New York dispatch. [volume], September 05, 1886, Image 1

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

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PUBLISHED BY A. J. WIUJAMWB SONS.
VOL. XLI.-NO. 47.
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■BBB» ■
PLAYS ANMLAYERS.
JACK CADE TO THE FRONT.
Forrest and His Critics—The “Mantle
Wearers ’’-The “ Successor ” Dodge-
Mr. Edmund Collier as a Star—
The Revival of Cade—The He
roic and the Romnatic.
BY JOHN CARBOY.
James Hunter, then editor of the Albany Daily
News, a critic as honest in the expression of his
opinion in relation to the actor, dramatist or mana
ger as he was a sincere friend to the profession, paid
to Edwin Forrest this tribute :
“ This young man, who has already given such
lustre to the histrionic character of America, and
who has shown that this side of the Atlantic can
produce talent at least equal to that of England,
takes his farewell benefit to-night. He plays in a
piece written by an American—John Augustus
Btone. It is entitled * Metamora.’ Edwin Forrest,
independent of his universally admitted abilities
as an actor, is a man of the most amiable character.
He is, to speak all of him briefly, a good man. We
know him well ; we esteem him ; wo admire him ;
we love him, and we never knew of one who camo
within the circle oi his acquaintance who did not.
“Pleasant breezes while going and fast winds
while returning be your guerdon and God be your
guardian—our friend—Edwin Forrest.”
This tribute was written at Mr. Forrest’s farewell
benefit at the old Pearl Street Theatre in Albany,
previous to his first visit to England, in 1836.
At that time there were still remaining divers
critics connected, not only with the press of this
city, but with that of the various cities and towns
where Mr. Forrest had appeared, who insisted that
he was not the coming man. One claimed that he
•‘scarcely knew the meaning of the language of his
parts—his ignorance of the commonest rules of
reading is lamentable.”
Another gravely ad him to “go back to the
business for which nature had abundantly fitted his
calves—that of a circus clown.”
Another said—some fellow in whom probably uric
acid was the main constituent of his blood, and who
was attached to a Cincinnati paper : “ We might ad
mire Mr, Forrest’s Othello in some respects were he
not so obtrusively animal in his nature. The refine
ment of Murdoch, the genius of Addams and the
subtlety of Booth are attributes beyond his reach,
imitation or understanding.”
Had he been out in the wild West at that particu
lar time instead of Forrest, the muscular Salvini
would have caught the same dose. And it would
have fitted him much better than it did the greatest
representative of Lear that ever trod the English
speaking stage.
Again and again were
THE SLURS CAST AT HIM
that he was ignorant; a player who mistook noise
and rant for acting; that he had only been a stock
actor and ergo could never rise to a higher state;
that he had been a circus tumbler, a negro singer
and the Lord only know what else that was low and
mean in dramatic estimate. Pshaw! the idea of
such a man becoming “great in mouths of wisest
censure 1”
But he got there all the same. And the Sneers and
Dangles remained where they wore.
There w-re a great many ambitious ones in his
time who did not get there. But it was not these
critics who stayed their progress, for as a matter of
fact these worthies praised the aspirants; gushed
over them as even now two or three of the tribe,
species scribe gush over Barrett and not long ago
slopped over in their worship of the late John
McCullough.
The ambitious ones did not get there simply be
cause their talent was not equal to the task they
had undertaken.
At the present time whenever a young actor
makes a start from the ranks to seek a higher plane
of action, up comes the cry: “ Here’s another fellow
who is trying to break into Fame’s old clo’ shop
for the purpose of getting away with the * mantle '
of the ’lamented John McCullough.’ ”
Or, the callow youths of the press who have never
seen Forrest either on or off the stage, bleat out,
“Another aspirant for the mantle of Forrest.”
These are the fellows who were in the habit of
exalting John McCullough as being the only genu
ine original-name-stamped-on-the cork—successor
of Forrest.
As an actor McCullough stood in about the same
relation to Forrest as did the supe who, when he
heard of Forrest’s death, lugubriously exclaimed:
“Great Scott! there's another one of us gone !”
From Forrest’s performance of Virginius and
Spartacus to McCullough’s is a toboggan slide from
the Light of genius down to the plane of
IMITATIVE COMMONPLACE
too great to need measurement.
Comparing the two to prove McCullough to be the
successor of Forrest is about as sensible as pro
claiming Alvin Joslin Davis the successor of William
E. Burton, or J. J. Wallace the successor of the late
James W. Wallack.
If they, any of these, are successors, it is very
plain that thus fat they have not been carrying on
the business with the same quality of goods.
To hail an actor as the “ successor ” of a great
original is the same old puff-writing dodge of ••in
heriting the mantle”—under another name.
To have this title of “Successor ” fastened upon
him, at once proclaims the actor to be that least
deserving of all claimants—an imitation; the re
producer of the mannerisms, the worst faults, vocal
and physical, of his original. He is simply a poor
mummer masquerading in the mantle of an Empe
ror.
A Jaques playing the Duke with the dignity of
the clown.
This season opens auspiciously—not to say sus
piciously—with an unusually large crop of the plant
known as the night-blooming cereus, genus actor, spe
cies “Successor”—with not a few budding “Man
tle Wearers.”
From the North to the South, from the East te
the West, the loud cry is heard: “Make way for the
legitimate ‘Mantle Wearers’ and the ‘Successors.’”
/Vsmall but desperate army of them is already in
the field. With truncheon and battle-ax, with Yor
ick’s skull and Banquo’s ghost, with tomahawk and
gladiatorial sword, with toga and tunic they are
already preparing to swoop down upon the playgo
ing public and plunder it of its sesterces and favor.
Every one of them is billed as
THE ONLY EMINENT
and every one of them has his press worker, who
with his scrap-book of “Notices” m hand and his
pocket filled with cigars and other stimulative
bribery, is already skirmishing into the dingy top
story dens of newspaperdom.
Soon the Theatric Rome will howl with the in
rushing of this tragic horde.
There is one, however, who has, as yet, expressed
no desire to be counted in as either a high private
or official in this army. He is content to take the
place and position in the public estimate of which
his talent, his progress in study and *' the measure
of time ” may give him. He intends to wear only
the mantle of his own creating. He is not 2n the
second-hand line and proposes to do his own tailor
ing in the dramatic line. He does not claim to be
anybody’s successor, nor to attempt to step into
any “great predecessor’s shoes.”
He is not opening shop as an imitator. He does
not come in as a middleman, between the original
producer and the huckster.
He simply entered the dramatic mart on last Mon
day evening as Edmund K. Collier, a claimant of
honest criticism as an actor and of such share of
public encouragement as his delineation of charac
ters of a higher range than he has before attempted
may honestly deserve.
He comes as Forrest came, but he comes not as a
second Forrest. He boldly comes to the front, with
out the traditional mantle,
WITHOUT THE STAMP OF “SUCCESSOR,”
and in effect says : “You have not sent for me, but
I am here; if you do not want me, I will go back to
my wigwam.” Otherwise into the stock.
lam inclined to think that he will not go back
and that before the season closes he will have the
satisfaction of knowing that he is wanted and that
in this instance the Unexpected by the critics has
happened in upon them.
And that he will not have to make sure of their
favor and the sobriquet of “genial Ned” by wining
and dining them; by the distribution of presents;
by a hail-fellow-well-met bar-room familiarity with
everybody; by after-performance orgies and all the
health-destroying and slow-death methods which
are in vogue for advertising.
Mr. Collier has the advantage of physical strength,
of a thoughtful and studious nature, of as clear
and resonant a voice as has beon heard upon the
stage this many a day—he is graceful in action and
in repose, is rarely betrayed into extravagance of
gesture and does not seem to indulge in the idea
that noise and rant, mouthing and grimacing are all
there are in acting.
There is in his performance of “ Jack Cade ”
little—save In the situations and bur'ness of the
play—to remind one of Forrest—nor does he aim at
any such result. His impersonation is, in the read
ing and in conception, as nearly his own as he can
make it in these first performances, which—to him,
during the week—have been more of the nature of
dress rehearsals. In these there come to him with
each repetition of the performance* an increase of
ease, a relief from that nervousness and anxiety
which is ever attendant upon effort in an untried
and more difficult task, and the opportunity through
that relief to note and correct his faults and add
strength and finish to the entire work.
It has been said that it is a foolish thing to do—
this revival of «' Jack Cade ’’—because, quoth the
wiseacres, It is one of those
OLD FASHIONED, STILTED PLAYS,
which were only good for the day and generation
which gave them birth, and that to the audiences
of the present time they are a bore I
Gadzooks—by my halidome—i’ fackins, go to !
And go to again—thou scurvy kuavel Odds bodikins
thou’rt awry as the head of a cheesemonger I I’ll
none of it.
Was Mr. Lawrence Barrett’s revival of “Francesca
Da Rimini ” foolish, and has it proved a bore? Is
Damon and Pythias a bore? Or Virginius? Why
was Mr. McCullough’s revival of “ The Gladiator ”
—although he was a failure as Spartacus—pro
nounced such a brilliant undertaking by his pane
gyrists ? Is there anything more stilted in language
and in the nature of the characters than there is in
Boker’s adaptation of the old Spanish play to which
I have just alluded ?
Relieved of their lingual stilts, their affectations
of manner, and the strained quality of their com
position—and the mannerism of metaphor peculiar
to their author—what would Bulwer’s plays amount
to in public favor ?
Precious little I warrant you.
The dialogue of the characters in Jack Cade was
written by Judge Conrad in historical conformance
to the methods of utterance and the manners of the
era and the country in which its events are sup
posed to have occurred—l44B-50—and England-
Henry the VI. being on the throne. In a dramatic
portrayal of historic character and historic events,
whatever license may be allowed the playwright in
the construction of his story or the glorifying of an
unsuccessful rebel of 1450, as a successful hero, his
critics would very speedily “sit” upon him were
he to make his hero appear clad as a modern Knight
of Labor, and speak in the phrase of a car driver on
a strike.
“Jack Cade” is idealized into the condition of a
hero—a man of the people—a bondman striving to
secure for himself and his fellow men freedom from
oppression, and for all, equal rights. There is in
his career romanticism and heroisfe, and these at
tributes never appeal in vain to the popular heart.
HEROISM CAN NEVER BECOME STILTED,
Romanticism is never a bore.
The Heroic finds sympathy where plodding In
tegrity in the dull round of a peaceful life passes
unheeded.
When Ainsworth lifted the wretch Jack Shep
pard into popularity and fame, he did it by thrust
ing him into romance as a hero.
I fail to discover that this Irishman, John Cade,
is in this play of Aylmere, a stilted being, or that
any of the characters, as drawn by the author, are
stilt stalkers, pumps, or the bric-a-brac of fustian.
Certainly Cade, as impersonated by Mr. Collier, is
as free in utterance and action, and clearly intelli
gible, as if he were one of our later-day characters.
Mr. Collier has even at the beginning given a
better and more artistic portraiture of the charac
ter than was made by Mr. McCullough—-it is less
matter-of-fact, and is the result of a more thought
ful and intellectual study of the intent of the
author.
In his scene with Clifford, when occurs the rescue
of Marianne from the lordly ruffian’s grasp, per
haps he was not as boisterous and rampant, and
did not bellow and tear his passion to tatters to as
great an extent as some of the “ mantle ” wearers
and “ successors ” desired, but he nevertheless
made it wonderfully effective by his earnestness, in
the action which followed the words.
Throughout the play it is enough to say that
HIS PERFORMANCE WAS ADMIRABLE,
and as evenly balanced and well considered as it
was possible to be, considering the nervousness
and anxiety consequent upon a first appearance in a
character and in a play which the greatest of Amer
ican actors made famous; a play which, by the
way, it is generally asserted and believed was writ
ten for Mr. Forrest. It was not written for him,
but for the tragedian, Mr. A. A. Addams, who,
through his indiscreetness—that’s a mild way of
saying that socially he was inclined to be abnor
mally and continuously “ genial ’’—was unable to
produce it The result was that the play was hand
ed to Mr. Forrest, and he, after reading it, accepted
it, and made the character of Cade one of his chief
impersonations. He appeared for the first time as
Jack Cade, in this city, at the Park Theatre, May
24th, 1841. In the cast were Mr. Murdock as Clif
ford, Wheatley as Lord Say, A. Andrews as Buck
ingham, Nickinson as Friar Lacy, W. A. Chapman
as Courteny, C. W. Clarke as Mowbray, Mrs. Melin
da Jones as Marianne. Mrs. Wheatley as Widow
Cade and Mrs. Mcßride as Kate.
There were actors and actresses in those days—
those days of “tie wig tragedies” and “melodra
matic bombast.”
Concerning Mr. Collier’s revival of “ Metamora,”
no doubt something in the way of comment will be
found in its appropriate place in another column.
MR. EDMUND COLLIER’S “NEW DEPARTURE”
—this putting new wine into old bottles, or in other
words, this reviving two of the most noted and
best known plays of a past period—should certain
ly be regarded rather with favor than discourage
ment.
He has the courage to brave the field in this
wise; added to this courage ho has the talent, the
perseverance and the physical and mental forces to
fight the battle out to victory ou this Lne ii it takes
NEW YORK. SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 5. 1886.
more than all the season; he has entered the field
without the trumpeting of advance advertising and
an overflow of that preliminary gush of reportorial
interviewing and reminiscence which are the
rule nowadays.
Without a “mantle”—with no pretense of being
a ’‘successor”—he awaits hopefully the verdict
which the close of his season may bring him.
And the only demand he makes of the press is
that the critics will not take example from one of
their guild who did not consider it necessary to
personally witness his performance, but sat down
and condemned his effort upon the general princi
ple that it must be bad because he (the critic) had a
dislike for one of the actor’s relatives.
BOGLSART.
How Mr. Prettyman Wins Fame
by Proxy.
GENIUS’S MESS OF POTTAGE.
Sculptors Who Can’t Sculp and Painters
Who Can’t Paint.
SARAH BERNHARDT’S IMPOSITIONS.
Mr. Belt and His Ghost Who Worked
While He Played.
DR. X ART WORKS.
In the principal art gallery of this city there is
now on exhibition a work of sculpture, extremely
artistic in character and attractive in subject. It
bears every token of having been executed by a
master hand. Appended to it is a card stating that
it is the work of—let us say P. Postleth waite Pret
tyman, Esq. That is not the name, but the pro
claimed author of the statue is a well known local
dude, who has cut quite a figure in society as a
leader ef the German. Mr. Prettyman is a dandy
of the first water. He does a little in art, having
studied in “ Frawnce, don’t chew know,” and runs
a studio in this city in the Winter time, and one at
Newport in the Summer. His high teasand other en
tertainments in his studio are voted by society to be
too delightful for anything, and he has his hands
constantly full of commissions for portrait busts of
members of our first families. It is a peculiarity of
these busts that they do not bear the remotest re
semblance to their originals; but such is Mr. Pret
tyman’s popularity, and so satisfactory is the ignor
ance of society in matters of art, that you never
hear any complaints about his productions, and his
handseme prices are promptly paid.
AN ARTISTIC HUMBUG.
Occasionally Mr. Prettyman devotes his art to
loftier subjects than portraiture, and he has ex
hibited several quite effective statues in our exhibi
tions. The critics have often wondered how so
poor a portrait sculptor could be so masterly an
artist in a much more important field. It was re
served for the Dispatch reporter to solve the mys
tery.
Mr. Prettyman does not carve out his own stat
ues at all.
Six months ago the writer saw the work now on
exhibition as Mr. Prettyman’s, in process of com
pletion in the studio of a talented and able sculptor
in this city. This artist, a merry little Italian, a
true Bohemian, brimful of ability and caring for
nothing but a jolly life, well moistened with Car
rara wino, is extensively known iu the profession
but not to the general public. He has furnished
some of the most artistic sculptures for the Vander
bilt and other mansions, and his labors are in con
stant demand. He is an extravagant fellow, using
money faster than he can make it, and caring noth
ing for the fame he might readily win if he were
fonder of art than he is of wine, women and song.
When the writer complimented him on the work
he was employed upon, he tapped his nose slyly,
winked and said:
“It is a good job. lam making it for a fine young
gentleman who thinks he is an artist, and he pays
me double for it.”
“Do you mean to say he intends to pass it off as
his own ?” I asked.
“ Exactly.”
“ And you permit it ?”
“Why not? He pays, and his money is good.
Why, I have made his reputation. This is the sixth
statue I make lor him, and though he could not
chip a piece of marble without spoiling it, every
one believes he is a great artist.”
“ He is certainly a great fraud,” I observed.
“Well, and what of that ?” retorted the sculptor,
laughing. “There is no fraud about his money, I
can tell you.”
The figure this artist was at work on on the oc
casion in question, is being exhibited here as the
production of Mr. Prettyman, and people are, as
usual, wondering how the duse he does it. They
will probably not wonder so much when they have
read this account of the source of his artistic inspi
ration. It would not be a difficult matter for any
one to achieve a reputation as an artist in this
fashion.
MR. BELT’S GHOST.
A year or two ago London had a celebrated case in
which an artist named Belt figured as the hero.
Belt, like Mr. Prettyman, was a sculptor. His
specialty was portraits, but he also did ideal heads
and groups. He was a society man, went in for
fashionable popularity and made a great deal of
money. One day it got whispered about that Mr.
Belt was not the author of his own works. He was
a mere figure-head, it was said, a pretentious hum
bug who posed as a sculptor while the work he
passed off as his own was performed by another. An
investigation was made and this statement discov
ered to be literally true.
Unlike Mr. Prettyman. Mr. Belt did not go abroad
to have his work done. He hired a sculptor at
week s wages to work in his studio. This man was
kept busy all day long in a private room, while in
the show studio Mr. Belt held his receptions and
humbugged society to the top of its bent. On ac
count of the mystery of his operations, and the
secrecy which was preserved by him, the real artist
in this case was known as Belt’s Ghost, and the sort
i of art Mr. Belt and Mr. Prettyman indulge in was
. consequently christened “ghost sculpture.”
The methods of Mr. Belt were thoroughly exposed
by this investigation. He was shown to receive his
■ sitters in his big studio, where he posed them and
went to work to make the clay model or sketch
( which is the commencement of all works of sculp
ture. He built this up to look something like a
human head, chatting gayly, talking art and telling
> stories to keep the sitter in a good humor. When
the sitting was over all hands had a glass of wine
and a bit of cake, smoked a cigarette, and society
! went off voting the affair a most charming one.
As soon as the sitter was gone the bust was
I handed over to the Ghost. He was given some
photographs of the sitter to work from. Mr. Belt
’ always insisted on having some photographs to
i “ study the character by,” as he phrased it. And
so the work went on from day to day. Mr. Belt
' only scraping and moulding at the Blotch a little,
1 while the Ghost did the work. Finally the sitter
was permitted to see it—it is customary not to let a
portrait be seeu by the original until it is well ad
vanced, it being covered up after each Bitting.
When it was approved of, it was copied in marble
or cast in bronze. Mr. Belt got his pay and his
praise, and the Ghost got his week's wages.
j This revelation spoiled Mr. Belt’s business, and
he vanished from sight until recently, when he was
arrested, at the charge of a sporting baronet, for
swindling him in a sale of jewelry. He had sold the
> complainant some diamonds and other gems that
were as bogus as his sculpture, and is now in jail,
expeating the offense by a severe sentence.
BERNHARDT’S ARTISTIC IMPOSITIONS.
It is a well known fact in Paris that the most
eminent actress of the day there, the sensational
genius who is now acting and horsewhipping her
way to New York via. South America, is a Ghost
Sculptor, and a Ghost Painter as well. Some ten
years ago, Mme. Bernhardt flashed before the
1 Parisian public as an artist. She exhibited a marble
bust, very cleverly done. The general public be
came quite enthusiastic over it, but the cynical
critics did not.
“It looks wonderfully like Mensonier’s work,”
they said.
Mensouier was a very able sculptor, an old man,
who lived quietly out in the suburbs. He was
known to be a friend of Mme. Bernhardt, and they
frequently exchanged visits. Albert Wolf, the great
critic oi Le Figaro charged him with being the
author of the Bernhardt bust. He replied smiling:
“My dear boy, Mme. Bernhardt really made that
head. I only finished it for her.”
The fact came out that Mme. Bernhardt did really
understand a little of modeling ; almost half as
much, possibly, as Mr. Belt and Mr. Pretty man.
She would begin a thing and block it out in the
rough -a work any stonecutter can do. Then Men
sonier would tall to and finish it for her,giving it all
its fine beauty and artistic charm. But the good
natured old fellow, knowing the value of the fraud
as an advertisement, and having a great personal
affection for the actress, sat quietly by and let her
have the credit for what he had done. He even re
fused bis friend Wolf permission to publish the
facts and they only leaked out after a time in an in
direct way.
After Mme. Bernhardt had exhausted sculpture
as an advertisement, she made her debut in the ex
hibitions as a painter. Here aga n she was voted
remarkably clever and she ought to have been. The
worn she daubed in was finished by two of the fore
most painters in Paris, Georges Clairin and Louise
Abbt ma.
Fearless and Independent.
Georges Clairin is a young artist of genius who
was madly enamored of the actress. Louise Abbe
ma is the ablest woman painter in Paris, who is
equally devoted to her. With such ghosts as Men
sonier, a sculptor of the first class, and these two, It
is no wonder Mme. Bernhardt achieved artistic
fame. She carried the use of phantoms even fur
ther than this, for the books published over her
name were, if report is to be credited, written by
another of her admirers. About the only thing
which is really original with her appears to be her
scandals.
SOCIETY’S ESTHETIC FRAUDS.
Artistic pursuits have become very fashionable of
late years in America, and our society boasts quite
a number of Belts and Prettymans. A young fellow
of wealth betrays what his family fondly view as
artistic talent, and is sent abroad to perfect it. He
goes to Paris, if he is a painter, and perhaps to
Rome if a sculptor.
There he works a little in some artist’s studio,
and idles a good deal. He has a pretty studio of his
own where he receives the traveling friends who
drop in on him. He is a good paymaster, and his
master is always willing to touch up his feeble and
inexpert work with his skilled hand. These pro
ductions he exhibits as his own. After a time he
comes back and settles down and begins the Pret
tyman business. His friends all patronize him,
and he gets double the prices for his work that real
artists obtain; consequently he can afford to hire
real artists, talented and obscure and struggling
men, to do the work he takes the credit for.
Not long ago one of these spoiled darlings of the
social world made an exhibition of what were
claimed to be bis paintings in a leading gallery
here. There were about a hundred canvases, and
they were an amazing collection. Some were very
fine pictures, some excellent, some good, and about
half simply hideous daubs. The latter he excused
on the score that they were m«re slight sketches,
that he had no time to finish. The others he point
ed to with pride as his completed works.
In a very little while the truth came out. The
only pictures in the lot which he had painted were
the daubs. The rest he had bought wherever he
could got the chance, picked up at auction or in
the studios of clever and unknown men. Once in
his possession, it had been an easy matter for him
to paint the signatures cut and substitute his own
name.
There was a terrific howl in the art world over
the discovery. The artistic confidence operator was
denounced by painters and critics, but he was so
popular in society that he posed as a martyr, and
actually found support for his pretensions. He sold
most of the good pictures at excellent prices, and
packed the daubs away. Then he returned to Eu
rope to complete his studies, and it is now an
nounced that he will return with another collec
tion of his works, which will be an improvement on
the last. He will, probably, have none of his own
among them, which will certainly be a most de
cided improvement.
DR. X *S ART WORKS.
A fashionable physician in this city has long en
joyed a wide repute in his social circle as an ama
teur artist of no mean merit. He has bestowed ex
amples of his art in oil and water colors, in pencils
and in crayous, upon all his friends. He is a mem
ber of a leading club, and a great sportsman, and
he has given the club pictures and presented to
the friends who have shared his hunting and fish
ing trips delightful sketches of the scenery and the
events of their journeyings.
A few months ago Dr. X suddenly ceased to pro
duce any art works. Those in the secret know why.
The painter whom he had been in the habit of buy
ing them from had died suddenly.
The doctor has recommenced his artistic perform
ances, however, so it is safe to assume that he has
found another painter in ordinary.
One of the most eminent animal painters in the
country was packing up, preparatory to his annual
vacation last June, when a stranger entered his
studio. The stranger introduced himself as Mr.
Blank, ned asked if the painter would have time to
make him half a dozen sketches at SIOO apiece. The
painter had time for such a reward as a matter of
course, and Mr. Blank produced six photographs of
different pet dogs, pugs, skyes, St. Bernards and
the like. He wanted brisk, free sketches in oil of
each, unsigned, and he got them.
“The dogs,” said the artist to the writer, “be
longed to lady friends of his. He enjoys quite a
reputation as an amateur, and had rashly promised
his fair friends to paint their pets for them. Every
sketch that I made is, I will wager, now beautifully
framed in some swell mansion, with Mr. Blank’s
name signed iu the corner.”
In the club-house of one of the Long Island huntj
ing clubs hang two frames full of spirited sketches
iu oil colors, one representing a steeple chase and
the other a fox hunt. They comprise a number of
small pictures representing the various episodes of
the field. These are politely supposed to be the
work of the clubman who presented them. In
reality they were painted by a brilliant Polish
painter who recently settled in this country and has
won renown as a painter of hunting and race
scenes. The artist in this case is unaware of the
use made of his work. He sold the sketches in a
batch, unsigned, regarding them as too trifling to
append his name to. Their purchaser quietly in
serted his own name in them and as his they are ex
hibited.
The funniest thing about it is that no one sus
pected the clubman of being able to paint before he
presented these alleged specimens of his skill, and
his friends are still wondering where the deuce be
learned to do them and why he don't do some more.
He will, doubtless, come to the front with a new
lot as soon as be can purchase them at a bargain.
Origin of the White Man.
A NEW AND STARTLING ETHNOL
OGICAL THEORY BY A
COLORED-PREACHER.
(From the Charleston News and Courier.)
When Mr. Kinlaw—“ de Rebren Nepchune Kin
law ’’—lays himself out to expound the Scriptures
he embellishes the text with metaphors, and clothes
it in language at once revolutionary and extraor
dinary. Mr. Kinlaw was born and raised on the
Combahee, and his rhetorical figures are based
largely on the events in daily life in that delightful
land. It will not, therefore, be surprising that one
should find his principal sketch of the tragedy of
Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden adorned with
similes taken from a rice plantation, and otherwise
elaborated with startling low-country effects and
conceits. It way also be stated, byway of explana
tion, that a seacoast field-hand’s idea of supreme
happiness is the possession of a winter apple tree.
“De Rebren Kinlaw ” is an itinerant preacher of
no particular denominat on, and who, it will be re
membered. preached a funeral ante-mortem sermon
over Aunt Di’s * chile ’ at the Four-mile House. The
following sermon was delivered at the Summerville
depot last Sunday evening, to a small but select cir
cle of friends, male and female:
“My bredren and sistah: I bin een dis ert long
time befo’ de Nunion cum een; long time befo’
Gin’l Grant and Shummun run Gin’l Lee and Mr.
Elliott oppn Silliman Ilan. I bin preach de wad o’
de Sperrit when all ona wuz een subryment, and 1
gwine to lucidation to-day how
ADAM GIT LEE BY NICODEMUS
and how it come to be dat de fuss bukra walk pon
top de ert. De hole ting come to pass sumpn lukka
dis:
•• De Lawd bin a walk een de gyaden dis bout de
middle o’ de day. De hawn done blow, an’ all de
han bin a sit down rassin wid cole bittie and trowin
and ketchin foolishness one tur anurrer. Same like
dat de woice o’ de Lawd soun out like one lightnin
een de night. De Lawd, atta he cross oba by de big
rice dam, tun shawt and bin a walk een ce pa’at tru
de orchard. Soon iz he git by dat winta apple tree
ho stan up stock still and gaze pon urn wid great
explosion. Taint a han on de place wot ain drop he
k.ttle an spoon an ting an gaze good fashion, all in
a trimble-like on de Good Master. De bittie pyo
stan like he freeze een ebbry boddy maut. Bimeby,
disis I dun tell yo, all to once de ert rock and de
sky split with de powofulness o’ de greateness o’ de
Lawd. He bex tell de bexuess a’ he spirrit set all
de people a crawlin on day face. Needa buckn,
needa so nigger kin biggin to ondastan de tribbila
tion and terrification o’ dat day, which it was 12
o’clock. De boss an mule leff de plow an scatterate
to de pine lan dis like a drove o* partridge wen a
pinter rout em, an yo’ shoot two barrel one time
and ain tech a fedda.
“DA SKY CLOUD UP
an de big rain stan same lukka ripe persimmon
ready to drop. De squerl mek track to he hole, an
atta he git day he tun roun een de hole an trow he
eye back dis like he bin a watch one o’ dese half
houn and half flee a rumblin and a rumagin roun
een a hicery ticket. De jaybud lay low on de
count o’ he skay mose to def, an de owl shot he eye
tite fo’ de fuss time since he bawn. De Rlbber Jor
dan riz up an bile wid a grate fresh, an Bablon
shake same like a broom grass field. Oh, my bred
ren, 'twuz terrible, an to dis day Adam face stan
white same like Mass Steve Elliott face. Oh, my
sistahs, stan up to me like a man while I onrabble
de ponderation o’ de fuss trial whichn it ebba sence
mek de en o’ a corn row on a Summa day dis bout
as long fer ana as spang fum Yemasee plum to Coo
sawhatchie.
“Now, dissis de Bible troot, regardin’ o’ how
Adam face turn wite, cawdin’ to how it specify een
John Baptiss. Now, John say, sezee, dissiz I dun
tell you fum de fuss gwine off o’ de commencement
to-day, sezee, says John, Adam bin a cullud pusson,
and he dressup een coon skin an eat wile hunny
an locuss. Au’ howsumebber,
“DE LAWD AIN TRUSS ADAM,
“an sezee, boy, dese Winta apple ain fo’ tech tell
nex Summa, an de Lawd dun gie de awda he left
Adam, but he leff Gabrieli and Nicodemus, he cus
zin by the murra side, fo’ patrol de gyardin and
watch Adam, kaze him hab a bad carackter fo trick
and cunninness. O, my bredren and sistah, listen
at me good, an’ verry fo’ ona keself, how dat Winta
apple come to mek de fuss buckra fambly een scrip
ter.
“Now, John Baptiss, sezee, says John, dissaz
quickiz de Lawd gone outea de gate, Gabrieli and
Nicodemus tek a stan’ fo’ watch de tree. O, my
bredren and sistah, wen Adam tink say him kin
trow dues een Nicodemus eye and Gabrieli all two
one time, he dis as well try fo’ hook a guinea fowl
een de broad daylight; needa so fo’ borrow a wat
millun wot ain Dlongs turruin. Kaze wy? Kaze,
aezzi, needs Gabrieli, needs so Nicodemus sleep tell
he ketoh Adam chnnkin de winta apple down off
dat tree wid a litewood knot. Now, wot nex, sezzi ?
Well, de nex pint is wot I dun preech bout een de
fuss goin off. Nicodemus tell de Lawd bout Adam
an* same I dun tell you, de good Mastah come back
to de tree, an’ sho nuff he miss two apple. He look
roun pon top de groun an see Adam track way he
bin use bout unda de tree. Den de sperrit o' de
Lawd git box an*
“HE CRY OUT, ADAM 1
••But Adam ain say a ting. O, my sistah, Adam
bid a leddown wid he face bury eeu de groun, een
one huckelberry patch, an he fade much as to ketch
he bret. Den de Lawd git mo powerful een he
woice, an* Adam bleege to git up an* he mek ansah
good fashion an’ say, sezee, *Yay Lawd.' Den de
Lawd say, ‘Adam, sumbawdy teef two winta apple.*
Den Adam up ’n say, sezee, ‘¥ay, Lawd,* an’ he face
tun as white as a fine homespun sheet een a white
fambly house. Den de Lawd sperrit see dat Adam
is gwine to hab a contention, an’ de Lawd see de
*ceit:ulness in Adam mine, an’ he say, sezee, ‘Adam.
I miss de apple an* I know it is teef een dis gyaden.*
Den de sperrit o’ de debbil jump *pon Adam, 'an he
say, ‘Lawd, ef de apple is teef as you say it is teef,
den I tink say mus’ be Eeb teef um.’
“ Den Nicodemus took’n cut een to de composa
tion an’ pint to Adam track wid de but o’ de musket.
Den Nicodemus say, sezee, ' Adam, dat is a No. 9
shoes, an’ Eeb ain’ hab no shisha feet.’ Den Adam
know dat he ain’ hab no witness an’ no use fo’ tar
rogate Nicodemus, so he run way wid he wite face
an’ hide een de cypress pon’ tell atta dark; and he
clime oba de gyadin’ fence an’ dig out fo’ de wite
people country. Whichn azi sed, sezzi, at de fuss
commencement, all Adam chillun by he fuss wife is
cullud ’ception to he secon’ wife, whichn all de
ress is buckra. Let we praise de Lawd. Nex
preechin’ will be to Miss Frayja house.”
MOJIS. MMLL’S SECRET.
The Double Life of a Resident
of Paris.
The Dealer in Old Coins and the
Gentleman of Leisure.
THE ADVENTURES OF MONS. RASQUINET.
How Expert Thieves Bost Their
Valuable Booty.
In 1882, Monsieur Rasquinet kept an Italian
warehouse on the rue de Vangirard, Paris. He had
risen from poverty, and by his own tact and in
dustry had acquired wealth. He might long since
have retired from business and taken his ease in a
fine mansion, but instead of that he continued to
live in a snug, well-ordered residence on the rue
Delambre. He was wont to say:
“ What is the use ? When Igo home now, I call
• Marie,’ and, wherever my wife is in our home,
she can hear me; whereas, if I had a big dwelling,
I might hunt from cellar to roof before I found
her.”
Among Monsieur Rasquinet’! regular customers
was a Monsieur Roussell, who resided on the rue
du Mont. Parnasse. He was a very elegant gentle
man, affable and talkative, and he and Monsieur
Rasquinet had always a pleasant talk when he came
to make purchases.
One day Monsieur Roussell wore a very fine
diamond ring, which Monsieur Rasquinet took the
liberty of admiring.
“ You like diamonds ?” said Monsieur Roussell.
“Very much,” was the answer, "but, as for
myself, I could never think of wearing them;
though, to tell you the truth, I should very much
like to buy a fine one for my wife to surprise her on
her birthday.”
“If you will come to my house this evening,”
said Monsieur Roussell, “I will show you some of
the finest diamonds and brilliants in Paris, and it is
possible that I might be tempted to spare you one
at a very low price for the object you named.”
“Ah, many thanks, monsieur,” was the reply;
“I will accept your invitation and call on you abont
nine o’clock this evening.”
ONE OF MONSIEUR ROUSSELL’S SECRETS.
In accordance with his promise, Monsieur Ras
quinet called on Monsieur Roussell and found
him occupying a very handsomely furnished
dwelling. After he had admired and praised the
fine pictures which adorned the parlors, Monsieur
Rasquinet accompanied Monsieur Roussell up an
unligbted stairway to his study. This occupied
the rear of the second story, and, as Monsieur
Rasquinet subsequently found, was very comfort
ably fitted up, as was also Monsieur Roussell’s
sleeping apartment, adjoining.
“ I never permit any one to come up stairs with
out permission, or to disturb me in my study,” said
Monsieur Roussell; “and so the way to it is never
lighted, and when I enter it I fasten the door.”
And he carefully locked the door and hung the
key on a small knob projecting from the wall ad
joining.
“It might happen, however,” Monsieur Roussell
continued, “that in case of fire I should have to
escape at the Iront window of my bedroom and
leave my key behind me, and that—the fire being
extinguished without much damage—l might wish
to return to my study or bedroom, for there is only
one entrance to both. I have, therefore, provided
for such an emergency. See 1”
Monsieur Roussell took down the key and un
locked the door.
“Now,” said he, “I will go outside, and you lock
the door and hang the key on the knob.”
He went out; Monsieur Rasquinet locked the door
and hung the key on the knob. Presently there
was a “click.” One of the panels of the door
opened, Monsieur Roussell’s hand was introduced
and the key was gone. Then Monsieur Roussell un
locked the door from the outside and asked for
Monsieur Rasquinet’s attention.
“Up in the corner of this panel,” Monsieur
Roussell said, “ there is a small button. Put your
finger there. Press it.”
Monsieur Rasquinet put his finger on the corner
of the panel, pressed it and the panel opened.
“Now you have one of my secrets,” said Mon
sieur Roussell, smiling.
“I will keep it faithfully,” replied Monsieur
Roussell, with a bow.
ANOTHER OF MONSIEUR ROUSSELL’S SECRETS.
Then they re-entered the study and the door was
locked.
“Now,” said Monsieur Roussell, "I have another
secret to disclose to you. You see that old-fash
ioned bookcase at the end of the room? Well, that
covers a concealed doorway into an apartment where
I keep my diamonds and other valuables. Come
and see.”
He went toward the bookcase and Monsieur Ras
quinet followed.
“Now,” said Monsieur Roussell, “stoop down
and ] ut your finger here, under the bottom shelf.”
Monsieur Rasquinet obeyed.
“What do you feel ?” asked Monsieur Roussell.
“The head of what appears to be a brass nail,”
was the reply.
“Press it,” said Monsieur Roussell, “and step
aside. ”
Monsieur Rasquinet did as directed, and as he
stepped back, the bookcase moved from its position
like a door on its hinges and disclosed a dark pas
sage beyond.
Monsieur Roussell smiled at his guest’s astonish
ment and lighted a small lamp. Then he stepped
into the passage.
“See,” said he, “I will press this small brass
knob here and the bookcase will resume its former
position. When I return, I will press a similar
knob on the other corner—see, it is here—and the
bookcase will again move on its hinges. When I
return I will show you how I close it up from my
study.”
The bookcase instantly moved and the passage
was closed. After an absence of two or three min
utes, Monsieur Roussell again appeared in the
study, with what looked like a valise.
“I never heard the bookcase move,” said Mons.
Rasquinet.
“No,” was the reply; “the mechanism is per
fect. Now, see—to close the passage once more, I
touch a knob on the other side of the case, in exact
ly the same position as the one by which I ppen it.”
He touched the knob, and the bookcase resumed
its original position. Monsieur Roussell then
opened a leathern wrapper and lifted the lid of a
box.
A number of beautiful diamonds met the aston
ished gaze of Monsieur Rasquinet. After some
time passed in examining them, Monsieur Roussell
selected a very fine diamond and presented it to his
visiter, saying:
“ You have made me many presents for many
years; it is my turn to make you one.”
MONSIEUR RASQUINET’S ADVENTURE.
Monsieur Rasquinet accepted the gift with a pro
fusion of thanks, and, as he was anxious to see that
his place of business was safely closed for the
night, and as Monsieur Roussell also had a particu
lar engagement at ten o’clock, the visitor de
parted.
Monsieur Rasquinet went straight to his shop on
the Rue de Vangirard, saw that all was right, and
started on his way home. He had quitted the Rue
Notre Dame des Champs and turned into the Rue
Stanislas, when the rain began to fall in torrents.
Seeing an open doorway with a sign above it, he
turned into the passage for shelter from the storm,
hoping that it would soon abate. The passage was
very dark, and the light outside was very dim.
Presently a cab drove up and stopped, and two men
got out of the vehicle. Monsieur Rasquinet, who
was a quiet, unobtrusive gentleman, receded into
the darkness of the passage. The two men entered
and went up stairs. Presently he heard the clang
of a bell and the opening and shutting of a door
and then all was silence. He would have quitted
the place at once, but the rain was descending with
absolute fury and so he decided to stayTasbe
OFFICE, NO. 11 FRANKFORT ST.
thought there was little chance of any intruders
interfering with him.
Presently he heard overhead the sound as of a
scuffle and of the falling of furniture. He was
about to escape to the street when a door opened
and a person came down the stairs and quitted the
place. Monsieur Rasquinet (thought this was a
good time for him to go also and he hurried to the
street. As he reached it, a man who stood by the
open door of the cab grabbed him by the arm and
thrust him into the vehicle, at the same time plac
ing in his hand a small box afid cjoging the door of
the cab. Then he heard a vdlce say to the driver:
“To the rue de Babylon, near the rue Vanneau.”
NUMBER 483.
Instantly the vehicle started, and Monsieur Ras
quinet was the most amazed man in Paris. What
did it mean ? What was this box which had been
thrust into his hand ?
Then the idea struck him that a crime had been
committed and that in some mysterious way he
was to be associated with it. This thought roused
him and, when the cab reached the Rue de Van
girard—his own ground, so to speak—he was him
self again.
Ho signaled to the driver to stop, got out, handed
him a five franc piece, and turned down the Rue de
Rennes toward the Boulevart du Mont Parnasse.
Seeing that the cab was slowly coming after him,
he stopped, and called to the driver, for a thought
had suddenly struck him.
“Here,” said he, •• it is a stormy night. Here is
another five franc piece. What is your number ?
You are a good driyer.”
“Monsieur, thanks,” said the driver, “my num
ber is 483.”
MONS. RASQUINET REACHES HOME.
Then Mons. Rasquinet started off down the baule
vart at a run. How he reached his home he never
knew, but when he presented himself there he was
breathless and exhausted. He went straight to his
bedroom and put the box under the couch.
“ What is the matter, my husband ?” asked his
wife.
“ 384,” was the answer.
“Won’t you tell me. dear friend, what all this
means?” his wife inquired tenderly.
“843,” was the reply.
“Oh, what shall I do?” his wife exclaimed;
“ where have you been ? What has happened ?”
“438,” said Monsieur Rasquinet, and fell back in
the bed with a groan.
His wife put his feet in hot water, placed a mus
tard plaster on the back of his neck, put him to bed
and poured half a tumbler of cognac down his
throat. Then he jumped up, drew the box from its
hiding place, and lay down once more with the
mysterious thing clasped to his bosom. He fell
asleep and never stirred until eight o’clock nest
morning, when he startled his wife by suddenly ex
claiming :
“Four hundred and eighty-three! that is the
number! put it down. I remember it all dis
tinctly.”
Then he related to his wife his visit to Monsieur
Roussell’s, drew from his vest pocket the diamond
presented to him by that gentleman, and told his
wife it was hers. Next he recounted all that sub
sequently happened, as already disclosed to the
reader.
MONSIEUR ROUSSELL’S DIAMONDS.
“ Now for the box,” said he; and, pressing a small
spring, the lid flew open. His eyes opened wide
with astonishment, for before him were the very
diamonds which Monsieur Roussell had exhibited
to him the evening before !
Monsieur Rasquinet lay back in his bed and rum
inated for a full hour. Then he arose, bathed, ate
his breakfast, dressed and smoked a cigar. As he
smoked he talked the matter over with his wife,
and, as the retult, shortly before noon he went out,
taking the box of gems with him, wrapped in pa
per.
Monsieur Rasquinet went direct to Monsieur
Roussell’s house, on the Rue du Mont Parnasse.
His valet said that they were greatly alarmed, as his
master had not made his appearance that morning
and that repeated knockings at the door of his
study had met with no response.
“I am Monsieur Roussell’s friend,” said Mon
sieur Rasquinet, “and know how to enter his
study. Remain here and allow no one to come up
stairs.”
Monsieur Rasquinet ascended the stairs, touched
the secret spring and the panel opened. He put in
his hand, found the key, unlocked the door and en
tered the study. Then he closed the panel, locked
the door and hung up the key. The study showed
no signs of having been disturbed. Entering the
bedroom, he found that the couch had not been
slept on the previous night. He had the worst fore
bodings, but he had nerved himself for the task
which he had undertaken. He looked for a lamp
but there was none on the side-table where it had
stood the previous night. In a small cupboard,
however, he found one, which hejighted. Then by
touching the spring the bookcase revolved and he
entered the dark passage, carrying the light.
MYSTERY UPON MYSTERY.
He had not advanced far before he came to a door
standing ajar. Pushing it open, he entered an
apartment flitted up as a dressing-room. The
clothes of Monsieur Roussell hung on pegs.
Drawing aside a curtain, he found a well appointed
bath-room. On the table, in the dressing-room,
lay a gold watch and chain, a diamond ring and
small articles of attire which Monsieur Rasquinet
identified as Monsieur Roussell’s. He looked
around, but there was no occupant of the two
rooms. Returning to the passage, he went forward
until his way was blocked by a door. He attempted
to open it, but it did not yield. Then he distinctly
heard groans proceeding from beyond the door.
Monsieur Rasquinet, brave in tLe time of great
emergency, remembered the way in which access
was had to the study. In the top panel of the door
he felt a knob, pressed it and the panel opened.
Inserting his hand as he would do in procuring the
key of the study, he found a key hanging on the
wall. With this he opened the door, and saw be
fore him a large room, well lighted, filled with old
furniture, armor, shelves, drawers and a great
variety of odds and ends.
But what attracted him most after the first hasty
glance at the room and its contents, was the form
of a miserable, dirty old man, who looked like a
Jew, seated in a chair to which he was bound with
cords. Hands and feet were tied, a gag was in his
mouth and the chair was placed close to an old iron
safe, to which it was attached with a strong rope.
Laying down the lamp, Monsieur Rasquinet drew a
knife from his pocket and cut the cords which held
the gag in the mouth of the unfortunate prisoner.
A RECOGNITION.
“Thanks, thanks. Monsieur Rasquinet,” said the
old man.
“ My God !” exclaimed Monsieur Rasquinet, “it
is Monsieur Roussell!”
“ Yes, it is indeed I,” was the reply in a feeble
voice.
Monsieur Rasquinet took very few seconds to cut
the eords which bound his friend, who was so
feeble, however, that ho could not stand.
“ You will find brandy on the sideboard in my
study,” said Monsieur Roussell, so low that his
voice was just audible.
Monsieur Rasquinet took the lamp, returned bo
the study and soon came back with a tumbler of
brandy and water, which Monsieur Roussell quaffed
eagerly. He arose, shook Monsieur Rasquinet by
the hand and said:
“ I know not how to account for your presence
here, but it is very certain you have saved my life,
for I could not have endured my condition much
longer. Now let us leave this place and I will ex
plain to you speedily how I came to be in such a
position.”
They quitted the room. Monsieur Roussell hav
ing first heavily barred a door which he said opened
on a passage leading to the rue Stanislas. On reach
ing the dressing room, Monsieur Roussell said:
•‘ I am about to disclose to you the greatest of my
secrets. See me in this dirty, miserable garb, with yel
low face and hands and disheveled hair. I am Jacob
Isaacs, the Jew, dealer in old coins and curiosities
and precious stones, as a sign over the entrance on
the rue Stanislas to the room we have just quitted
informs the passenger.”
“Oh, my God,” exclaimed Monsieur Rasquinet,
“ that explains all.”
Then he narrated to Monsieur Roussell his hav
ing taken shelter in the passage and all that fol
lowed, his hearer listening with profound wonder
and astonishment. At the close of the recital Mon
sieur Roussell said:
“My explanation is short. I was notified by a
servant in livery, who called at my room yesterday
morning, that a gentleman of very high position
was desirous of procuring some valuable diamonds.
Let me say that I am an Englishman, and that
when I was wealthy I amused myself by collecting
coins and beautiful gems; and when I was suddenly
bereft of a large estate, I came to this city, bringing
my jewels sud coins with me, and, after delibera
tion, resolved on living a double life—investing
money as Isaac the Jew, and spending it as Mon
sieur Roussell, the gentleman of leisure. I soon
established a very lucrative business, and had for
my customers the wealthiest and most aristocratic
residents of Paris.”
“To resume my explanation: The servant said
that, if agreeable, two gentlemen would call at ten
o’clock last night—that was the engagement of
which I spoke to you—and inspect the jewels. They
came, and, while I was showing them the beautiful
gems I had just exhibited to you, I was seized, gag
ged and bound as you found me, and the case was
carried off. One of the thieves—a man about your
size and appearance—stayed behind a moment to
close the windows lest I should make a noise, I pre
sume, and arouse attention on the street, and
doubtless the man who carried the case mistook
you for his confederate.
“ Now, I have done with the double life. I dis
card these disgusting habiliments forever.”
Monsieur Roussell entered the bathroom and
turned on the water. On his return, he threw off
the disguise which disfigured him, and when strip
ped stood a well formed, athletic man, the yellow
hue of face and hands contrasting strangely with
the clear white of the rest of his skin.
“See,” said he, entering the bath-room apd dip
ping his bead into a small vessel, “ this will change
my complexion.”
He rubbed hands and faoe and then got into the
bath, from which he emerged shortly,dressed him
self and went to the study accompanied by Mon
sieur Rasquinet.
The narrative stops here. The chief of police of
Paris is threatened with removal for having been
unsuccessful in bringing outlaws to punishment,
and the outrage recorded above is one of the crimes
the perpetrators of which he admits he is unable
to discov
PRICE FIVE CENTS.
EXPECTATION.
BY FRANOIS HOWARD WILLIAMS.
Between the sunset and the sun
Night slumbers on the sleeping ban
And through its curtain, one by one,
Gleam tender glances of the stars
Between the sunset and the sun.
And so between my love’s lips lies
An untold message meant for me;
Whether ’twill bring me sweet surprise.
Or dole or doubt or Paradise,
Is known alone to destiny.
Yet, as I wait, a dream of tears
Between her eyelids and her eyes,
A mystery of mist, appears.
That hints of hope and flatters fears;
And on her lips a burst of sighs,
And on her lids a red that dies
To slumberous shadows that fall and rise.
Till, as I seek some sign to see,
Between her eyelids and her eyes
Love lights his lamp and laughs at me.
21 grilling jifcrg.
BfflfWlffl.
BY A FAVORITE AUTHOR.
CHAPTER XII.
“you have killed youb fatheb by this fabce.”
How slowly the train seemed to move, how
often it stopped and how irritatingly long it was
at the stations I I tried to occupy myself by
reading the Graphic which Lord Roland had
given me at Paddington; but I read the same
sentences over and over again, having but the
vaguest notion what they meant and wonder
ing why the paper was so unusually dull. At
last, alter hours which seemed to me like days,
the train arrived at Farnmore Station and 1
caught sight of Douglas Darrell looking eagerly
for me. I asked no questions till we were on
our way to Farnmore in a fly.
“ Now you will tell me ?” I said.
” Yes,” he answered. “This afternoon Lord
Farnmore is to be married by special license to
Miss Sutherland in the library at the Castle.”
“Oh, no,” I exclaimed—“not to that horrid
woman ! It must be stopped I”
“If possible; but so far 1 the fiend’ has tri
umphed. You must be calm and have all your
wits about you.”
“ i’es,” I said, mastering my emotion; for this
news that 1 heard really seemed the worst thing
that could happen.
“We will drive just to the edge of the wood,
dismiss the fly and go up to the Castle unob
served.”
I nodded acquiescence.
“ Your father has been ill and Miss Suther
land has nursed him; that was a great opening
tor • the fiend.’ As far as I can gather from the
ancient O’Callaghan, Lord Farnmore is much
shaken and his nerves are in a sad state. They
are to be married at five o’clock this afternoon.
Do you think it would be advisable to see your
father before the ceremony and try to influence
him to postpone the happy event, or could you
appear as an unbidden guest and say you know
• just cause’ to stop the marriage ?”
“ How can I appeal to him beforehand 1 I
left him!” I answered, in dismay.
“ True—your flight was a mistake; but it is
no use thinking of that now. You might tell
him of the forged letters ; you might shake his
faith in the future Lady Farnmore.”
“ Could I be sure of seeing him alone ? ’
“ Yes. Daddy and I could secure that; but,
from all I hear, your father is not well -enough
to listen to argument.”
“Then you prefer the other plan?”
“Yes.”
“ But what right have I to stop this marriage ?
My father can marry whom he likes ; I have no
power to prevent him.”
“Right? No. Power is another thing; we
can but try. First, are you very sure that it is
for Lord Farnmore’s good that this marriage
should be stopped.”
“ Very sure 1” I replied, with emphasis.
“I am of the same opinion. Any woman
who could indulge in such low knavery as forged
letters is scarcely likely to be a treasure as the
wife of a man’s bosom.”
We had reached the wood and we both
alighted from the carriage.
“ Look here,” said Mr. Darrell to the driver,
“don’t say anything to the Farnmore people till
to-morrow about having brought Lady Stella
Fortescue home. Do you understand?”
The man glanced at the money which Mr.
Darrell gave him and seemed quite to under
stand. We strolled up slowly in the shadq of
the wood. How long it seemed since I had
been there I Life should be measured by
events, not time. We had not gone far before
we saw O’Callaghan. The tears came into my
eyes as the old man greeted me.
“ Ah, mavourneen,” he exclaimed, “ this is a
sorry day for Farnmore I”
“ That remains to be proved, worthy sir,” in
terposed Mr. Darrell. “Being young, I’m
hopeful. Hibernicisms are too poetical to in
dulge in at present; tell Lady Stella your plan.”
“ I can get your ladyship into the Castle with
out being seen; then I think it would be well if
you were concealed in the turret-room till the
ceremony begins. You can lock the door on the
inside and you can choose the moment to walk
out. It is fortunate that your ladyship is
dressed in white, for you look as like as possi
ble to your mother.”
“ What am I to do ? What am I to say ?” I
asked, in despair.
“Don’t lose your head,” said Mr. Darrell
sharply, “and then you can say whatever comes
into it.”
His 000 l manner had more effect in making
me practical than anything else could have had.
Poor old Daddy was much too emotional to help
me.
“It is getting late now,” continued Mr. Dar
rell. “ You must go at once with O’Callaghan ;
you must not leave it till the last moment to got
into ambush. See that you have a glass of
wine to give you Dutch courage before you go
into the turret-room. Don’t let there be any
suspicion of your presence before you appear.”
“You are not going with me?” 1 inquired
blankly. I felt helpless at the prospect ol
losing his support.
“How can I?” he answered, laughing. “It
would spoil everything were I to be there.
What have Ito do with it ? 1 shall bo with you
in thought, sister Stella,” he added so'tly.
“Every moment, when you are going through
this ordeal, will be almost as painful to mo as
to you.”
I stretched out my hand to him.
“ Thank you,” I faltered.
He held my hand in his for a minute. I felt
changed in that moment—no longer an ignor
ant child, but a woman with strength and pur
pose.
“I will be here at half-past seven. Will you
or O’Callaghan manage to come and tell me
the result
« Yes.”