New York dispatch. [volume], July 04, 1886, Image 1

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

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PUBLISHED BY A. 1 WILLIAMSON’S BONB.
VOL. XLI.-NO. 38.
Watered at the Post Office at New York,
N. Y., as Second Class Matter.
m NEW YORK DISPATCH,
PUBLISHED AT
NO. 11 FRANKFORT STREET.
The NEW YORK DtSFATCH ifl a journal of light, agree
able and sparkling Literature and News. One page is de
' voted to Masonic Matters, and careful attention is given
to Music and the Drama.
The Dispatch is sold by all News Agents of the city and
suburbs, at FIVE CENTS A COPY.
TERMS FOR MAIL SUBSCRIBERS:
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TWO SUBSCRIBERS 400 “
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vance. Postage paid everywhere by the
! »ispatch office.
'Adaress new york dispatch,
Post Office Box No. 1773.
lea—
PLAYSFanFTIAYERS.
THE SUPERSTITION SNAP.
The Inevitable Press Tramp—Thre Sala
tbiel of Yarns—Forrest’s Benefit .Jonah
—Lester Wallack’s Scheme for Luck—
John F. Poole’s Three Bubbles—
Ed. Gilmore's Spin—Jimmy
O’Neil’s Three-Cornered Claud.
BY JOHN CARBOY.
With the season of “snaps’’and ether intermit
tent and short lived ventures of the ■profesh to
sequester from the suburban Jays the few dollars
which are a necessity wherewith to meet the in
■ evitable board and beer bills, comes the regulation
and dreary dearth of theatrical news.
Nothing rises in the dead heat of Summer to cre
ate wonder, except the thermometric mercury.
People mopping the perspiration from their
soaked, sun-tanned and beer reddened faces always
wonder at the condition of the thermometer.
That mercurial instrument of mental torture,
like your average actor, is either always up or away
down—up to fever heat, or down, at heel, to
zero.
There are intervening degrees marked upon the
face of the thermometer, as there are intervening
degrees in the fortunes of the professional, but
these pass without notice. Nobody cares for the
atmospheric conditions of the day so long as they
do not interfere with the mental or physical com
fort of humanity.
When the mercury balances itself <upon : the line
of 80° in the shade, and the shade seems to shrivel
and curl up at its edges, as if it were scorched
paper, “dramatic items ” are about asflearoeas ice
carts in South America.
Then it is that the old, the undying old tramp,
THE SALATHIEL OF THE SKETCH FAMILY,
is visible making its annual round—and occupies
the deserted space in the dramatic columns of the
press.
During the past week, in looking ever the col
> umns of two hundred and thirty-seven—actual
count—exchanges, I noticed that this Tramp was
getting in its fine work and that in its route it had
already taken in one hundred and sixty-three papers
—bearing upon its wrinkled brow its familiar trade
mark,
“ SUPERSTITIONS OF AOTOBS.**
Until next September it will continue its travels;
appearing in one place dwarfed, in another as long
but not half as stupid as a Herald cable dispatch;
boro it will pop up with a crown of display lines;
there it will modestly creep into view as if it were
merely an ordinary every-day editorial upon the
political situation.
This Tramp, in some instances, is born of an
“Interview” in which a “distinguished tragedian”
narrates to the reporter a ” remarkable instance of
an actor's superstition.”
Again it comes forward in an anecdotal form, and
again it will obtrude itself as “a reminiscence of
the Elder Booth;” “ A singular fatality of an actor’s
career;” and then you will catch it as the “Re
markable fulfillment of a dream,” of which “the
.popular” comedian, Mr. Horslay Jinks is the
/dreamer.
Then comes another ®hape it frequently assumes
—wherein it insinuates itaelf into your notice with
“ The following strange succession of accidents oc
curring to the well-known actor and manager in the
south Lyre—is said to have been foretold
to •him by a Mexican astrologist.”
Beneath all these guises there La always the same
old chestnut—the Summer time, space filling, old
threadbare tramp, “ Superstitions of Actors.”
In its earlier day it had a dreary monotony of
form—like the old style of melodrama>and the coun
try danees of the stage—and when you faced its
half or entire column spread in the columns of your
favorite paper—in fact, of any daily or weekly you
might take up—and opened out something in this
style:
“ Superstition is not confined to any class of peo
ple; but it is an accepted fact that, after the sailors,
the actors are more influenced by it than any
•others.” Then came the argument in this wise:
•"* It is a well-known fact that
-EDWIN FORREST INVARIABLY REFUSED TO
PLAY FOR A BENEFIT,”
but tho real cause wae never known until a few
weeks before the lamentable ending of his life in
his Broad street mansion in Philadelphia. He con
fided the secret to his life-long friends, Dan Dough
erty the silver-voiced trumpet of Democracy and
Joe MeArdle, the tragedian's business manager.
They had been urging him to grant at least the use
of his great name in the programme for a benefit to
a fellow-professional.
“ ‘Gentlemen,’ he said, ‘let me tell you a secret—
the reason of my refusal to play for any one’s bene
fit. In my early days I volunteered and played for
three benefits in succession—all of them occurring
within one season. The first was for a veteran actor
while I was in Cincinnati, at the National Theatre.
The second was for the complimentary benefit to
the manager of a theatre in Cleveland, and the third
was in New Orleans, to aid an actress who had lost
her wardrobe and all the money she had in the
world by the sinking of a steamboat in which she
was a passenger on the lower Mississippi. Two
days after the first benefit, the veteran actor died,
and instead of the receipts being used to keep him
above ground they helped to bury him. The next
night after the second benefit the manager’s thea
tre was destroyed by fire, and on the following Sat
urday the manager committed suicide at his hotel,
and in the same week that the third benefit oc
curred the actress died of yellow fever. With these
calamities following each occasion for which I had
volunteered my services, is it any wonder that 1
became superstitious and that rather than be re
garded as a Jonah I solemnly made the vow never
under any circumstances to play for a benefit?
Gentlemen, I will not play, but I will contribute
my check for the benefit of this actor—here it is.
If I were to play he would be a dead man within a
weuk.’ ”
Here is a series of lightning paragraphic buttons
which I have manufactured, which will answer as
buttons to be fastened on the old Tramp's raiment
of superstition:
THE ELDER BOOTH,
either at rehearsal or when playing at night always
carefully avoided stepping or standing upon a knot
in the flooring of the stage. On one occasion while
at rehearsal in Baltimore the prompter jokingly
svd to the tragedian, “ Mr. Booth, you are standing
on the largest knot in the stage.” Booth's face for
the moment became ashen in color and as he started
back from the yipot, his features were convulsed, his
limbs trembled and he seemed upon the point of
fainting. Directly he rallied, made a ghastly effort
to smile and staggered off at the wings. Tho re- 1
hearsal of “Richard III.” went on without him. J
3.hat night he was not to be found ; the theatre was 1
closed without a performance and alter a long
search he was discovered next morning wandering J
jji dazed condition miles away from tho city, near l
the Ellicott Mills’ railway station, on the road to
Washington.
Tenddrly be was cared for and toward the after
noon'of that day he recovered his senses and his
( first Words were, “ Where is that d—d knot 1” He
refused to appear again at that theatre, broke his
engagement, and left for Philadelphia that evening.
It lias since been made known that his abhorrence
• of placing his foot upon a knot arose from a super
stition which had haunted him for many years, that
<he third time he discovered himself standing upon
one he would drop dead from heart disease. This
’ ; knot in the stage of the Baltimore theatre was the
1 second on which he had unwittingly posed.
This button can, with little trouble, be made to
fit any actor, from Jefferson to Joslin Davis or Billy
Florence.
WILLIAM E. BURTON,
the eminent comedian and man of letters, always
abhorred fish a-s an article of food. To place any
2 sort of fish, no matter how daintily prepared, be
fore him at table produced about the same result
that the exhibition of a red flag in front of a free
• and untrammeled bull would—it set him in a fit of
rage fearful to witness. So far as is known, from
his own tips, no explanation was ever made of this
dread of fish which he entertained up to the day of
| his death. Lizzie Weston, with whom he was very
friendly, said one time in reference to the matter,
that his dislike originated in the fact that the Sum
mer before he was one day in company with a
_ friend over on Long Island, near Penny Bridge, fish
ing. While there his friend fell overboard from the
little sailboat and was drowned. Notwithstanding
every effort was made to save him, ten days elapsed
before the body was found by a couple of fishermen,
who accidentally pulled it to the surface with their
lines. It was partially eaten away, and in-dt were a
small party of eels and small fish.
} From the day of that discovery Mr. Burton had a
} horror of fish. The very thought that perhaps a
day or two after his friend had disappeared he
might have eaten a porgy that had lunched off bis
poor friend's adipose tissue was horrible.
SMALLER SUPERSTITIONS.
Now here are a few scraps ready to be pinned to
- the old tramp's garment:
; Augustin Daly never passes under a ladder or
under a rope—to do so means bad luck in some
form or other.
r Lester Wallack to ensure success to a new play on
, the opening night in which he himself is to appear,
invariably fills up the blank of the first of the
j press tickets on the regular list, and before he does
, this, under no circumstances is any one permitted,
t not even Theodore Moss or Arthur, to issue a dead
, head pass.
John Duff—if the great toe of his right foot itches,
or has a burning sensation, and the wind is Easterly
on the first night of a new play when he enters his
( theatre, regards it as an unfailing token ithat the
[ production will be a dead failure.
1 John F. Poole has a supertition that if there are
( three bubbles in a glass of old rye, just as he is lift
ing it to his lips there will surely be a death in the
profession within a year—in some part of the
United States. “I have never known the augury
i to fail,” he said. “Twice in the past five years—
the three bubbles have appeared like little beads
floating at the side of the glass—and within that
time three great actors have passed away.”
Edward Aronson is extremely superstitious con
cerning hunchbacks, and if he sees one entering the
Casino, will not miss the chance of touching or
speaking to him in order to ensure good luck fori he
week.
On the contrary. Manager Ed. Gilmore, whenever
he observes a hunchback approaching the orchestra
entrance, feels an irresistible impulse to take him
by.the back of the neck, kick him out and land him
on the pavement—particularly if the freak is a
daad-heaU. One of this latter class he caught, and
instead of propelling him to the front after the
usual fashion, quietly placed him on the vestibule
floor.and set him spinning around on his Lump
with the velocity of a humming-top.
“And,” said Gilmore, “I never had such a lucky
month in my life, I tell you, if I could only take
such.a spin out of one of that sort of D. H.’s once a
week, I wouldn’t swap the chance for all the Mas
cottsin existence.”
Edwin Booth never goes on to play Hamlet—as he
gets his entrance cue—without tapping the spot .
where he has been standing thrice with the heel of
his shoe. If he omits tthis, he is, while on the
stage, in a constant fear that something dreadful is
to happen to him that will lnterfere with the proper
performance of the part. He forgot this on the
night of his second performance of lago to Salvini’s
Othello at the Academy of Music.
Frank Mayo is full of little superstitions. One of
these is that if on going to the theatre where he is
to play, he happens to meet an organ-grinder with
a monkey perched on his shoulder, it means a very
small audience for that night; but if he should
meet a one-eyed man, wearing a white hat, it is
prophetic of a crowded house and a big divvy at
the box-office.
James O’Neil is never so happy as when in the
morning upon going out of his hotel or home, he
happens, in looking up at the sky, to see a three
cornered cloud with a rift in the middle of it over
his left shoulder. “It manes,” says he, •• a moighty
foine run of luck for * Monta Cristo' for a dozen
wakes to come,”
Charles Alvin Joslin Davis always carries the wish
bone of a buzzard in the left side pocket of his
trousers. This bone he implicitly believes guards
him against not only bad luck in business but any
kind of illness. Nearly ten years ago, while in South
Carolina, he paid a negro Voudoo ten dollars to shoot
one of these birds, roast it and prepare the wish
bone. Alvin says he has prospered ever since until
a fortnight since when the bone in his pocket was
broken. As a result, trouble came, and an alleged
wife has bad him arrested for desertion. He has
sent for another bone.
Lawrence Barrett has a superstition that if he
once a year, in the evening of St. Michaelmas day,
kills a gray cat having a black tail and white feet
his life will be prolonged five years. He has already
killed four, which, as he avers, will insure him
twenty years of existence longer than he would
otherwise have enjoyed. His business agent, Joseph
Levy, has thus far provided the cats.
A POWERFUL MAN.
HE STARTS A TRAIN AFTER THREE
engines failed to do so.
(From the Cleveland Plaindealer.)
•' Do you see that red-nosed man over there ?”
said a C. C. C. & I. freight engineer to a newspaper
reporter. The reporter looked carefully at the man,
but saw nothing peculiar about him save a very
red nose. ”He seems to have painted his nasal ap
pendage carmine,” remarked the reporter.
“ Yes, and about that nose hangs a story,” con
tinued the engineer. “Two years ago last Winter
our road was handling a large quantity of freight.
One Monday night I received orders to take out six
ty heavy freight cars loaded with iron, stone, ma
chinery and other weighty stuff. It was a bad
night, the track was blocked with snow and ice, and
after putting on three engines and working like
blazes for two hours, we concluded we couldn’t
move the long train. We w*re about to split the
train up into sections, when that red-nosed man
hove in sight. My fireman told us if we’d unhook
the engines, run them on a sidetrack and be
patient he would agree to start the train in
good shape. I told him to go ahead, aud so we un
coupled the engines, ran them on a sidetrack and
waited. My fireman ran down the track, spoke to
the red-nosed man, and pretty soon they walked to
the rear end of the train. Of course a crowd of us
were anxious to see how the train could be started.
Well, sir, that red-nosed man stood at the back of
the freight train, right in the middle of the track,
opened his moutlTand .”
••Yes, yes,” eagerly exclaimed the reporter.
•• What happened then ?”
“ Why, the wind blew through his whiskers.”
Thinking he had been gulled, the reporter seized
a coupling pin, and was about to brain the engineer,
when the latter said:
“ Well, after the wind had blown through his
whiskers, that red-nosed man blew a good, strong,
steady breath on to the hiud car. Gee, whillikins!
but there was a rattling bump and crash, and two
seconds later the whole freight train rattled and
thundered by us like lightning. Four minutes
later the train dispatcher at Akron telegraphed to
headquartersand wanted to know what in h—l we
wanted to start out a train lor that had neither
UPgine nor brakemen.”
NEW YORK. SUNDAY, JULY 4, 1886.
SIS MILL ARTJIALLERIES.
How Estheticism and Rum Sell
ing Have Gone Into
Partnership.
BAR-ROOM OSCAR WILDE’S.
High Art That Lures Men to
Bacchus’s Shrine.
CURIOSITY’S BACCHANALIAN TRIUMPH.
The proprietor of a most gorgeous drinking-bar
not so far from the City Hall that an Aiderman
would get tired walking to its fount of inspiration
and good-fellowship, remarked the other day, to
the writer, that he proposed to purchase a new
picture.
“ Why,” eaid the Dispatch representative,
“You’ve got a store full already. What do you
want with another ?”
“Oh!” was the reply. “lean find room for it
and it pays. My pictures are worth a hundred dol
lars a day in business to me. They bring people in
to look at them, and they always stay to criticise
and take a drink. Then they bring friends in to
show the pictures to them, and so the show keeps
up. Its the biggest thing for trade I know of, and
if I get left it won’t be my fault. So-and-so up the
street has been getting a boom on a picture he paid
SIO,OOO for in Paris—so he says. If I can’t break his
boom I’ll give up.”
BAR-ROOM ART IN THE PAST.
The high art of bar room decoration to which
these sage observations point, is ono of the most
curious evidences of the esthetic expansion of the
past five years. Picturesand bric-a-brac are as in.
dispensible to a drinking-saloon of the first-class
now as bottles and glasses. The town is peppered
with art galleries whose splendors are an effective
advertisement of the trade of liquor selling, and men
who used to take a cocktail to brace up on. or a bot
tle of wine to entertain a friend, now go or take
their friends to study the fine arts and get drunk
incidentally to this educational performance.
The origin of the bar-room art movement in New
York can be traced to the old chop-houses. For
many years the curious, not to say equivocal old
masters that adorned its walls have been a feature
of the oldest of the still flourishing down-town
refectories. In John street, Farrish’s paintings are
as familiar to Farrish’s guests as his steaks, chops
and deviled kidneys. The art in them is not very
lofty, but it is quaint and interesting. When Harry
Clifton ran his famous hostelry in Houston street
its walls were covered with odd and rare prints, and
with sketches and pictures contributed by the
-artistic Bohemians who frequented the house.
These latter works, indeed, represented a long
credit account enjoyed by their authors. What has
become of them since Clifton died would interest
many old-time connoisseurs. Then came Jerry
Thomas's bar, at Broadway and Twenty-second
street, with its walls .covered with Hogarth prints,
Nast’s charcoals aud Wust’s oil cartoons, at which
the rounders chuckled and were amused between
their cups.
There were quite a number of resorts, popular
with theatrical and literary rounders, which dis
played interesting portrait galleries of stage and
other celebrities. George Brown’s fine collection,
still in existence, is historical. Playbills were also
popular articles of moral decoration in these places.
These were usually interspersed with some sombre
and mysterious old masters, picked up cheap at a
sale or left by a customer for debt. The popular be
lief in old masters lasted until very recently, and
there are thousands of people still who believe that
a.picture must be a priceless gem because it is so
blackened and dirty that you cannot tell what it is.
The establishments above alluded to were all of
the highest-priced and sweliest ord r. The public
houses that went in for high art, or any art at all.
were in the vast minority. Colored lithographs and
engravings of races, of dog, cock or prize-fights, and
of scenes on the road to the races, were the highest
flights of the decorative fancy they achieved. What
works of sculpture were displayed were bought
from -the plaster-of-paris image man. Many old
New Yorkers will recall the time when all the sports
of the town made pilgrimages to a now extinct
saloon in the Bowery to see a “real oil painting” of
Flora Temple, painted by some pictorial impostor,
who. nowadays, couldn’t get & job daubing liver
pill •fligns on fences.
THE RISE OF THE ART CRAZE.
But the average American bar in those days made
little account of any art of the sort we consider to
day. It went in for lavish stuccoing, with plenty
of white paint picked out with gold and no end of
mirrors. The bartender, with his chandelier dia
mond pin and his elaborately barbered hair, was a
sufficiently striking work of art for it. There are
cynical old-timers who aver that the whisky tasted
better in those days and that the mixed drinks were
more savory. Perhaps they are right. It is, at any
rate, certain that the best liquors and the diacreet
est combinations of them, must not to-day be
sought among the costliest and most splendid bar
room decorations.
That the old chop houses suggested a higher style
of art in the barroom is no question. Jerry Thomas
used to admit that he got his idea of his famous
Broadway gallery from a contemplation of the less
striking decorations of other houses in the same
line of trade. The real start for the present fashion
may, however, be sought and found in a cozy little
chop house on Sixth avenue. This place was, ten
years ago, selected as a favorite gathering place by
a number of clever young artists recently returned
from study in Europe. When they had money they
spent it ; when they had none they paid their bills
in pictures. The proprietor soon got a collection
together, and being a shrewd Yankee and discover
ing that there was money to be made in buying
good pictures at bed rock prices he began to look
lor bargains at the auctions. The result is that to
day the Studio has a tasteful, unique and extremely
valuable collection of artistic adornments, and its
host does a brisk and profitable trade in soiling the
gems of his gallery to his customers. The artists
have long since found other haunts, but their pat
ronage and the suggestions it brought were suffi
cient to found its fortunes on a substantial ana en
during basis.
Oil and water color paintings, arms, armor, old
furniture, trophies of the chase and Oriental curios,
began to creep into the embellishments of the New
York public-house, until there were quite a number
of handsome and cozy resorts about town. Then
came the Hoffman House, kaleidoscope of decorative
splendor, brought about when Mr. Edward E. Stokes
went into partnership with Mr. Reed. Hitherto our
publicans had confined their purchases to inexpen
sive and modestly pretty objects. But Mr. Stokes
had ideas that involved the bulling of the art mark
et. He went in for art on a gigantic scale, as he
might have gone into oil or stocks. He spent thou
sands where his predecessors had spent hundreds.
He bought old and new masters at fabulous prices,
and was not long in demonstrating that the curb
osity thus aroused, paid for the expense of arousing
it. His bar-room became one of the show-houses of
the town, and the commodities it dealt in flowed in
streams to the art critics its wonders drew to it.
THE TRIUMPH OF CURIOSITY.
The wisdom of the scheme is illustrated by the
statement of the leading picture importer and
dealer of America, a gentleman whose knowledge
and authority are above question, to the writer.
“Without its works of art,” said he, “ the Hoffman
bar would have no greater attraction for the public
than any other first-class saloon, and could get no
better price for its liquors. With them it became a
centre of admiring interest. People came from all
over town to look at it and paid exorbitant tribute
for the privilege of enjoying it, for everything, from
its art down, is high-priced. No stranger to the
city rested till he had licked his lips at the Nymphs
and Satyr, and paid an admission fee to the cashier
Dehind the bar. The decorations of the Hoffman
House cost a fortune, but they have paid for them
selves long ago, aud are so well advertised that they
could be sold to-day at auction for fifty per cent,
more than they cost to buy.”
At first our saloon-keepers looked askant at the
Hoffman Heuse experiment. They did not believe
in it. But they soon learned better. They found
men who would have objected to paying more than
a dime for a drink of whisky and men who consid
ered beer good enough as a beverage for a king
streaming in at the famous cafe and loading them
selves at the altar of art, where a glass of bourbon
or rye cost twenty cents and a tumbler of beer fif
teen. It was a triumph of curiosity. The place
was so extensively talked about that the fair sex
demanded to see it, and the morning hours, up to
ten o’clock, were set apart for feminine visits.
When it got thus far, the success of the bar-room
art movement was assured.
There is a saloon-keeper on Broadway who re
cently distinguished himself by purchasing ten
thousand doHars’ worth of French art, in one
frame, to hang on his wall. He says:
“ When my wife came home from a visit to the
Hoffman and said it beat anything she had ever
seen, aud she didn’t wonder men liked bar-rooms
better than home, that settled me. Igo on a wo- <
man’s judgment every time. *1 might as well have
my monev on the walls as in a vault,’ says I to my
self, and I went off and invested some. It’s all i
back already. I’ve had that big picture three
months now, and if it isn’t paid for already, it is so i
near it that I can’t grumble. Even street railroad
stock wouldn’t show that much to the good.”
Here a party of dry goods men came in to look at
the big picture. Not one of them knew any more j
about art than a crow, but they all looked at it and i
Earless anil fnhpnhnt.
admired it, and told how much it had cost, while
the wine was being opened. Then they drank and
looked at it again, while more wine was being
opened. When a third round was gone, and they
were ready to go. one of them said to mine host:
“You know what I told you last week. Charley.
Any time you want to sell her, she’s mine for fifteen
thousand. That’s five thousand clear to you, and
you ought to be satisfied.”
EXPENSIVE ART PATRONAGE.
This illustrates a curious phase of the business.
Men who would never dream of buying a chromo
under ordinary circumstances, no sooner become
enthusiastic over the high art of the place they
drink in than they experience a burning desire to
own the costliest pictures. Many saloon-keepers
drive an important trade in selling pictures, thanks
to this development of the imitative faculty in their
patrons. The Nymphs and Satyr and the Faust's
Dream at the Hoffman could be disposed of any day
to private buyers among the habitues of the cafe,
at a bigger price than any picture dealer could get
for them. The same is true of Wildey’s big picture
by Benjamin Constant, and of Stewart’s widely
advertised Still Life by Harnett.
This latter picture, by the way. has a curious his
tory, as it is told in the studios. It was painted
by an artist who has an extensive reputation for
this class or work, and is the largest and most am
bitious canvass he ever undertook to cover. When
he got it done no one would buy it. It was too big
and unwieldy for any ordinary parlor or gallery.
He finally traded it with a bric-a-brac dealer for or
naments for his studio, and this dealer sold it to a
man who jobbed all sorts of things off about town
for a thousand or so of dollars. It was .from the
jobber that Stewart purchased it for a round sum.
When he got it the shrewd publican proceeded to
make a show of it. He framed it superbly, made a
plush and brzaen altar for it to be set on, with a
special arrangement of lights to reveal it, and teles
copes to look at it through, and invited the drink
ing public to come and worship. The drinking
ftublic is coming and worshiping yet, in armies,dai*
y. You have to wait your turn to get a look at the
marvelous work, and while you wait you are liable
to grow thirsty. Not only has tho picture made
money for its owner but it has won a wide popu
larity for the artist, who now sells his canvasses as
quickly as he can paint them. He could take a com
mission a day, such is the demand for his art, and
has doubled his prices to preserve himself from be
ing literally worked to death by his enthusiastic*
and generous patrons, as he himself wittily puts it:
“ You hear a good deal [of men who are ruined by
drink. Well. Here you see a man who is being
made by it.”
MINOR SHRINES OF ART.
There was recently opened, in the wholesale
clothing district of Broadway, a cafe which bus
already won quite a renown as a political and social
gathering place. It is called the Caricature, and it
is, curiously enough, associated indirectly with one
of the old resorts already alluded to in this article.
Its proprietor is a well known militiaman politician
and rounder, Albert Woolf by name. Until be
opened the Caricature, mine host Woolf conducted
a prosperous feather store in the old premises made
almost historical by Harry Clifton in Houston street.
His present establishment is chiefly noteworthy for
its sketches in water color of well known public
men, which are painted by hie brother, the famous
caricaturist, M. A. Woolf, and of which a new one
is put on exhibition daily.
The caricature is a gorgeous combination of
carved wood, plate glass, burnished brass, florid
mural decorations and comic art, and is a superior
example of the new order of winery in which New
York pays tribute to Bacchus. In these establish
ments nothing like the money is spent that is put
out for the high art of a Hoffman House, but they
are fitted up regardless of all ordinary expense, and
made as attractive to the eye as the wares they
vend ought to be to tho stomach. And in all of
them the art idea is relied on to attract the public.
The comic aquarelles at the caricature are only an
other sort of the same bait as the nymphs and
satyr. Altogether there is a good deal of crude
truth in the reply of the saloon-keeper, whom a
friend asked how business was :
“It’s beginning to slacken up a little now. But
I’m going to put in a now oil painting on Monday
and then it’ll boom again.”
“Is your whisky any better than the last I had
here ?” demanded his friend.
“I shouldn’t wonder, old man,” replied Boniface,
“if it was worse. But nobody seems to care.”
■naaanmiinr riri upm—
B WOB FROM THE BROH.
The Hypothesis of Disgruntled
Property Owners Concerning
th 3 Scant Water Supply.
Isn’t there a Good Deal of Truth in
His Growl J
Citizens who were for a time benefitted by the
addition of the Bronx river to our city ’s water sup
ply are complaining that the good of that addition is
no longer perceptible. They deem that the steadily
diminished and now scant pressure in the mains
is not justly attributable to an increased consump
tion to anything like the extent that the authorities
of the Croton Water Department would have the
public believe. The popularization of the idoa of
larger appropriations for the building of the new
aqueduct, by creation of an artificial necessity for
water, is, in their estimation, the purpose that
produces this result. In support of this hypothe
sis, the owner of several large flat houses on Fifty
first and Fifty-second streets, between Ninth and
Tenth avenues, narrates:
“ When I completed my Fifty-second street build
ings, in April, 1877, the Croton pressure in the ordi
nary service mains was such that the water flowed
over the top of the parapet walls, fifty-seven feet
above the curb at midday—the time when the
pressure is always weakest. It continued that way
until there was sufficient improvement in real
estate values—that had been down for several years
—to encourage the bringing up of the project for
the new aqueduct in ’BO. Then
“ THE PRESSURE BEGAN TO BE SYSTEMATIC
ALLY DECREASED.
"I found out by inquiry of Mr. Birdsall that he had
partly shut off the water at Croton Dam, under the
excuse that the aqueduct would not stand full pres
sure and he feared that it would burst if taxed to
its capacity. I saw him a number of times about
it and he always gave me that same old story. I
did not believe it then, and do not now. That old
aqueduct, built about 1842, if I remember aright, is
an exceedingly solid structure of stone, brick and
cement, honestly put together and well able to carry 1
the pressure of all the water that can be sent
through it for many years to come. I have person
ally examined it and, as a builder, know that to be 1
the fact. 1
•* One Sunday in 1880 I happened to be up at the
Central Park reservoir and while there chanced to ‘
hear a conversation between the reservoir gateman 1
and a gateman who was down from the upper end ;
of the aqueduct. They were talking confidentially 1
about the gate at the dam being shut down so m uch 1
and wondered why it was. Neither of them couid 1
understand it. They knew that it was an unusual 1
thing. The fact soon became the subject of
•■UNPLEASANT GENERAL COMMENT
“among householders, and then new tactics were <
adopted. Mr. Birdsall opened the gate at the dam, -
but reduced the pressure at forty-nine different 1
gates throughout the city. He so informed me 1
himself, telling me that he was letting the water at (
full force into the aqueduct and storing it in the 1
upper reservoir in the Park. I asked him why he 1
did not open the gates in the city. Ho said that he (
wanted to keep a full supply up there to be pro
vided in a case of a fire or a break in the aqueduct. 1
He said that the consumption of water was very I
much greater than in 187 7 , but could only claim £
that the acreage of tappage had increased ten per i
cent., and up to this date the incresae of tappage
has not been more than twelve ter cent, above what
it was in 1877.
“But in that time the pressure in my houses on
Fifty-second street has been so decreased that, in- c
stead of rising fifty-seven feet above the curb at (1
mid-day. the water never gets more than twenty
feet higher than the curb, and is generally not more
than seventeen feet. It is worthy of note, by the E
way, that during the time in which the work of 8
decrease has been steadily going on, the increase in S
consumption has been smaller, in proportion to the b
acreage of tappage, than ever before; for in that
time thousands of meters have been put into sta- 6
bles, factories and elsewhere, to check the extrava- e
gant and reckless waste of water that was previ- v
ously a common practice, and vast good in enforced
economy has ensued. h
" THE SAVING OF THE WATER SUPPLY g
“has also been still further aided, in no small de- e
gree, by the opening of a very considerable number h
of artesian wells in breweries, hotels, factories and d
other places where a formerly enormous consump- s<
tion of Croton water has now been greatly lessened.
It may be seriously questioned if the actual con- d
sumption of Croton water, in view of these facts, si
has really increased much since 1877—notwithstand- w
ing the extended tappage -no matter what the De- v
partment may pretend to show. e;
“In 'B2 or’B3, 1 do not now remember which, I b
talked with Chief-Engineer Newton and he told me t<
that they were putting seven or eight new gates in ci
the old aqueduct for convenience in repairing it in rt
case of a break, but I could see no other use in that a
than for popular effect to cultivate a sense of in- h
security about the old aqueduct and enforce the
seeming necessity for a new one. d
“Now, do not fora moment imagine that lam as
opposed to the new aqueduct. I am not. lam ai
heartily in favor of it. It will not be many years ei
before it will be wanted, and New York should al- fa
ways have an abundance of water. But what I di
protest against is the unnecessary hardship of p
diminishing our present supply to make moral ol
capital upon which to base demands for more and
more appropriations for the service of the future.
“ The lowering of our pressure went on steadily
until about eighteen months ago, when the Bronx
supply was turned on. That benefited us, but only
for a little while. It raised the pressure so that the
water got twelve feet above where it had been for
some time previously. Then, gradually and sure
ly, it lowered again, until now it stands just where
it did before the Bronx was drawn upon. It is per
fectly apparent to householders, in this part of the
city at least, that the water supply has, by inten
tionally applied skillful manipulation, been low
ered systematically, a little every month, and I be
lieve that, but for a deliberate purpose to magnify
the new aqueduct job, I could be now, with the old
means, in the enjoyment of an ample supply of wa
ter, nearly if not quite equal to what we had in
1877.”
A IIEAmESS WRETCH.
The Story of Herbert Noel’s
Crimes.
Cold-Blooded Murder of an Elder
Brother.
A Devilish Scheme to Elude De
tection.
The Awful Fate that Befell the Deceiver
and Assassin.
In 1760, Miss Jessica Hobart, a maiden lady Of
about thirty-seven, resided on a small estate, known
as Oakland, in the county of Somerset, England.
She was a woman of fine form and possessed con
siderable learning. She was marked by many ec
centricities and among other things would never
permit any one of the male sex to enter the ground
on which her residence was situated. In explana
tion of this it was said that when she was of age
and had become the possessor of Oakland, a neigh
boring squire paid attentions to her and they were
engaged to be married. A few days before the time
fixed for the wedding. Miss Hobart discovered her
lover in tender dalliance with her maid, and subse
quently learned that the latter had a better claim
to the protection of the squire than she had her
self. She not only forbade him ever to set foot
within her gates again, but made a standing order,
which she never revoked, that none of his sex
should ever be admitted to Oakland.
Miss Hobart rarely visited any of her neighbors
and only occasionally opened her doors to her few
female acquaintances. In the year named she
learned that the youngest son of a cousin, a youth
of twenty, named Herbert Noel, had been sent away
from Oxford for immoral practices, and that his pa
rents had excluded him from their dwelling and
compelled him to seek shelter with a tenant on one
of his father's farms. It so happened that Miss
Hobart had a feeling of animosity toward Mr. and
Mrs. Noel, from the fact of their having instituted a
lawsuit against her to recover a part of Oakland, to
which they laid claim. Although they had failed
in the action, yet she never forgave them and often
declared she never would. When she heard that
Herbert Noel had been
TURNED AWAY FROM THE DOOR OF HIS PA
RENTS,
she determined to receive him and provide for
him, for the sole purpose, it must be owned, of an
noying his parents. Accordingly she sent an affec
tionate letter, inviting him to visit her, and he
gratefully accepted the offer.
Herbert was received with much cordiality, and
had apartments assigned to him. Miss Hobart even
went so far as to relax her hitherto inflexible rule,
and allow him to have a groom for the horses with
which she furnished him. In the Summer of 1760,
Miss Hobart and Herbert went together to Scotland
and returned early in the Autumn. In April, 1761,
Miss Hobart became the mother of a child. The
event was surrounded by the utmost secresy, so
that the fact was unknown to any save an old and
trusted nurse who had taken care of Miss Hobart in
her infancy. The child, a boy, was removed by
night and placed in safe custody.
Soon after this, Herbert’s father died, and an
elder brother came into possession of a large estate.
Within a year Herbert’s only other brother was
accidentally killed while foxhunting, and thus, in
the event of his elder brother’s dying without issue,
Herbert would come into possession of the prop
erty.
Herbert had returned home at his father’s death,
but had afterward resumed his residence at Oak
land. At the death of his brother he again visited
home, but did not inform Miss Hobart of the fact
or of the fatal accident which made him heir to his
elder brother. He once more came back to Oak
lands and stayed there for some time.
News in those days traveled slowly, and more
over, Miss Hobart lived a very secluded life and
knew nothing of what was going on in the world.
It is not surprising, therefore, that the facts last
referred to should have remained unknown to her.
A FRATRICIDE.
Herbert learned that his brother was contemplat
ing marriage and made up his mind to prevent it
by any means—even by murder, it necessary. He
told Miss Hobart he was going to Holland to look
up his mother’s brother, who was a wealthy mer
chant there, and then he started lor Norfolk, whore
his brother's estate was, taking his groom with him.
He repeated the same story to his brother, for it was
a fact that his mother, now also dead, had often
spoken of her rich brother in the Netherlands. In
stead, however, of going to Holland, Herbert sent
his groom thither, directing him to assume his
name and go hither and thither inquiring after his
uncle. If he found him, then he was to make all
he could out of him and return to England, any
how. by that day two months, and meet Herbert at
Bath.
•'lf all goes right,” said Herbert, “you shall be
handsomely rewarded. I will give you a small
farm or an inn all to yourself, and you shall want
for nothing.”
Then the groom was dressed in Herbert’s clothes
and made to look as like his master as possible. As
soon as he was gone on his way to Holland, Herbert
went in disguise to Norfolk. In the garb of a high
wayman, he showed himself at an inn near Diss,
and the same night waylaid his brother within a
mile of his home, robbed him and shot him dead.
Then Herbert sped into Cambridgeshire, having
discarded his highwayman’s garb and deposited it
in a ditch.
He soon reached London, and went thence by
stage-coach to Bath, where he awaited the groom's
return. In due time he appeared, and furnished
proof of his having diligently inquired in Holland
after his uncle. Herbert and the groom returned
to Oakland, where the nows awaited Herbert of the
murder of his brother and of his own accession to
the estates. The letter bearing the information he
kept secret, and Miss Hobart knew nothing of it or
its contents.
Herbert had already concocted a marvelous story
of the finding of his wealthy uncle, and informed
Miss Hobart, after a few days, that he must return
to Holland, as his uncle intended to close up his
large business as soon as possible and reside in En.
gland. Instead of going to Holland, Herbert went
to Norfolk, explained his absence by stating that
had been in Holland, and formally took possession
of the estates.
The next thing was for the groom to visit Oak
land and tell a woeful story of Herbert’s having
been shipwrecked and drowned crossing the North
Sea. Miss Hobart immured herself in her dwell
ing, and, if she mourned, let no one see it.
A RECOGNITION.
In the meantime, Miss Hobart’s half-brother died,
leaving her a large estate in Gloucestershire, on
condition that she assumed the name Dursley, She
did so, sold Oakland, and removed to her new
home.
In 1767, when the child, of which she was the
mother, was six years of age, the old nurse already
spoken of appeared at Dursley Hall with the boy.
Soon an elderly lady came to act as governess for
him, and his education was begun.
Four years later a tutor was provided, and at
seventeen Frederick Dursley, as he was called, was
entered at Oxford. At twenty-two he had graduated
with honors and was as fine a specimen of a young
Englishman as could be seen. Miss Dursley, whom
he regarded as his aunt, showed great affection for
him. When she received the news of his success,
she was very joyful over it; but her joy was damp
ened by the announcement in the same letter that
he was bringing home with him to spend a few
days a college mate, four years younger than him
self. named Herbert Noel.
Who could this be, bearing the same name as one
dead ? Strange thoughts and fears suggested them
selves, and if Miss Dursley could have done it, she
would have begged Frederick to withdraw his in.
vitation to his friend and furnished him with some
excuse for doing so. But it was too late, and moved
by some strange dread, she directed her domestics
to say on Frederick’s arrival that she had been
called away on important business and might not ,
return for a fortnight. Then she betook herself to
a suite of apartments and there secluded herself, <
her attendants secretly administering to her wants.
After the arrival of Frederick and his friend; Miss
Dursley was accustomed to watch their movements
as well as she could from her windows. She was
anxious to see the young stranger who was Fred
erick’s friend, but was unable to get that view of his
face which she desired. But she overcame that
difficulty, for. attiring herself as a domestic, she
put herself in his way and had an opportunity to
obtain a good view of him. He was the counter-
OFFICE, NO. II FRANKFORT ST.
part of the young man whom she had befriended
and beloved so many years before.
A REVELATION.
Soon after this, while the young men were away.
Miss Dursley camo out of her seclusion, and on
their return a domestic announced that she had
come home. She met Frederick and his friend with
assumed calmness and set herself to find out who
the stranger was. It did not take long to discover,
for he readily answered her questions, and she as
certained that he bore his father's name and that
his home was in Norfolk. Then he narrated fur
ther how his father was at one time the youngest
son and an exile, and how, by an accident to one
brother and the murder of another, he came into
possession of the estates.
Here was a revelation beyond all that she had an
ticipated. Little doubt remained in her mind that
the young stranger’s father was the Herbert Noel
whom she had known and the father of Frederick.
The story of his shipwreck was, perhaps, a fabrica
tion. He had deserted her, basely deserted and
married. How much this implied, the reader will
learn later on.
SUSPICIONS.
Young Noel prolonged his stay at Dursley Hall,
and on his return home Frederick accompanied
him. There ho met Miss Noel and fell in love with
her. As for Mr. Noel, he was struck with the ap
pearance of Frederick, and was puzzled for a time
to account for it. Gradually his resemblance to his
former friend, Miss Hobart, now Miss Dursley,
dawned upon him, and he was much disturbed. As
she had done with his son, so he*did with Frederick
—asked many questions. Frederick, however, knew
nothing of Miss Dursley’s former name, or of Oak
land, and the information he could give respecting
the lady whom he regarded as his aunt was very
scanty—nothing, in short, beyond the fact that she
owned a large estate, to which he was the heir.
This did not satisfy Mr. Noel, whose fears were
thoroughly aroused. He did all he could to keep
Frederick and his daughter (Bertha) apart, and re
solved to make inquiries. After the departure of
Frederick, Mr. Noel journeyed into Somersetshire,
and soon ascertained the facts respecting Miss Ro
bert's change of name and residence, consequent
on the death of her half-brother.
His alarm was overpowering. For a time he
seemed almost bereft of reason. And well he might
be. For, imagining that he was likely to remain
penniless, he had induced Miss Hobart to accompa
ny him into Scotland, and had there married her
according to Scottish law. He was a bigamist, lia
ble to imprisonment, and, what was worse, his chil
dren were illegitimate. Then conscience for a time
did its work, but not to mend the man. He roused
himself to consider what he should do to deliver
himself from the terrible dilemma in which his folly
and his crimes had placed him. He was, as the
reader knows, utterly without principle. He had
not hesitated to take the life of his own brother,
and he was not likely to linger long in concocting a
plan to escape from the present dangers which
threatened him.
CRIME UPON CRIME.
There was no doubt in his mind that Miss Durs
ley, as she will still be called, had preserved the
proofs of her marriage. He knew her sufficiently
well to be satisfied that she would never let them
go out of her personal possession. Despite all her
eccentricities, she had a morbid dread of public
ridicule and opprobrium, and for that reason had
insisted that the marriage should be kept secret.
But if she ever knew that he had deceived her with
a story of his pretended death, and had then mar
ried another, all her woman’s nature would be
aroused and she would pursue him to the death.
He set to work to meditate what he should do,
and his meditation resulted in the conviction that
there was only one way by which he could escape—
the death of the woman who had befriended him,
and whom he had so basely deceived.
” Why should I hesitate ?’’ he asked himself. “ Did
I hesitate long when it was necessary to my pros
perity to take life ? Did I not succeed then, and
why not now? What is it, anyhow ? She can’t live
long at the best, and her son is provided for. She
is no good to herself or any one else. She is a posi
tive curse to me and mine. Her death would bring
greater good to more people than her life could pos
sibly bring. Therefore she must die.”
But how so effect this end ? Here the ingenuity
of the ready villain came in.
THE SNARE.
He suddenly withdrew his opposition to his
daughter s encouraging the advances of Frederick.
Of course he knew the impossibility of a union, for
they were half brother and sister. But he had no
suspicion that Miss Dursley had even an idea of who
he was. That was the furthest thing possible from
his mind. Frederick was invited to Norfolk and
every faciJity was allowed him to prosecute his suit
with Miss Noel. It resulted, as was anticipated in
an engagement, which had Mr. Noel s apparently
hearty sanction. Of course, Mr. Noel knew that the
simiianty of the name must excite suspicion in
Miss Dursley s mind, but it was a bold game that
he was playing, and, if it succeeded, all would be
well.
When Frederick returned to Dursley Hall, and
Informed hie aunt of his engagement to Miss Noel
she maintained her composure before him, but in
private was greatly exercised. Could it be possible
that there was some mistake ?—was this really the
same Herbert Noel whom she had known and mar
ried ? How could she satisfy herself of the fact ?
For many days her mind was distracted, and she
felt at a loss how to act. To warn Frederick of the rela
tionship which she suspected between him and Miss
Noel would be to disclose the secret of her life and
to humiliate herself by admitting that she had long
lived a life of hypocrisy and deceit. She had hoped
that the secret would never be disclosed, but that
at her death Frederick would inherit all she pos
sessed, and cherish her memory as his benefactress
and faithful relative. What to do she was at a loss
to decide.
While she was in thia condition of mind, a tetter
came from young Herbert to Frederick, containing
a warm invitation to Miss Dursley, to visit NorfolK
and stay until after her nephew’s wedding.. This
was a relief to her, for it opened up a new alternative.
Suppose she went thither and found that her suspic
ions were not well founded, all would be right?
Suppose she found that her suspicions were realized?
Then the result would be no worse than if the dis
closure were made in another place. There was a
chance that she might be mistaken, and she was
resolved to avail herself of it. She accepted tho in
vitation, and then Mr. Noel insisted upon making
all the arrangements for her journey, and furnish
ing the necessary means of conveyance.
THE FATAL JOURNEY.
It was arranged that Herbert, Frederick's
friend, should go into Gloucestershire with the
traveling couch and a relay of horses, accompanied
by the necessary attendants. The places were fixed
upon where horses should be left for the return
journey, and where Miss Dursley should spend each
night upon the road. One of these places was at
Ampthill, in Bedfordshire, on the outskirts of
which was an old inn, the landlord of which was
Herbert Noel’s old groom, who now called himself
Havers.
On the 16th of July. 1785, Miss Dursley started
on herjourney to Norfolk, accompanied by Freder
ick and young Herbert and a retinue of servants
She reached Ampthill on the afternoon of June 24
for the roads were rough and the traveling was
slow. She retired to the rooms prepared for her
and had dinner. Feeling fatigued, she went to bed
early. Frederick and Herbert strolled into the coun
try. When they returned at about nine o'clock they
were informed that Miss Dursley was asleep and
one hour later they retired.
They were aroused out of the first sleep by cries
of murder and loud shrieks. Hastily arising, they
put on a garment or two and seizing their swords—
for all gentlemen wore swords in those days—they
rushed forth. A white robed figure lay at the top
of the stairs.
At that moment the landlord appeared with a
lantern, and by the dim light, Frederick discovered
that it was his aunt. She lay in a pool of blood.
Blood streamed from her neck and bosom, but she
was sensible. She was removed to an apartment
and an attempt was made to stop the flow of blood.
A surgeon was summoned, who pronounced the
wounds not necessarily mortal, though very dan
gerous.
A HORRIBLE FATE.
Then a search was made for the assassin, for there
was no doubt that a murderer had been at work.
It was discovered that the perpetrator of the deed
had entered the room by a window opening on a
field adjoining the inn, for a ladder stood against
the wall. Miss Dursley had evidently been assaulted
when she was in the act of rising from the bed, and,
after being wounded, had unlocked the door and
fled to the passage. The murderous assailant had
followed her, but, being alarmed by her outcries,
had fled along a passage to the rear and entered the
granary. The bloody footprints showed that he
had escaped by a window at the extreme end.
Search was made outside by the constables who had
been summoned, and a terrible fact was disclosed.
The man had sprung from the window and lighted
upon a farm harrow which lay on the ground.
There he was found impaled, with a dozen dreadful
spikes through various parts of his body. He was
still alive and was removed into the inn. When
the mask and disguises were taken off he was iden
tified as Mr. Herbert Noel!
Both he and his victim lived long enough to
make statements, embodying the facts contained in
this narrative. Havers, the groom, was shown by
the dying deposition of Mr. Noel, to have been
aware of his purpose to murder Miss Dursley. He
was convicted as an accessory before the fact, and
hanged.
Making His Mark,
THE WICKEDEST BOY MR. JENKINS EVER SAW.
Henry Frankel, aged ten, stood unconcerned with
hands in his pockets while his counsel pleaded
mercy for him. He admitted his guilt. Counsel
said it was a sad case. It seems an elder boy led
him into it. While the elder boy stood off en
couraging. sure to escape if detected, and on hand
to seize the property when stolen, was the one
most to blame. The boy who escaped was the
maker of thieves; he had used other boys in the
same way to steal for him—little things of ten
years of age.
••Have you any report to make, Mr. Jenkins?”
asked the Court.
“No; but the twenty-four hours he was in the
house he w«s the worst boy I ever saw.”
House of Refuge.
PRICE FIVE CENTS.
A SUMMER HOLIDAY.
BY SUSANNA J.
Th© playful winds this Summer day
Have mingled with my waking dream
The woodruff scent of new-mown hay,
The rippling music of the stream.
I breathe a deep contented sigh,
At peace from troublous sight and sound;
'Neath waving trees and sunny sky,
My heart is filled with joy profound.
O bounteous Earth, to me it seems
Each Summer shows thee yet more fair!
With richer flowers thy treasury teems,
A brighter bloom thy features wear.
I turn for rest a little while
To thy dear heart so loved o r yore.
And still thou greet’st mo with a smile
More fond than I have known before,
I feel that words may ne’er repeat
The joy that thrills my being through;
The blackbird’s rapture, wild and sweet.
Might tell such thought in measure true;
But I can only sigh and say,
“O smiling hills, O singing stream.
The playful winds this Summer day
Have wrought your beauty in my dream I"
DORISSFORTUNE.
A Story of London Society.
CHAPTER X,
“ I KNOW WHAT MEN ARE, AND DON’T CARE TO
SEE THEM WORSHIPPED FOR WHAT THEY ARH
NOT.”
"I have been proving to our friend Glyn th®
advantages of having an astute member of the
Stock Exchange for a friend,” said Mr, Hodson,
as he want into the drawing-room.
“ Talking Portuguese Loan to him, I suppose'
that means,” said his wife, in her usual genial
tones.
“You know all about it then ?” asked David.
Mrs. Hodson was one of those vivacious,
much-flattered ladies who believe themselves to
be competent to pass an opinion upon most sub
jects and who consider the rest not worth pass
ing an opinion upon.
“Of course I do. Mr. Hodson never takes up
anything important without consulting me.”
It was true, this inconsistent gentleman being
proud of his wife and placing a superstitious
faith in her loudly-expressed convictions.
“ And what do you think of it?” asked David,
falling into the same error.
“ I think it is a good thing undoubtedly,” said
she, with as much confidence as if Portugal had
been her own private property.
It was the feather that turned the scale.
David made an appointment with Mr. Hodson
for the next morning before they went into
billiard-room. David did not care for billiards,
and he felt beside that he was leaving Dori®
alone too long. But ho wanted an opportunity
of asking Mr. Hodson about the dog he was to
bring her, and he felt also an unavowpd curiosity
as to whether young Melton had been asked to!
extend his impromptu visit. So the whole party
left the drawing-room together,and David played
a game with Mr. Hodson, who beat him easily ;
while Ethel, the younger of the little girls, wa®
set to “mark.” Iler father took a special de--'
light in appointing her to thia work, as she dis
liked it, and as it afforded him an opportunity
of teasing her by peering into her face with his
short-sighted eyes close to hers, or of chucking
her under the chin to upset her dignity, with
the playful question, “ Now, then, Ugly, what’s
the game?” These attentions the prim little
girl received much as the Princesse de Lam
balle may be supposed to have received thoseol
the Republican mob.
David, having covered himself with discredit,
yielded up his cue to Gussie, who was a fair
player; while Mr. Hodson retired in favor of
his favorite daughter Nellie, who, showing un
expected skill and neatness, and being compli
mented thereon by the gentlemen, was prompt
ly snubbed by her mother for chalking her cue
“like a billiard-marker.” However, Mrs. Hod
son could not prevent the young men from con
sidering the girl, after this, with more attention.
Gussie, in particular, watching Nellie’s round
young face flushed with the excitement of tho
game, made up bis mind that she would grow
into a pretty girl by and by, when time and
necessity should have got the better of tho
maternal instinct for keeping daughters young
by clothing them in misshapen garments.
David meanwhile had found an opportunity of
getting from his hostess exact details concerning
the King Charles spaniel he was to bring her
but it was nearly eleven o’clock before he dis
covered that he had scarcely left himself time to
catch the train from Richmond.
“ You will walk as far as the station with me,
Melton, won’t you?” he asked, as he shook
hands with the little girls.
“ Oh, 1 don’t think he is well enough for us to
let him off the sick list yet! He had better stay
here another night,” interposed Mrs. Hodson,
hospitably.
“ Oh, nonsense! He isn’t made of ginger
bread, a great broad-shouldered lad like that,”
said David half playfully, but half angrily too.
And Gussie, who had wavered for a moment,
at once declared that ho was quite well, and
must go back to town that night. '
"Are you still living with your mother, Mel
ton ?” asked David, when the hospitable leave
taking was over. Mr. Hodson had called out a
last injunction to Glyn not to be late at his office,
and the two young men were walkidg fast tow
ard Richmond station.
“No, not just now,” answered the other rath
er hastily. “My mother is at Torquay, staying
with some relatives, so I am on my own hook at
present. Nice people the Hodsons are—make
one so welcome 1”
“Yes; it’s quite the pleasantest house I
know.”
And they walked on together without David’s
having the penetration to wonder why Gussie
had answered his question so shortly.
Indeed David had enough to occupy his mind;
for he felt a little conscious-stricken at having
left Doris so long alone, when he had not even
positively told her that he should not return to
dinner. So he parted with Gussie with a vagu’e
ly-expressed hope that he should see him again
soon, and an inward wish that the meeting
might not take place at the Lawns.
Doris met her husband at the gate of Fair
leigh; she uttered a little cry as he came near,
but did not come out to him. Not quite easy in
his conscience, David stopped with a half offend
ed air, thinking he was in for a wifely lecture
and getting himself at once on the
But the tone in which she almost sobbed out,
“ Oh, David 1” reassured him. It was the us
mistakable cry of relief from heart-felt anxiety.
Ho came up at once to the gate, and putting his
hand down upon hers, which touched the latch,
felt that she was cold and trembling.
“ Why, child, what is the matter with you ?”
he asked, in his usual calm, sweet voice.
“I—l didn’t know where you were. I thought
something must have happened to you. Oh, I
am so glad you are safe, so glad that I oaa’t
speak 1”