he dropped it like a hot potato. It
was a nut his talent couldn't crack.
She dawned as a Juliet—and—that was all she
wanted of the legitimate. And she steered her pro
fessional canoe out of the dangerous and fathomless
depths of tragedy, with its blank verse reefs and its
awful tempests of passion, into the placid shallows
of the “Society” drama.
These bo your sneerers at the “palmy days.”
These be your actor and actress of the present
time.
With some exceptions. And the Lord be praised
that those exceptions are alive and active and hold
a place upon the stage and are still able to gather
about unto themselves a fair showing of encourage
ment.
THE PRESENT ERA
is the paradise of mountebanks—of farcical, horse
play, mugging, rough and tumble entertainers, not
artists who attempt to pass the work of the clown
as that of the comedian.
To force the public into the belief that the Calci
um lights and scene painters’ brush are all there is
or should be of drama.
In reality it is saying to the public as the Irish
waiter said of the menu to the guest who didn’t
want soup:
” There’s your soup sor. It’s on the bill sor; take
it an* ate it for divil a taste of anything else ’ll yese
git till ye yese have putt it down.”
Thanks to Barrett, Booth, Keene and one or two
other servitors at the legitimate dramatic table—
there is a hope that we will still be able to get some
thing more solid and substantial than the watery
compounds of the first course which our alleged
comedians are forcing upon us.
John McCullough has passed away. A discussion
of his status as a tragedian is not in place here. Lot
it be said however that if he was not great as an
actor he was at least honest in his endeavors and
when he assumed and wore the mantle of a “star”
he never stooped to the defilement of his art for the
sake of gain. He was as true to the nobler pur
poses of the stage as he was sincere and faithful in
his friendships and his love for his fellow man.
Since McCullough’s death a physical blight
lamentable, but let me hope only temporary, has
fallen upon another, who in the prime of life has
arisen to prominence as an exponent of that legiti
mate range of work of which our latter day profes
sional “ eminents * have such a hbly horror. I
mean Thomas Keene.
Again there is yet another—who for the past two
or three seasons essayed the same task; has had the
same ambition; has displayed the same honesty of
endeavor and has thus far battled manfully and
with the persistence and patient self-reliance which
have in all time been to the toilers in all the arts
the surest guides to success. This one is
FRED. WARDE.
To giro his name in full—Frederick Burkham
Warde.
He is another pupil—approaching the graduation
day when he will be a Master—of that school of re
vivalists at the head of which are now Edwin Booth
and Lawrence Barrett.
Mr. Warde is still young; he has passed into his
thirty-fifth year; he possesses health, vitality, a
manly presence, and began his professional career
at the age of sixteen.
Speaking of the study of the actors of the old
school, reminds me that he, from the period of his
first appearance upon the stage up to the present
time, has studied and played nearly two hundred
parts, and of a number of these he is recorded as
being the original representative.
I do not remember to have seen in print as yet
any special record of Mr. Warde’s professional ca
reer or of his earlier history.
It is the usual story so far as his boyhood’s days
are concerned. There were the parents who, like
all parents, wanted to fashion his future to suit
themselves, without regard to his inclinations or
desires; there was the usual departure of the bey
from the shadow of the parental vino and fig tree to
satisfy the impulses of his nature.
Now that Fred Warde comes as a “ star” to th©
city in which ho made his American debut as a
member of a stock company, it is not out of place
as a matter of interest to give a passing memoran
dum of his past history.
All men have a history, such as it is, and no
man’s history is without interest, and rarely is it
devoid of a tinge of romance.
In the passage of human life Romance is the
sugar coating to the sometimes hard and bitter pin
of fact.
Mr. Fred Warde was born In the village of Ward
ington, Oxfordshire, England, and is the son of
what is termed on the English side of the water a
national schoolmaster. He was educated at Shore
ham, in Sussex, and the City of London School,
and was “articled” at the ago of fourteen to the
legal firm of Miller & Miller, of Sherbourne lane, in
London. When—as ths record goes—he had cred
itably passed the intermediate examination, “ young
as he was, law study made him tired.”
The limits of the dingy law office and the exam
ples of the illustrious Dodson & Fogg and Sampson
Brass charmed him not. The parental voiee cried
out, “Be a great lawyer. You’ll wear the wig and
gown and hold the sword of Justice as a lord chief
justice.”
But the boy’s voice, speaking for the boy’s inclin
ing, spoke louder than the parent, and it said :
“To Newgate with your law—l’ll none of it. I’ll
wear the wig and sword of an actor.”
And that settled it. Forthwith he
MADE THE ACQUAINTANCE OF A DRAMATIC
AGENT
and actor, one E. D. Danvers, who succeeded in
procuring him an engagement at the Lyceum Thea
tre, Sunderland, for “general utility,” the salary
being fixed at the munificent sum of fifteen shil
lings—otherwise three dollars and fifty cents—per
week.
Having taken this step, he suddenly disappeared
from his bom© without even jiving his parents the
premonitory wink of a “ by your leave, gooX sir? 1
Ha made his first appearance on the stage as the
second murderer in “Macbeth.”
His lines were few, but he was complimented by
the manager’s daughter, who said he was about the
wrst murderer she had ever seen since the days of
her little tothood. No doubt it was. Novices,
somehow or other, have a special knack of man
gling Shakespeare into unrecognizable fragments of
expression.
Well, after remaining here a couple of seasons, he
obtained an engagement for the season of '69 and ’7O
for utility. In the Autumn of 1870 he was fortunate
enough to secure his third professional advance
ment—that of a position under Charles Calvert,
then manager of the Princess' Theatre, Manchester.
There Mr. Warde remained nearly to the close of a
third season, and, under the tutelage of Mr. Cal
vert, he was advanced to leading business, and
was cast for and played Romeo to Miss Adelaide
Neilson’s Juliet—repeating it throughout the entire
month of her engagement. To him she addressed a
note, the original of which he retains as one of the
most valued of the souvenirs of his earlier stage
life, in which she writes this sentence:
“I shall ever remember your attention to the
business of the character and the earnestness and
care you showed in your reading of the text.”
From this theatre he went to the Theatre Royal,
Brighton, for a season, and from thence to the
Alexandra Theatre, Liverpool.
While at this theatre he received an offer from
Messrs. Jarrett & Palmer of an engagement as lead
ing man at Booth's Theatre. The terms were ar
ranged, the contract signed and he sailed for this
country. He made his
FIRST APPEARANCE UPON THE AMERICAN
STAGE
at Booth’s Theatre, under the management of Jar
rett & Palmer, on Monday evening, August 10, 1874,
as Captain Marston Pike, in Boucicault’s drama of
“Belle Lamar.” This drama very speedily found a
prominent and fixed place on the list of Dion B.’s
failures. The acting of an excellent company could
not save it. It was nothing more or less than a
hastily constructed pot-boiler and there wasn’t heat
enough in its sensational fuel to bring it to a luke
warm simmer.
Here, in this company, Mr. Warde remained three
seasons, with an interval of three months, during
which he supported Edwin Beoth in his first South
ern trip and played Marc Antony in the tour of the
Davenport-Barrett “Julius Ceasar” combination.
In 1877 his contract with Jarrett A Palmer ex
pired and he became the leading man of the Broad
way Theatre (now Daly’s), under the management of
Mr. James C. Duff. In the Summer of '7B be went
to San Francisco with the ill-fated Harry Montague
and his “Diplomacy” company. After Montague’s
death he purchased the play, in partnership with
Maurice Barrymore and for a season traveled with
it, and at the close found himself with something
left in the way of pecuniary profit and with what
was equally as valuable—a deserved increase to his
reputation as an actor. In the Fall of '79 he joined
John McCullough's forces as his leading support.
Alter several engagements in leading business in
stock companies and as the support of stars, be de
termined to try his fortune as a star. This, I be
lieve, is his third season in this capacity.
It is with the newer aspirant—no matter how
thorough and extended his past experience may
have been as a stock actor nor bow great a local
favorite—a hard up-hill battle to gain that hearing
from the critics and the public—especially in the
Higher roles of the legitimate drama, which will
encourage him to continue the effort.
NEW YORK, SUNDAY. FEBRUARY 14, 1886.
YOUR CRITICS WILL COME DOWN ON HIM
with “He isn’t Booth—” “Compared with Barrett
he is—” and all the rest of that sort of comparative
anatomy and modern alleged analysis. The public,
equally as prone to object to any change of its
idols, will follow suit. Confronting these obstacles,
and thus running the gauntlet of prejudice, is it
any wonder that so few of our best actors, who
aspire to something higher in stage work than
sensational clap-trap melo-drama and the inanity
and claw-hammer coated society rubbish, labelled
“Society Plays ’’—are found emulating the example
of Booth, Barrett, McCullough and Keene ?
Mr. Warde has shown since he began his career as
a star that he has the courage of his convictions ;
that he believes in himself, and that he has the
vital force, the mental resources and the per
severance to fight out the battle to an Ultimate
victory, if it takes half a dozen more seasons.
He has for his present season a manager, who is,
not only In a business and financial sense, but in
energy, the man of all men whom a star, whose
time and mind is occupied with his stage task, its
studies and various requirements, should always
have to aid in the accomplishment of success. Mr.
Warde has fought down to a great extent the preju
dice which is
THE BAN OF ALL YOUNG ASPIRANTS;
he has come up in his profession from the foot of
the ladder; he has studied and is studying hard to
make his every performance more perfect than the
last; his ambition is Armand unswerving in its
purpose, and it is but just that criticgrand audience
alike should judge him rather for what of excellence
there is in his work and what it promises to result
in in the future, rather than hold off in couneil on
what it ought to be and is not
He has appeared in the past three seasons thus
far as Virginius, Damon, Richard IIL, Hamlet, King
Lear, and Othello. He has received much of praise
and encoui'aging comment from the press of other
cities for his impersonations of these characters in
the past season, and now that he is to appear here
to-morrow evening, for the first time as a star, let
his audience and his critics forget for the time all
reference to Booth and Barrett
And also lend what encouragement they can to all,
who, like these I have named, are endeavoring as re
vivalists of the legitimate to restore to the theatre
and ita work, now demoralized by fustian and fash
ion, the beauty and intellectual grace which glori
fied dramatic art and its followers in the “Palmy
Day ” period; from which have come down to us
full of fame and crowned with memorable associa
tions, not only Booth and Barrett, but Gilbert,War
ren, Jefferson, Wallack, Fisher, and a few—alas, on
ly a few others, to show us of to-day of what quality
of students the “ old school ” was composed.
Let us reverence that school of the “Palmy
days,” and let us be thankful to the courageous
few of the younger men of the profession who are
in the list of its revivalists.
Let us, with this feeling, extend a welcome to Mr.
Fred Wards, and give him the meed of encourage
ment he may deserve.
THE RIDERLESS HORSE.
Squire G-uttridge’s Last Dinner
Party.
“Go Through the Cover and
Leave it to Me.”
An Innocent Man Hanged for
Murder.
THE STORY TOLD FIVE YEARS LATER.
In 1833, Mrs. Bollinger, a native of the West In
dies and the widow of a wealthy planter, settled at
WeSton, near Bath, England. She was about forty
years of age, and had two sons, aged respodtively
eighteen and twenty. She married within six
months of her arrival in England, her husband be
ing a Mr. Guttridge, who had a good estate near
Kenilworth, in Warwickshire.
Mr. Guttridge was five years his wife’s senior,
end had not been married before. They went to
reside at Mr. Guttridge’s place, known as the Tem
plars.
Squire Guttridge was a man of a jovial turn, and
loved good company, and even after his marriage
kept up the practice of haying a pleasant and some
times boisterous dinner party once a week. On
September 10th, in the year already named, about
two months after his marriage, he had such a
party. Mr. Yetts, a neighboring squire, happening
to go out upon the lawn, on his return said:
“ There is a fellow lounging down by the poplars.
When I walked toward him, he disappeared, but,
on reaching the steps, I turned and saw him in the
place where he was when I first noticed him.”
“Some fellow courting one of the wenches,” said
another of the guests. “ I suppose that, now the
squire is married, they think there is some chance
for them.”
After a few minutes had elapsed, Squire Gutt
ridge went to the dining-room window, and, stand
ing between it and the heavy curtains, looked to
ward the poplars. After a time he saw the figure of
a man coming from the shadow and looking toward
the house.
DUCKING AN EAVESDROPPER.
“ The eavesdropper is there, sure enough,” he
said when he returned to the table. “ What shall
we do with the rogue?”
“Duck him at the pump,” said one.
“ A good idea,” the Squire said. “ Suppose some
of you younger men leave by the garden, go down
by the trees to the right, and close in upon the
rascal. Thon you can bring him up to the stables
and we’ll put him under the pump.”
This was accepted as a capital idea, and half a
dozen of the younger men at once started off on
the adventure. So well did they succeed that in
five minutes they were back with a stalwart young
countryman in their custody. The man had strug
gled fiercely to free himself, but he was no match
for the powerful young fellows who had him in their
merciless grip.
“Now, than,” said the Squire, as he went out
and joined the group ; “ I’ll superintend the duck
ing. Round here with him to the stables.”
The captive was speedily dragged to the pump
and held under it while the cold liquid poured over
him; when be was thoroughly drenched and gasp
ing for breath, his captors led him down the park
to the gate, and, giving him a parting kick, bade
him beware how he played eavesdropper round a
gentleman’s house again.
Next day the Squire said to his groom :
“ Rease, I want you to go round to the Bull’s
Head this evening and find out, if you can, who
the young fellow was whom we caught last night
loitering around the place. Don't disclose the fact
that you know what happened, but bear all you can
and let me know.”
The following morning the groom informed his
master that the occurrence bad got wind, and that it
was said in a whisper that the man who had been
captured and pumped upon was the son of David
Sampter, a small farmer of the neighborhood, and
that young Sampter was a notorious poacher and in
love with one of the maids at the Templars.
RIDERLESS.
Three days later Squire Guttridge went to a
friend’s to dine. At about ten o’clock at night the
porter at the lodge, who was waiting to open the
gate for the Squire, heard the gallop of a horse.
The animal stopped at the gate and the porter went
out to admit his master. The horse was there, sure
enough, but it was riderless.
The porter alarmed the domestics at the house,
aud the groom and two men servants went to
look for the squire. A quarter of a mile from the
gate of the Templars they found him lying on the
road—dead. A bullet had passed through his
brain and ho had dropped from his horse a corpse.
At tbo coroner’s inquest William Coops, a la
borer, testifies that at half-past eight o’clock on
Starless anil
the evening of the murder, yonng Sampter came
to his cottage with another man whom he did not
know. They drank a mug of ale and ate some
bread and cheese, and in conversation Sampter
said :
“ We’d better take another drink, for we may
want all the courage we can muster up.”
When they left the cottage, Coops watched them
down the lane leading to the main road and saw one
of them—he thought it was Sampter—go into the
hedge. After half a minute or so the man, came
from the hedge and the two walked toward the
road.
Joseph Umples, another laborer, whose cottage
stood almost at the corner of the lane and the
road, saw two men, a little before nine o’clock,
standing at the corner, ono of them had some
thing over his shoulder which looked like a gun.
While he was looking at them, two men passed
along the road toward the Templars.
James Smithers and James Woodman, black
smiths, testified that they went along the road
toward the Templars at about nine o’clock that
evening and saw two men on the corner of the
lane, one whom seemed to shoulder a gun.
Emma Gaspede, wife of John Gaspede, testified
that her husband came into the house, which was
situated on the lane, half a mile further from the
road than Coops’s, at about eight o’clock and
asked for a lantern, saying that his gun was
missing from the barn. Gaspede, who was a
cousin of Sampter, could not be found for some
time; but at last was discovered at his brother’s
farm across the river Avon from Warwick. He
said he had gone thither to help his brother with
his farm work. He admitted that his gun was
missing and that he told his wife so, but swore
positively that he had not seen Sampter about his
premises.
ARRESTED ON SUSPICION.
Here ths occurrence of the night of the dinner
party was explained to the coroner, and he said :
“It seems to mo that nothing would be more
natural than for a man like Sampter to take ven
geance on the Squire as the instigator and abettor
of the rough treatment he received.”
Thereupon a warrant was issued for Sampler’s
arrest. He was found at his father’s house, dress
ing a hog, and next day was taken before the
coroner, and asked to explain his whereabouts on
the night of the killing of Squire Guttridge.
“In the afternoon,” he said, “a friend came from
Brandon to see me. I was at work in the barn at
the time, and we didn't go into the house, but started
down the road toward Kenilworth. We went into
Birch’s inn and had some beer, and then sat in the
back garden and smoked until pretty late. Then
we went out at the back and crossed the fields to
the lane. I called at Ooops's, and we had some bread
and cheese and beer. After that we went a short
way down the lane and turned in at the stile lead
ing to the fields, and so went back to father's. I
had no gun that night, .and never went into the
road at all.”
“ Who was your companion ?” the coroner asked.
“His name is Wilson,” was the reply.
“Can he be found ?”
“I don’t know. He enlisted in Birmingham four
months ago and deserted, and was away up here
hiding.”
Next day, Thomas Wells, a constable, testified
that he went to the farm of Sampler’s father and
searched the barn. Among some wheelbarrows and
tools, covered over with straw, he found the gun
produced.
John Gaspede identified the gun as that stolen
from his place on the evening of the murder.
ANOTHER STORY.
Young Sampter then changed his story, and said
that he and his friend first went to Gaspede’s place,
and Sampter suggested to Wilson that it was a good
place to hide in for a few days. Wilson replied that
he did not intend to hide, but get further away
from Birmingham as soon as he could raise some
money. They went round into the barn and leaned
against the wall. Wilson put up his hand and
said :
“Hello, here’s a gun. This will be a protection
to me, and I’ll take it.”.
Then they walked down the road to the stile,
when Sampter said:
“Coops, who works for my father, lives here. We
sent him and his wife some home-brewed ale the
other day; let’s go in and try it.”
Then Wilson hid the gun in the hedge, and the two
turned back and went to Coops’s. After they left
Coops’s they went to the stile, and Wilson went into
the hedge to get the gun. Then they went through
the stile into the field.
“Did you see any one beside Wilson with a gun ?”
the coroner asked.
“Now you speak of it,” replied Sampter, “just as
we entered the field we met two men, one of whom
had a pitchfork, or something of that kind, over his
shoulder.”
“ When you were at Coops’s, you said, • We’d bet
ter take another drink, for we may need all the
courage we can muster up.’ What did you mean
by that ?”
“ I thought that a file of soldiers might come up
on us and attempt to capture Wilson, for I’d prom
ised to stand by him.”
•• What kind of a hat did you wear that night ?”
“ An old straw hat, I think.”
“ Do you recognize that hat 1” asked the coroner,
holding up an old, well-worn, low-crowned beaver.
“Yes, I think I do; though I’m not sure.”
“See, it has your name in it 1”
The man took the hat, examined it, and said:
“That is my hat. I lost it a short time ago.”
This hat was found in the hedge next morning,
close to where the squire was shot,” the coroner
said:
Sampt r turned pale. He soon recovered himself,
and said:
“Of course, I know that I am suspected of having
killed the squire out of revenge for the ducking I
got, but for all that I am innocent as a child. I wore
that hat on the_hight, but haven’t been able to find
it since.”
CONVICTED AND HANGED.
On this evidence the coroner’s jury found that the
squire had been shot by Sampter. He was duly
indicted, tried at Warwick assizes and convicted.
Every exertion was used to find the man Wilson.
It was proved that such a man had deserted from
his regiment and been seen by others in the neigh
borhood of Brandon and Kenilworth. It was
proved also that Gaspede had not quitted his home
to escape testifying against his cousin, but that he
had gone to his brother’s in accordance with a
promise made a week before. It was shown also
that, so far from resentment, Sampter had
told the story of his ducking as a good joke Io
several friends, saying that he could stand many
more such duckings so long as the girl he was after
favored him. In spite of all he was convicted and
sentenced to be hanged. The sentenoe was carried
out at Warwick, in March 1834, Sampter, dying
with a protestation of absolute innocence on his
lips.
By the terms of a will made after Squire Gutt
ridge’s marriage every thing he owned went to his
widow, who continued to live with her two sons at
the Templars. The squire’s younger brother, who
was a clergyman, attempted to break the will, but
failed.
YOUNG FALKNER.
In June, 1838, a deaf and eccentric shoemaker at
Brandon, whose name was Falkner, received a
remittance of £SO and a letter directing him to take
a decent cottage and have it respectably furnished.
In a month’s time he received another letter, tel
ling him that he might soon expect his son, who had
enlisted many years before, but had not been heard
of for four or five years. In a day or two the son
arrived and the meeting between father and son
was very affectionate.
“ Never mention to any one my having been in
the army,” said the son; “ for I deserted five years
ago and may be punished if any one gives informa
tion ef my having done so.”
John Falkner, the son, went over to Kenilworth
and learned to his amazement that his old friend
Sampter had been hanged for murder. When the
whole story was told by the elder Sampter, Falkner
was the most astounded and grief-stricken man in
England.
A STRANGE STORY.
“ I am the man,” said he, “ whom Sampter called
Wilson, and his story was true in every particular.
After reaching Sampler’s barn that evening, Samp
ter wanted mo to share his bed, but I said that
might bring him and his father into trouble for
harboring a deserter; whereas, if I was simply
found In the barn, it would be supposed that I had
found shelter there without leave.”
“I lay down on a heap of straw, but couldn’t
sleep. Every sound disturbed me, and finally I
resolved to get up and travel toward a seaport town
where I could ship for some foreign land. The
cap I wore, however, was a soldier’s foraging cap, so
I put that in my pocket, and, remembering that I
had seen Sampler throw his old beaver in the
corner of the barn, I groped for it, and put it on.
Then I started through the fields. When I reached
the lane I turned toward the main road. I heard a
noise as of some one breaking through the bushes
in a cover on the left. I feared that it was soldiers
in pursuit of me, and made for the coppice on the
other side. I slipped into the ditch, and my hat
fell off. I lay still, and presently I saw two men
come from the cover on the other side. The night
was not dark and after a time I observed that they
were both young.
“ Soon I heard the sound of a horse cantering.
One of the men said to the other :
“’There is no need for you to be here. Go
through the cover and leave it to me.’
“ The man addressed went into the cover, and
presently a horseman came along at a canter. The
man in the road stood close in by a gateway, and I
could see that he held a pistol. As the rider passed
he fired. The horse plunged and the rider fell to
the ground. The assassin entered the cover and I
could hear the breaking of twigs as he forced his
way along.
“The first impulse was to give an alarm, but I
knew what ray fate would be, if discovered ; and
furthermore, I didn’t know that I might not be
charged with the crime. The fact of my having
taken the gun from the barn suddenly flashed
across me, and I climbed into the road and made off
as fast as I could go. I made for Warwick, and
thence to Everham and Gloucester, and finally
reached Bristol, when I shipped for Canada. I
never made any inquiries or heard anything of the
tragedy I had witnessed, and should not have
alluded to it, I verily believe, but for the discovery
that my friend had suffered for a crime he never
committed.”
Sampter brought these facts to the knowledge of
the authorities, Falkner declaring that he would
run any risk of punishment as a deserter rather
than not have his dead friend cleared from the
stain that was upon him.
THE VOICE.
In the meantime a singular thing had happened.
Mrs. Guttridge had died suddenly, and her younger
son George had been drowned while boating on the
Avon with his elder brother Henry, so that Henry
was now the sole owner of all the property formerly
in the possession of the Squire and his mother.
Falkner went to the Templars with the design of
narrating to Henry Bollinger the story of that fatal
night. The moment he heard the young Squire’s
voice, he immediately identified it as that of the
man who stood in the road and said to his compan
ion :
“There is no need for you to be here. .Go through
the cover and leave it to me.”
Falkner was so astounded that he was unable to
gather his thoughts and making some apology quit
ted the Templars.
The story as told by him, however, ran through
tbe neighborhood. Of course there was no proof
that young Bollinger had shot the Squire, though
the Squire’s younger brother remembered that the
day before the shooting he and the Squire bad had
a conversation in which he had avowed his inten
tion before the week was out of making another
will and leaving all that he could to his brother.
Had young Bollinger overheard that conversation ?
No one will ever know. Bollinger, finding himself
shunned and avoided, sold his property and went
back to his native Island of Antigua. In 1857, he
returned to the Templars, shut himself up in the
dark and dingy domicile and at the end of a year
blew out his brains—probably with the very pistol
which he had used on that night when Falkner
heard the voice say; Leave it to me.”
RICH DOG TRAY.
The Diamond-Studded St. Ber
nard Which Was Worth
Forty Thousand Dollars.
A MILLIONAIRE SMUGGLER’S DEVICE.
Mr. Friedlieim’s French Poodle That
Wore a Diamond Necklace.
A FORTUNE LOST AND FOUND.
Two Very Tall Stories That Shocked
Tall Story Tellers.
At an up-town club the other evening the conver
sation turned on smuggling in swell society. One
of the loungers remarked:
“Do you know that big St. Bernard of X's ?”
Everyone said he did, and the speaker continued:
“And you all have seen the diamond necklace
Mrs. X wears ?”
Every body said he had.
“ Well,” the speaker went on, “ the dog smuggled
them in for her, and I’ll buy the wine for the man
who guesses how.”
RICH DOG TRAY.
For the next ten minutes all manner of ingenious
suggestions and theories were bandied about. The
method’s by which X’s dog might have been con
verted into a smuggler did credit to the Invention
of the company. Indeed, any real smuggler might
have profited by the hints in his profession dropped
then and there. Finally, every one gave it up, and
the story-teller who had been calmly and placidly
smoking while the contest for his wager waged
around him, said:
“I knew you’d never hit it, but it is easy enough
when you think of it. He brought them in his
stomach. You see the way X worked it was this:
There are fourteen stones ia the necklace, from
three io fve karats each. On the day the sLip got
in, aa it was coming up the bay, he got a dish of
raw meat from the steward, and took it down be
tween decks where the dog was tied up for the
voyage. He made a out in a piece of meat, shoved
a diamond in, and tossed the bolus down the dog’s
throat. Those big brutes bolt all their food whole,
you know, so he had no difficulty in getting him to
take it. When he got through, that dog was the
most valuable animal in the world. If any one had
come along and offered X $20,000 on the spot, he
couldn't have bought him. The diamonds cost
$40,000 in Paris.
The speaker puffed at his cigar while everyone
looked at him to see whether he was serious or not.
Then somebody asked him:
“ Well, what next?”
‘ • Cant you imagine ?” he replied languidly. “In
the clear course of common sense and nature don’t
the rest of the story suggest itself to you ? When
the steamer got to her dock X had only a trunk
and a valise. He left them for his man to take care
of after the Custom House people got through and
went ashore; with his $40,000, diamond studded
dog. He took the first coach on the dock and drove
right home. Then he tied that dog up in the cellar
trad gave him a terrible dose of castor oil without
delay. There was a mighty sick dog in the neigh
borhood of Madison Square for the next couple of
days. He was so sick that he howled all night long
tillX. began to be afraid he would attract the atten
tion of Bergh. When he began to get better Mrs.
X. had the stones for a diamond necklace ready to
be set, and one of our millionaires had cheated
Uncle Sam out of a small fortune.”
OFFICE, NO. Il FRANKFORT ST.
THE FRIEDHEIMS AND THEIR POODLE.
His listeners looked very hard a t the story teller
but he did not move a muscle. Then one of them,
said:
"That’s a good dog story, but I know abettor one,
I think.”
Everybody wanted te know what it was, so he
permitted himself to be persuaded to tell it.
“ On my way home from France some years ago,”
ho said, •• on the steamer • L’Amerique/ I mado
the acquaintance of a French poodle. When pas
sengers on board a steamer have pets they, as you
doubtless know, are usually relegated to the care of
the butcher and kept somewhere in the lower
regions, it being a strict rule not to permit the
animal kingdom the privelages of the state-rooms,
these being strictly reserved for insects, which it is
not necessary for passengers to bring with them.
So when I saw this caniche frisking around and
asked the ever-genial Captain Santelli how it hap
pened that this special canine enjoyed the freedom
of the ship, the question was quite natural.”
•*‘Well,* said the captain hesitatingly, ‘the lady
begged very hard, and as she insinuated that her
dog would be less of a nuisance and knew more en
tertaining tricks than Jacko, the mongrel, that one
of my officers carries on board, and as we hadn’t
any passengers likely to complain, I was induced to
et the dog come up/
“ Paul was a pure black, his face and body carved
with the usual rings, rosettes and other trimmings
peculiar to the decorative tastes man vents upon
his race. He was remarkably intelligent, and was
soon on a good footing with the passengers as he
was with his owners—in fact better, for his indiffer
ence to them led me to believe that he had not been
long in their possesaion. He and I were great
friends, and this led to an acquaintance with Mad
ame Freidheim, his mistress. Monsieur Freidheim
he habitually shunned, a chance kick from that
gentleman having removed two of his front teeth,
the loss of which Paul could neither forget nor for
give. Mme. Freidheim was a plump and pretty
Jewess, Monsieur Freidheim was a lean and ugly
Jew. He had, I learned, been a sutler in the Ger
man army during the difficulty with France, and
had made a fortune out of a contract to supply the
soldiers with shoes.
A RUNAWAY DOG.
“For two days before we reached New York I saw
nothing of my friend Paul, and little of his owners.
At the Barge Office they did not seem to be in a hur
ry to have their things examined; but when their
turn came the examination seemed to me unusually
strict. There was doubtless a reason for this. The
lady was taken on one side to be searched; Fried
hekn stood by me holding the dog by the chain.
The search concluded, one of the officer's said:
“ ‘ Take off that dog's collar.’
“ • The dog's collar ! What in Heaven's name
must I do that for ?’ demanded Friedheim.
“His embarrassed manner led the officer to think
he had struck something, so he insisted. The large
silver collar was handed to him, and while he ex
amined it Paul made a bound from the grasp of his
master and effected his escape into the street. The
collar contained nothing after all.
Two days after there was an advertisement in
one of the dailies, offering a reward of a hundred
dollars for the return of a lost French poodle; a
week after the reward was increased to two hundred
and fifty. Then I began to feel interested, and de
termined to keep a sharp look-out for my friend
PauL For two or three weeks I was unsuccessful,
but one day I strolled into a little dog fancier’s shop
that I chanced upon, and there was Paul sitting
moodily in a corner with a piece of dirty flannel
round his neck. He was pleased to see me, how
ever, and the fancier noticed this; so when I com
menced to ask him questions he answered warily.
At length I told him frankly of the handsome re
ward offered, and then he appeared to throw off all
reserve, and told me what he knew of the dog.
••Paul, the evening the steamer landed, dirty, wet
and tired, a stranger in a strange land, had been
captivated by the first words that sounded kind—
for he knew no English—that wew addressed to
him. They came from the mouth of a ragged youth
who shared his crust with the dog and then led him
around with a piece of string trying to
sell him. A noted cracksman of gentle
manly exterior, well-known to the ragged
youth, bought Paul for a dollar; had him
washed, found that he was well educated and seem
ly, and made a present of him to a young lady
whose intimate acquaintance he had reveled in for
over two years. This lady, like the Egyptian men
tioned in “ The Apple of Gold,” had a lover, and
finding the caniche too large for a pet she gave it to
the handsome broker and lover aforesaid. Being a
bachelor, this person soon grew proud of the dog
and its tricks. But in a short time it fell sick; all
round its neck there were large eruptions; so he
sent it to the fancier. This individual agreed with
me to see his patron, tell him the dog was stolen,
and then go with me to the original owners and
claim the reward.
“ WHY PAUL'S NECK WAS SORE.
“ The next evening but one I called, according to
appointment, and found the shop shut up. I
sought the fancier at his private address, where I
was told that he had left the city. I did not see
him again until a few weeks ago, when I found him
in the person of a successful horse-dealer, having
large stables not far from whers the aquarium was
some years ago. He was a little embarrassed at first,
and tried to talk horse, but I was determined to
talk dog. He used to have an assistant in his dog
hospital, a dirty, slovenly fellow called Joe. So, by
the way of a feeler, I carelessly remarked, ‘Joe told
me of your streak of luck with that French dog.'
“He was completely knocked off his pins by this
chance shot.
“ • Come into the office/ he sighed, and led the
way into a prettily-furnished wainscotted room,
crowded with first-class prints, illustrative of
horseflesh in every form. ’ What’ll you have ?' he
asked, leading me to a handsome sideboard. After
refreshing we sat down, each with a big cigar, and,
in a meditative, careful way he told the last chapter
of Paul’s history.
•• So Joe told you all about it,” he began; “Joe
always was an ass. Well, that dog was the making
of me. When Mr. Blank brought him to my shop
he had lumps like carbuncles all around his neck,
and In a few days would have been choked by the
swelling. I put on some plaster to bring them to a
head, and one, right under his throat, I lanced. And
what do you think I got out ? A green piece of
glass—as I thought. But how did it get there ? The
next morning I cut into another of his big lumps,
fnd found—a diamond. I just trembled. I felt
sure it must be a diamond. I looked carefully round
his neck and right on the top I found marks of
stitchesi Then I knew I was right. The stones hjs
been sown up in the dog's skin, under his collar, to
escape duty. Ever heard of such a thing ? Well, I
cut out two more diamonds. I know the owners
would not dare to claim them. Bo I made the best
bargain I could—and it was a very handsome one I
Can tell you—and went into a business I had always
had a hankering after. Let’s open a bottle to the
New Year/’
A SOLEMN WARNING.
The story-teller took out a cigar and got ready to
light it. His listeners looked at him and at each
other inquiringly. The man who had told the first
dog story regarded him with eyes of envy and dis
gust.
“ But what had become of the dog ?” some one
asked at last.
“Ha?” said the story-teller. “Well, the fact is
that when we opened the wine*< forgot to ask.”
“Your story,” remarked another of the party, as
story teller number two snapped a match and light
ed his cigar “reminds me of another.”
Here the first story-teller got up.”
“ I guess I’ll say good night,” he observed, reach
ing for his hat.
“What! You're not off already,” said narrator
number two. “ What's your hurry ?”
“Well,” said the other “Idon’t want to see any
of you fellows struck dead or blind, and that will
happen if you keep this thing up or else the Bible
lies.”
The party then adjourned to the Silver Grill.
PRICE FIVE CENTS.
FOOTSTEPS ON THE STAIRS.
BY MAX.
Drearily, wearily, ends the day,
The sun goes down with no after-glow;
Then gathers the twilight, cold and gray.
And in shadow is all the world below.
Merrily, cheerily, burns the fire,
Singing and music are overhead;
I listen with ears that never lira
To catch the sound of thy measured tread.
While lam young, love, and life are sweet,
What can I feel, dear, of doubts and cares.
If I have strength in my heart to greet
The sound of thy footsteps upon the stairs I
Steadily, speedily, time goes on,
Gay with the sunshine or dull with rain,
Untrl, like a dream, the years are gone.
Brightened or saddened with joy or pain.
Verily, merrily, sings my heart,
Never regretting the years now dead,
Standing alone from the world apart.
Listening still for thy welcome tread.
When I am old, love and life less bright.
And shadowed perhaps with doubts and caresj
My heart will thrill with a new delight,
When I hear thy footsteps upon the stairs.
A BITTER CUP.
BY A POPULAR AUTHOR.
CHAPTER XT.
SHE WOULD PROVE HERSELF A PITILESS AND
MALIGNANT FOE.”
One week longer, by the urgent request of
her host and hostess, and with Mrs. Lindsay’,
full permission, Rose stay, on at the Priory.
She has read Maud Dacre's wild confession
through now ; and, though the reading has cost
her many a throb of pain and not a few tears,
she finishes it with a feeling of thankfulness;
for, from first to last, it does not contain one
word that lowers her estimate of Neal.
“Even when he know all”—the letter says—
“ho was gentle with me, Rose, I own that, and
I thank him for it, though that gentle coldness
almost killed mo. I could have borne harsh
words, and even blows better than the chill
unchanging kindness behind which I always
seemed to read the doctor’s orders, and the
doctor’s warning. Once, and once only, I tried
to break through that icy barrier of reserve,
and make appeal to his mercy. It was the first
day after our return to the Grange. I was a
little tired with the journey, and his anxiety
about me seemed so great and sincere that a
faint hope began to stir in my heart; I caught
his hand as he leaned across my chair to arrange
the screen between me and the fue, and held it
nervously fast.
“‘Neal!’ It was all I could utter for the
hysteric swelling in my throat; but I know
there was a wordless passionate plead’ng in
my eyes, that my whole tortured soul looked
through them as I raised them desperately to
his. Alas, only to drop them instantly with a
crushing consciousness of defeat 1
“How .hall I describe his look, Rose? It
was not scornful, not angry ; a moment back it
had been brightly kind. But now it was as
though avail had been suddenly dropped be
tween us; even his voice sounded far off and
indistinct as he said, with grave gentleness—
“ Hush, Maud I We must be content with
things as they are. We dare not try to under
stand or draw nearer to one another 1”
“I turned from him, and hid my face in the
pillow he had just straightened with more than
womanly tenderness, that he should not hear
the cry that broke from me then. When I lifted
my head again he had gone, and my grim old
Abigail stood over me, with the look of jealous
suspicion I have learned to know and dread
stamped strongly on her rugged face.
“ • Bad again, Miss Maud I ’ she said angrily.
‘Worried and vexed by them that ought to
shield you with their Uvea, by them that has
had the doctor's warnings too, and know what
worry means to you 1 ’
“She was always making such speeches about
Neal, always resenting his lack of love, his power
to make me suffer; even his consistent self
restraint and gentleness could not conquer her
jealous dislike. I had borne a good deal from
her, but felt it was time to check her malice
then.
“I tore off the handkerchief soaked with eau
de Cologne that she was placing on my forehead,
and half rose in the chair as I said angrily—
‘You are forgetting yourself in venturing to
find fault with Mr. Dacre, Abigail; and you
must understand once for ail that that is a
liberty you must never dare to take. Another
word spoken in that spirit, and you and I will
part.’
“She started back as though I had struck
her, letting the flask she held fall to the ground,
and staring at me in stupefied dismay.
“‘Part 1’ she stammered, as though her own
words bewildered her. ‘You and me, Misa
Maud—and over him?’
“ • You heard what I said,’ I answered frigid
ly ; it was hard to look on the old'creature who
had been more like my mother than my serv
ant always, and maintain the harsh imperative
ness of my tone. But I had wronged Neal ao
deeply, I had so lowered him in his own esteem,
that I was bound at all cost to maintain his dig
nity in his servant’s eyes. ‘Another word
against Mr. Dacre, my husband, and your mas
ter, and in either character above reproach,
and ’
“‘Don’t say it again, Miss Maud—it hurts,’
she broke in, her harsh face all drawn and
quivering with passion. • I understand, and I
will be careful; I will not speak of—Mr. Dacre
again,’
“ It was the ouly concession, unaccompanied
by any expression of penitence or regret, that I
could win from her, but in a sense I was grate
ful for this. I could not afford to quarrel with
Abigail in my weary helplessness ; I w as almost
as dependent on her ns a child is on its nurse.
“She kept her word, too. By not tlie faintest
whisper did she ever again suggest that Neal
was in any way to blame, but I knew, every
time his name was mentioned in her presence,
every time he entered the room in which alio
was, that her old dislike was intensified to
hatred now; that, if ever the chance to harm
him came in her way, she would prove herself a
pitiless and malignant foe.
“ You wonder, perhaps, why I tell you this.
Rose, why I seem willing to harden yo ir heart
against the poor old creature who, whatever her
faults, has always been most loving and meat
faithful to me. It is for this reason, that I am
fully determined the wrong I have done Neal
Dacre shall end with my life ; as little as possi
ble shall the shadow of his first marriage cloud;
the future that you will make happy and bright..
Whatever Abigail Hunt may try fo make yoa
believe, whatever Neal himself may say ifl m<>
ments of overstrained remorse, believe me only
when lying here, a dying woman, I tell you in
all sincerity and truth that he was e-ei gentle,
generous and forbearing, a Bayard sam ftur