OCR Interpretation

New York dispatch. [volume] (New York [N.Y.]) 1863-1899, September 19, 1886, Image 1

Image and text provided by Library of Congress, Washington, DC

Persistent link: https://chroniclingamerica.loc.gov/lccn/sn85026214/1886-09-19/ed-1/seq-1/

What is OCR?

Thumbnail for

(k f *“\ Vl T
|V| h 1 nn i< i rfnV
t 1 UUy As 4 vWw P%W /fej zi A
r^|P w
VOL. XLI.-NO. 49.
Entered at the Post Office at New York,
N. Y., as Second Class Matter.
The NEW YORK DISPATCH is a journal of light, agree
able and sparkling Literature and News. One page is de
voted to Masonic Matters, and careful attention is given
to Music and the Drama.
The Dispatch is sold by all News Agents of the city and
suburbs, at FIVE CENTS A COPY.
Post Office Box No. 17'7&.
Dora, Fedora and Theodora—Watts Phil
lips and Victorien, Sardou-Historic
Critics—The Bernhardt-Miss Olcott
and Her Coaching—A Spectacular
Triumph—A Word ot Advice.
We have had “Dora,** “Fedora,” and now has
come to us ’‘Theodora.”
Mr. Lester Wallaok, aided and abetted by French,
imported “Dora” under its English title of “Di
plomacy,” and Fanny Davenport flashed “Fedora”
upon us at the Fourteenth-street Theatre and gave
Mantel], as Loris Ipanoff, the opportunity of his
life to rise above the crackers and cheese state of a
cheap journeyman actor to the repute and emoln*
ments of a recognized artist.
“Theodora” being captured by Miss Lillian Ol
cott, and warmed up, turned over and done brown
on both sides by one or two translation cooks, was
given on Monday evening last its first representa
tion upon the American stage.
In its English form it might very appropriately
wear the title of “ Theodora on toast.”
For the first time Victorien Sardou is made known
here as the author of a curdling melo-drama and
the contriver of spectacular effects. It is in its na
ture a feast for the gods—of the gallery, and an
appetizer—not very delicate either—for the patri
cians of the stalls.
It is furnished with a sufficiency of gore to make
even the gentlemanly caged lion and the refined
lioness lick their chops in longing desire for a share
of it; it is brightened and glorified by the show, if
not the substance, of the pomp of imperial pa
geantry and the gaudy and garish luxury of a sen
sual court; and, as in contrast with this glittering
foreground, it is fittingly provided with
of woman’s degradation and an inferno of licentious,
ness—which smirch and stain every character in the
Its brilliance is that of the noonday sunlight
flooding the surface of a stagnant pool, the stench
of which arising from its dark depths fills the air
with death-dealing miasma.
Precisely a play in which the central figure can be
only fittingly represented by a Bernhardt; one who
is less the woman than the artist, who, as Theodora
was greater than the play itself.
At the Porte St. Martin it was the triumph of
Bernhardt, not of Sardou. He was the architect
and mechanic who erected the throne; it was she
who occupied it. The genius of the empress made
the throne with its spectacular trappings as insig
nificant as a footstool.
Without the Bernhardt “ Theodora,” with all its
melo-dramatic interest, its admirably-contrived ef
fects, and barbaric splendors in color, with the fas
cination of its weird progress to the dismal and
tragic close, would have been short-lived upon the
Parisian stage ; here in an American theatre it
could never have had a place—for no manager
would have thought it worth the reproduction, as a
mere spectacular play.
For as a play, considered not only in regard to its
literary merit and as a composition of historic value
or in reference to its mechanical construction, its
force, and in its opportunities for the display of
spectacular effects,
is infinitely inferior to the “ Theodora, or Actress
and Empress,” written by Watts Phillips, and pro
duced in London, April 9th, 1866.
To those who, understanding the force and
beauty of the English language, when it is written
to produce great dramatic effects and to impress
the grandeur of them upon the mind, and in which
its eloquence bears no tinge of fustian but seems
to create aud fashion the events in the progress of a
p|ay z It I® ° nl y necessary to witness the performance
of the French production, and after, to read Watts
Phillips’ work.
I do not know of an actress on the American
stage, at the present time, who possesses the power
to sustain not only the vocal and physical, but the
mental strain which would be involved in the im
personation of the “Theodora ” of Watts Phillips.
There are a dozen leading women known to our
theatres.who could easily and satisfactorily imper
sonate the “ Theodora " of Sardou.
Aside from Berphardt—whose genius and art, not
the splendor and cost of its trappings, made Sar
dou’s drama a success—no actress has had the
courage, not to say the temerity, to risk the cost,
and the probability of failure involved in its
purchase and production in English for our stage,
came forward. She was tired of Julieting the
provinces; she had Camilled the novitiate boards
and her experimental skirmishing as a nomadic
star, with all the discomforts and checks to proud
ambition which one night dates and railway hust
ling and all the modes, forms and shows of “long
jumps” en route had sickened her to the full.
She had capital, courage, vitality, and—Bernhardt
in her mind’s eye. “ Theodora”—ah, there was the
plaything wherewith she would catch the con
science—otherwise the favor of the king—public.
She might have done it at less expense with Watts
Phillips’s play.
But Watts Phillips's cast had not a Bernhardt, but
a poor little woman of the not uncommon name of
A. Jones as the Theodora, and who failed in the
Beside, W. P.’s play is English, quite English, you
know. And further, it has something suggestive of
cleanliness in its text. If Phillips had only had his
“Theodora” translated into the French and had
secured Bernhardt to play the actress and empress,
I fancy Mr. Sardou would never have descended
from the comedy of the Theatre Francaise to the
sensational melodrama of the Porte St. Martin.
And Miss Olcott would have had a Theodora too
great in its possibilities for her ability as an actress
to compass.
If I am to believe some of the critics who have
expended their ammunition upon the merits of this
must have been a more awfully wicked woman than
even Gibbon imagined when he wrote : “In the
most abject state of her fortune and reputation
some vision of sleep or fancy had whispered to
Theodora the pleasing assurance that she was des
tined to become the spouse of a potent monarch.”
If I am to believe Sardou—all that I have ever
read of Justinian and his reign, of his General, the
dear old blind Belisarius, and his wife—the prosti
tute, Antonina—must pass as fable. One critic
makes the discovery that Justinian indulged in the
luxury of a French “salon;” another gravely states
that, in the closing scene, Theodora “ suffers death
by strangulation)” another asserts that with “ a
strong leading man ” Justinian would “ really be
the only prominent character in the play.”
Another ranks the misguided old law-making
monarch as the “ prototype of Cajsar Borgia,” and
a very Caligula in cruelty.”
Now let us look at this story—this “tragic drama”
and see what is made of.
Condensed into a few lines this is the story :
Theodora has an illicit passion for Andreas, a young
Greek, who, nowadays, would be only a common
Nihilist—but in this instance is conspiring against
Justinian. Andreas is in blissful ignorance that his
mistress is the Empress, on whom he swears ven.
geance for the death of his fellow conspirator,
Marcellus. He recognizes her at the circus, and in
sults her. In the revolt which ensues he escapes.
He is again captured, and in order to save him from
the executioner, she claims him as her prey, from
the Emperor. She secretes him in the prison vaults.
He rejects her proffered love again, and, finally,
gives him what she thinks is a love philter, but
which proves to be poison intended for the Em
peror. Andreas dies; the Executioner enters; the
ax is raised to end her life as she throws herself
upon the body of her dead loter.
And to relate this story, with all the spectacular
trimmings, requires five acts and eight tableaux.
The first scene of the first act, in a magnificent set
ting, is uninteresting; the second scene, as given in
this version, is made important by the presence of
a cage of lions and with asuggestiveness of the cir.
cus sawdust.
The fourth and fifth acts, in reality,
and contain all there is of strength in the work, the
last act being, however, by no means as impressive
or as effectively arranged as the material warrants.
The closing scene or tableau is unsatisfactory, and in
fact through the act, from the raising of the curtain
Andreas and Theodora seem to be undergoing the
painful process of compulsorily dragging them
selves up to the jina’e, as if each one of them was a
malefactor with a chain and ball attached to his
and her heels.
The translator and adaptor, Mr. Walter J. Brooks,
has taken the unpardonable liberty of here and there
seasoning the text with a sprinkling of slang, and
the sooner Miss Olcott eliminates it the better.
And let me here suggest that the street-parade
cages of the Barnum ancTForepaugh style were not
in use during the reign of Justinian, for the safe
keeping of wild animals. Nor did their keepers
wear spangled trunks or the gold-embroidered jacket
of a modern circus tumbler.
Miss Olcott, let it be said, in this venture of re
producing upon our stage In such a magnificent
manner the play which in Paris owed its success to
the art of Bernhardt, has shown a courage and
spirit which, being American, deserves recognition
and that popular favor which will bring her an am
ple reward.
In the splendor of the costumes and appoint
ments; in the care which has been bestowed in
the arrangement of the scenic settings, and the evi
dent fidelity with which she has adhered to the in
structions and directions of the author, Miss Olcott
has made a memorable event of this production.
The grandeur of the illustrations, aside from all
consideration of the merit of the play, or of its act
ing, alone will, I fancy, ensure it
of many weeks, and—who knows—perhaps of
months. The popular will is the wind’s will.
Miss Olcott has the Bernhardt’s per
formance of the character of this unsavory Em
press, but it is evident that either by M, Sardou, or
by M. Duquesnal, the stage-manager of the Porte
St. Martin, she has been so thoroughly coached in
the methods and artistic devices, in the swinging
of the arms, and the little tricks of expression
which are among the peculiarities of the "divine
Sarah,” that she forgets there is something else nec
essary in the impersonation of the character. It is
not in imitation that success is to be achieved by
the actress. Miss Olcott is a woman of too much
sense and possesses too much theatric instinct not
to know this and to remedy the error.
in the extravagant exhibition of the longings of a
sensual passion, and—to use the phrase of a specta
tor who sat behind me on the first night—in
“climbing all over her lover,” what a Bernhardt
may do cannot be done by any other actress with
out making the love fondling ridiculous.
Ido not mean to say that Miss Olcott will not
succeed in giving an acceptable and it may be a
strong and impressive performance of the character,
but it will not be worthy of note until she drops all
idea of acting with Bernhardt as her model—or of
endeavoring to do no more nor no less than exactly
what the great French actress did in the part. Miss
Olcott has the play in English; it is being per
formed before an American audience; therefore,
why not have the courage, in the one particular of
acting, to depart from the lines and methods of
Bernhardt as given her by Sardou and which she
can never make effective, and using her own ideas of
the character as indicated in the text—reading it as
she would the text of any other melo-dramatic
part—and endeavor to give it the force and color of
originality ?
If, when Bernhardt appears here in the Spring,
she should revive the play and repeat her perform
ance of “ Theodora,” how lame and unsatisfactory
will Miss Olcott’s effort seem in comparison, when
imitation enforces critical comparison with that of
the great French original?
lam sure that Miss Olcott has not only the in
telligence, but the strength—if properly exercised —
to {’ive an impersonation of “ Theodora” which
will be far more effective and certainly more credita
ble to her ambition as an actress, by depending
upon her own conceptions and readings than by
accepting those t 0 another and a
foreign school of dramatic art. ' # «
Let Miss Olcott forget for a while that Bernhardt
ever played “ Theodora,” and remember only that
Miss Olcott is simply a young American actress,
who is undertaking the performance of a character
which no other one of her country has attempted;
that her success is not dependent upon obeying the
formulas of the coaching she has received, but
upon whatever effect originality and thought in its
treatment—the result of her own judgment and
talent, can give the character.
Joe’s Maggie.
Joseph Peleck, an Italian, was charged with as
saulting Teresa O’Brien, of No. 45 New Bowery.
She caid ho came to her door and asked if Maggie
was in.
“ Who is Maggie ?” asked the Court.
“ The woman be lives with.”
He said she was in. She said come in and see.
He did enter, called her an Irish so and so, and
struck her on the eye.
Here is a specimen of the cross-examination car
ried on at the Special Sessions.
“ What does your husband do for a living ?'*
“ He drives an ash cart.”
«• How many were in your room ?”
“ One beside myself.”
«* You were both drunk ?”
“ No, sober."
“ Had you been drinking ?’’
“ No, sir.”
“ You are a regular street cruiser ?”
“ No. sir.”
“ Did you hear anything about Maggie stealing,
his trunk, all his clothing, and his bank-book, and
his publishing an advertisement of his loss ?” '
“ Don't know anything about it.”
“ Hasn’t his woman, Maggie, got drunk in your
room ?”
“ Never.”
“ How often have you been in this court?”
“ Once, nine years ago.”
“ You know Maggie ?”
“ By seeing her at the hydrant.”
Joseph on being called to the stand said he lived
at No. 45 Wbw Bowery, and worked at No. 42 Stone
street. This woman. Maggie, he lived with as his
wife, went off with his trunk and all his clothes,
and brought them into the house of Mrs. O’Brien.
He went in there in search of his clothing, two
watches and bank-book. She was drinking beer
with another woman. He didn’t go in for a fight,
only to get his things.
“ Who gave her that black eye?” asked the Court.
“She had a fight with her husband two weeks
Joseph was acquitted.
Strange Things That Veracious
People Affirm are True.
Banishing Warts—Miracles Wrought by
an Old German Tailor—The Enchanted
Needle —Professional Jealousy
Aroused — Ague Cured by
Incantations—A Fel
on’s Flight.
Something, in the course of a somewhat desultory
conversation over our beer, brought up mention of
Madam Blavatsky and her hanky-panky doings
with alleged occult forces. Then our rambled
over the unlucky opal, the anti-hydrophobiac mad
stone, faith cures, and other belongings of the
shadowy border-land between fact and imagination.
And one queer thing that we noticed was this; that
each of us knew positively, of his own knowledge,
the truth of certain very remarkable things, yet
that each of us looked upon the things that the
other fellows knew as mere vulgar superstitions or
self-deceptions. It is really strange how eagerly we
each claim credence for what we think we know
that is “ out of the common run,” yet how re
luctantly we accord belief to the knowledge of
others in that direction. For instance, we each
believe implicitly our several individual stories,
but we all found it hard to take stock in the sur
prising way that Fred. K. Castner said he
This was his story:
“ Eighteen years ago, I was the wartiest young
man alive, and the warts I had were the biggest and
ugliest ones ever seen. They looked like brown
cauliflowers and grew like Jonah’s gourd. Neither
cutting nor burning would keep them down, and
medical science stalled completely at them. I
began to fear they would come to be the biggest
part of me. In August, 1868, when I started out for
a long vacation up at Moosehead Lake, I stopped in
South Berwick, Mass., to make a call upon a young
lady there, to whose attractions I was, at the time,
very susceptible. In the course of our conversa
tion she spoke of my warts and asked me if
I would not like to have her sister, Miss
Nellie Young, remove them. An old gentle
man, she said, had given Nellie several charms,
one of which was for the removal of warts. Of
course, I wanted to get rid of the disgusting ex
crescences, and she sailed Nellie in. Nellie looked
at the warts, as many of the crop as were in sight,
and then told me that at exactly twelve o'clock of
the day seven weeks from that date they would
disappear. Whether she muttered some incanta
tion over them or not, Ido not know. I went on to
Moosehead Lake, where Joshua Larne and Newell
Hankins, both of Georgetown, New Jersey, and my
self, camped out from September Ist to January sth.
I told them about the promised disappearance of
the warts and they took as much interest in it, al
most, as I did. On the morning of the day on which
they were to go. we went out fishing. The warts
were then apparently bigger and uglier than ever
before. There was one, on the end of my left
thumb, so large that it interfered with my handling
an oar. The fishing was good and for a while I for
got all about the wafts, when suddenly, chancing
to look at my hands, I was astounded by the fact
“ completely, and the skin was smooth where they
had been, as it was anywhere else on my fingers.
Hankins looked at his watch and the time was fif
teen minutes after twelve. I felt for the wart that
used to be on my lip and it was gone. I looked for
the big wart on one of my great toes and it had dis
appeared. I went on exploring tours over my cuti
cle, where other warts had been, aud they were
there no longer. How they went, I have not the re
motest idea. All that I know about it is that the
places that had known them, knew them no more.
“ ' She said a charm over them that drove them
away,’ spoke up an intelligent German merchant
tailor, in business on University place, who seemed
to take Mr. Castner’s rather surprising story as
quite a matter of course. He said :
“ * In Germany I had occasion to know of not a
few instances of the great and inexplicable power
exercised by some men through a knowledge of
charms. You may say, in your confidence in ma
terialistic science, that it is all nonsense, but I
tell you that I know of at least one man, of
my own knowledge, who could do, by the mut
tering of words known to him, moje than all the
great doctors could with all the drugs and instru
ments in the world to help them. His name w..s
Lim, and
„ he was a tailor,
“in Alsfeld, where I first worked at my trade. Here
is something he did for me. I was taught, in using
two threads to make buttonholes, to fasten one
thread and make it taut, while I worked by putting a
threaded needle through my pantaloons, just above
the knee, and winding the thread back aud forward
a few times upon it. I had a needle fastened that
way one day, when a fellow workman, trying to
jump over my legs to take his place on the board,
struck it, drove it full length into my leg just above
the knee-cap, and broke off the eye of it so that it
could not be drawn out. My boss said at once :
‘ Run up stairs to Jacob Lim and have it cut out.’
Jacob, the son of the old man who know Ihe
charms, had studied to be a doctor. He was the
slowest man I ever saw in my life, and it was lucky
for mo that he was so. I ran up stairs to him, and
he got his knives and things ready to operate on
me, but he was so long about it that his father
came home. When ho learned what Jacob was go
ing to do, he was angry. He said : Have you
no more sense than that ? * Don’t you know that
if you go to cutting there you are most Liable to
make him lame for life ?’
“ Then he took off his old cap, and stooped over
me and put his finder on the place where tho nee
dle was, and muttered some words—l don't know
what, of course. Then he said to me:
“ ‘Go down stairs to your work and don’t trouble
any more about it. It will not hurt you. It got i n
on a Good Friday, and it will not come out again
until Good Friday is here again. Thon you will see
a little pimple where the point of the needle is, and
it will pop out of itself from that place. Until then,
it will stay where it is,’
“I could not believe that it would stay where it
was, for in the fow minutes from the time it had
entered until he spoke to it, tho moving of the
knee that I had doiie, bad caused do jfi)
fully three inches. But ho was right. It did not
move any '|'be year |o the next Good Friday
ending When x wa& at work, as a traveling
journeyman, in Frankfort-on-the-M?in. There, one
day, I told about the needle in my leg, and the old
tailors on the bench said to me scornfully.
“‘Go and tell that to old women. We do not
want such nonsense from fresh young fellows like
you. You are talking to men bare.’
“I was indignant and uncovered my knee to
show that the needle was there, for it was in a posi
tion that it could be felt. The pimple that Mr.
Lim had said should come, was there. Carl Koel
ker—who now has a tailor’s store in Toledo, Ohio—
put his finger to it to touch it and that instant the
needle popped out through the pimple, as bright
as when it went in. He will swear to that part of
the story and I will to all of it.
“My sister got something the matter with her eyes,
They became as rejl as red currants, pained her ter
ribly, and she could not bear the light at all. My
lather got all the best doctors there were in our
town, and they worked with her for months, with
out doing her the slightest good. They kept her in
a dark room, and they put all sorts of washes and
salves on her eyes, until finally it was thought
there was no more hope and she would have to go
blind. One day my father met Mr. Lim and asked
him to come aud see her. He replied :
“ ‘Yes ; that isjthe wayjwith all of you. You go
first to the great wise doctors and when you find
that they can do no good and there seems to be no
hope, then you come to the old tailor. But, no
matter, I will see your girl.’
“He came to her, took off his old cap, put his hands
over her eyes and muttered some words. That was
all. Within a week she was out on the street with
her eyes as clear, strong and well as ever. His
charm had entirely cured her.
“And, do you know, the doctors hated that old
man, because he cured people of all sufferings, and
would never take pay for doing so. There was a
rich man in our town
“a beautiful young girl, and she got a violent rheu
matism or neuralgia of such a bad sort that it laid
her in her bea for many weeks, suffering the worst
pain in all her bones, so that she could get no good
sleep at all. Her father got all the best doctors that
he could lor her, and they held many consultations
over her, and all the time she was growing worse,
notwithstanding all they could do for her. Then
her father said, ‘Come, now, I have given the doc
tors trial enough and I will call in tho old tailor,’
for you see everybody knew about him, though
there were those who thought themselves so intelli
gent, when they did not need him, that they pre
tended it was all superstition to believe in what he
did. Well, he called in the old tailor, who rubbed
her all over and said some words over her that no
body but himself understood. That night, for the first
time in months, she got a good sleep and in seven
days she was entirely well, without any medicine
at all, either inside or outside. Then the doctors
were so mad about that and were so foolish in their
anger that they had the old man arrested for prac
ticing the cureing of people when he bad never stud,
ied medicine and had not a license to cure any
body. The young lady went on the witness-stand
and she said.-
“ ‘ Yes, he did cure me, who., all the doctors
could do me no good. They had been tried enough
and with all their licensed learning I only got
worse. I think it is very wrong that he should be
prosecuted, especially since, while the doctors, who
did me no good at all, took a great deal of money
from my father, he never took anything at all. And
if he is to be fined, I will pay his fine, whatever
it is.’
“ And the judge said: ‘lt does seem hard, and I
may even say wrong, that he should be punished
for doing good, still law is law, and as he has no li
cense, as the doctors have, to cure—or, perhaps, to
kill—people, I will have to fine him.’ And he fined
him fifty gulden—which would be about twenty
dollars of our money—and the young girl paid tho
fine, and took the old tailor’s arm ftnd walked out
of the court with him, while the Were sd
in that they could have bitten themselves.”
“Do you suppose,” the tailor was asked “that
the operation oi such potent charms is confined ex
clusively to Germany ?—or have we reason to hope
that there is some of it here to mitigate the deadly
effects of our medical science ?”
“ ‘Of course there is a knowledge ofcharms here,
among certain persons,’ he replied. 'Now, there, for
example, was my wife, Frederika, who was cured,
by some charm, of
'against which no medicine seemed to avail any
thing. The doctors tried all they could to help her,
and all they could do was to take her father’s
money. One day a peddler came along, and seeing
how sick she looked, asked if she had not the chills
and fever. She said that she had and that she had
had it for ever so many months, and could not get
rid of it. He told her, “I will tell you something
that, if you will do it, you will never have the ague
again, or else you may do with me what you
please.” “Well,"she thought, “Ihave tried so much
and paid out so much money and got no good, now
I may as well try something else, particularly if it
doesn’t cost any money." So she said she would try
it, and the peddler—he was a German man—he told
her what she was to do. She had to go into the
woods, or where there were trees anyway, and say
something—l don't know what—that had the names
of the Holy Trinity in it, so there couldn’t have
been anything very bad about it. Oh ! yes. and she
had to go at midnight. Well, she did it, and she has
never had a sign of the ague since. It all went away
from her like magic and never returned.
“ Another member of the party spoke up and said:
'A good many years ago I expiated all the sins of
which I had been guilty up to that time, by marry
ing. I had only been a husband a few months
wbea my wife developed
in the middle finger of her right hand. I did not
know of anything to alleviate her pain, and it is
probably as well that I did not have anything to
suggest, for she had a mob of sympathetic friends,
each of whom had a recipe to offer, and if I had had
one it might have been just one too many for en
durance. Well, she tried them all and none did any
good. Then she got the doctor in and he sai.f
'poultice it,’which she did. For three days and
nights she sat up holding that miserable finger,
rocking herself to and fro, howling with the pain.
Then,one evening, an acquaintance named Max came
in. He was a chunky, saturnine chap. ‘What’s
the matter with her?’ he asked. I told him, 'Show
me the finger,’ be said. She held it out. It looked
like a big sausage dipped in red ink and varnished.
He got her to lay it on his outspread palm and
gently closed his fingers over it. He held it for
twenty minutes, gradually increasing the pressure
on it, but never squeezing it very hard. At the end
of that time she yowled and squealed with the
pain, saying that it had got so bad she could not
endure it any longer. He held on, however, and
gradually the pain diminished. At the end of half
an hour it had ceased and the finger was cold. Then
he let it go and said ‘ wag it.’ Sho replied that she
could not. ‘Oh, yes you can.’ he said, ‘and it will
not hurt you.’ As be spoke be grabbed the end of
it and gave it a rough shake. She yelped, then
smiled, for it did not hurt. The felon was entirely
A Pictorial Mania Which is
Sweeping Over the
Matt Morgan’s Anrt>itlous
Double Ventures.
The most amazing mania in the amusement line
that we have had since the days of the blond bur
lesquers is the war panorama croze. From a mod
est foreign beginning in this city, it has assumed
the portentous dimensions of a national lunacy.
The magazines and the newspapers have helped it
along with their voluminous and overworked war
papers, which seem to be chiefly useful in contra
dicting each other; but the rage has at last reached
a point beyond which it can go without help from
Some years ago a French company erected a pret
ty building at Fifty-fifth street and Seventh avenue,
in this city, and displayed a cycloramic representa
tion of an episode of the siege of Paris. It was a
master-work, painted by an eminent French paint
er, Philippoteaux by name, whose panoramas are
very popular in Paris. Soon after another company
—a Belgian one this time—put up a hideous build
ing at Ffity-ninth street and Madison avenue, and
opened with a cyclorama of the surrender of York
town. This was well painted, but not nearly as
well as the other. Both were pecuniary failures, be
cause the ioreigners who ran them had not brains
enough to use the press to .effect. The Siege of
Paris was finally sold to a company, which
spent money advertising it, and reaped a fortune.
This company then got the same painter to make a
cyciorama o’f the battle of Gettysburg for it, and it
pays bigger dividends than
The siege of Yorktown was afterward run by Mr.
Mr. Frank Murtha, ot the Windsor Theatre, as a
skating rink, and the picture was finally stripped
from the wall and carted off. A new company put
in a cyclorama of the Monitor and Merrimac fight,
which is very artistic and is said to be making
money. At the other place a much inferior repre
sentation of one Of Grant’s fights Is also reported to
be doing qui£e well.
But out in the West the cyclorama has kept on
growing and doing far Letter than well. Every city
of any note has at least one. Some are the work of
foreign artists, imported for the purpose, and others
are the creation of native hands. They are the
ventures of stock companies, with capitals of from
SIOO,OOO to $150,000. Once up they cost next to
nothing to keep going. A doorkeeper and a man
who professes to describe the scene constitute the
average cost of a war panorama, and it reaps its
harvest all day aud half the night long. When the
public get tired of one it is to some city
and replaced by a new one. fn this wy the’busi
ness is extended, the minor places getting the
second-hand panoramas while the supply at head
quarters is
Now the ingenious and indefatigable Matt Morgan
is to the front with a still more extensive and per
fect scheme of bellicose pictorial entertainment.
This is a series of twelve battle pictures, forty feet
wide by twenty-five high, which are to be taken
about the country and shown on theatre stages.
The Morgan plan is a perfect diorama. The stage is
set with a huge frame in which the picture is
shown. A gigantic plan of the fight is given, and
the localities and positions of tho troops explained
by a competent lecturer, Gen. William T. Clark, of
Cincinnati. After each picture a drops falls and is
at once raised revealing another. Gen. Clark is an
old soldier and fought through the campaigns he de
scribes. Cannon are fired, mines exploded, red fire
burned and, in short, every illusion of war sus
tained as far as possible. This show opens at
Heuck’e Opera House in Cincinnati on the 30th inst.,
and the Grand Army men of Ohio are crazy over it.
for the opening displays have, according to the Cin
cinnati papers, been already subscribed for by them.
The display will reach here in December and be
shown at the Star Theatre for four weeks. To make
it specially acceptable to veterans, there is a fifteen
minute intermission in the middle of the show with
return checks at the door.
The oddest part about the war panorama mania,
however, is the effect it has had in the South. They
are expostulating down there that all the panoramas
represent the Union troops “licking all creation ”
out of the rebels, and they hunger for a show for
the Confederates. To meet this, perhaps not un
reasonable demand, the Matt Morgan Company is
completing a second series of twelve tableaus, to be
shown only south of tho Ohio river. This will be
got on the road some time this winter, with some
well known general officer, who knows the fights,
to lecture on them, with due regard for
The country is, meanwhile, belpg scoured by ar
tists making sketches and agents gathering portraits
for panoramas yet to come. There are colonies of
German and French painters camped in Milwaukee,
Chicago and elsewhere, daubing away for dear life
to show Americans what their own history is like.
This is the chief weakness of the existing panora
mas. They are in most cases excellently painted,
but they have a foreign look and the portraiture is
neither careful nor good. The Morgan pictures,
which have enjoyed exceptional advantages in the
collection of portraits, and been painted by native
hand or bands, like the masters, that have become
Americanized by years' of residence, will therefore
unique interest and value-
A Scheme to Enrich Her Nephew
and His Wife.
Ft 1 2E’'-4' — ~
The Pocketbook that Disclosed
the Conspiracy.
Monsieur Pierre Vaubanier was a retired mer
chant, residing on the Rue Demours, Paris. He had
made a fortune in the city, in what way it would
be hard to say, for it had been his custom to specu
late in anything which promised a good return for
his money. He was sixty years old and a bachelor,
and his house was managed by Madame Joque, an
elderly lady, who wished it to be understood that
she had seen better days. Monsieur Vaubanier's
money was invested in the funds, and it sometimes
disturbed him to know what he should do with it
when the time came to make a will. He bad no rel
; stives, so far as he knew, and though ofice or twice
; he had bestirred himself to discover whether any
i of his race were living, yet the fever abated, and in
| 1876 he was still ignorant of the existence of one
being to whom he was related by the ties oitfblood.
He frequently talked the matter over with Madame
Joque, but, up to the time named, nothing had
come of it.
•‘There are plenty of Vaubans,” said the old gen
tleman, “ but there was only one family of Vaban
iera, and I am the last of it.”
“In September, 1876, Madame Jogue went out for
a walk. When she returned she brought great news.
She went, she said, to the Boulevard de Neuilly and
turned down it, and then walked up the Boulevard
des Batignolles. and strolled up a side-street into a
new neighborhood and finally came to the rue Traf
faut. There, on a brass door plate, she saw the
i i
“Of course,” she said in narrating the Incident
to Monsieur Vaubanier, “I did not enter and in
quire the lady’s history. That, I felt, would be en
croaching on your prerogative. I simply noted the
fact—so extraordinary, you see, monsieur—and left
it for you to investigate as you saw proper.”
••Very right, indeed, madame,” replied Monsieur
Vaubanier. “ I would certainly like to know some
thing of the gentleman whose name the lady bears.
More than likely he is a relative. The fact that the
lady is engaged in an honest and honorable calling
would indicate that she is not unworthy to be rec
ognized as a member of the—the family, so to
spea’k, that is, if there is any family.”
“ I am pleased that you approve the course I fol
lowed,” Madame Joque said.
“Just so, madame,” Monsieur Vaubanier res
ponded, “and if you will take some means—you
ladies are expert at that kind of thing—to ascertain
who the lady and her husband are, whence they
come, and so forth, you will very much oblige mo.”
“The matter is very simple,” the lady said, after
a pause. “ All I have to do is to go and consult her
about a new bonnet, or something in her line of
business. That will be an introduction, and, the
ice once broken, the rest will be comparatively
The next day Madame Joque communicated to
Monsieur Vaubanier the result of her visit to the
“I found her,” she said, •*a very agreeable lady
of about thirty, as near as I could judge. After
some business talk I got into conversation with her
on general subjects and learned that she had recent
ly removed to the Rue Truffaut from the southern
suburbs, where she had resided for some time. I
found that she was under the impression, as you
are, that her husband was the only one of the name
in existence. Then I astertalned that be, of course,
had had relatives of that name, but that he was ut
terly ignorant of their whereabouts and supposed
them to be dead. To my astonishment she produced
a miniature of her husband’s grand aunt, which is
in every respect a counterpart of that in your pos
session, of your aunt. I questioned her further
without, however, disclosing my motive, and found
the family came originally from Bourbonnois, as
did yours.”
Monsieur Vaubanier manifested great interest in
the statement of Madame Joque, which was very
minute and particular in many interesting details,
corresponding exactly with what he had himself
heard of his own family. So satisfied was he of the
evident relationship subsisting between him and
the husband of Madame Vaubanier, that he made a
call that evening at the house on the Rue Truffaut
and made the acquaintance of Monsieur Charles
Vaubanier and his wife. He was charmed with the
lady and greatly interested in the gentleman, who
he was satisfied, after a long conversation and com
parison of facts, was the nearest if not the only
relative he had living.
It is not necessary for the purposes of this narra
tive to go into all the details; suflace it to say that
the result was that Monsieur Vaubanier invited his
new-found relatives to take up their abode under
his roof, and procured for Charles a position in a
merchant’s office as accountant.
‘ You see,” said he, there is no necessity for you
to work, but it is more respectable, and makes you
in a sense independent. lam wealthy, and I need
not say that, when I am gone, my only blood
relatives will inherit all I leave.”
One night Monsieur Waubanier went to a whist
party in the Rue Legendre. The game grew inter
esting, and when some of the guests departed, the
host insisted that Monsieur Vauvanier should stay
and finish the rubber.
“ Stay all night,” said the host. “It is snowing,
and you can have a comfortable bed. Here is Mon
sieur Mongre, who resides in the Rue Biot, and
must go home, for he is a married man. He c.in go
byway of the Rue Truffaut and leave word that
you won’t be home.”
Monsieur Vaubanier hesitated., for the night was
very stormy and the punch was exhilarating and
the game full of excitement.
“ Why should Monsieur Mongre brave the storm
for me ?” he asked.
“ Ah, he is a younger man, and does not care for a
1 ittie bluster. He is used to it, for he is married,”
was the reply.
Monsieur Mongre expressed his readiness to carry
the message, insisting that it would be no harder
for him to go by the Rue Truffaut than by the Rue
Boursaulte and the Rue Dames.
“ I will consent on one condition—namely, that
you take piy big cloivk and wrap yourself in it. To
morrow it may be lai?, and it it is stormy, I caij
ride.” •'
After many jokes and much mirth, Monsieur
Mongre enveloped himself in the huge cloak and de
parted. It was then close on midnight. Half an
hour later Monsieur Mongre was foundjlying in the
gutter at the corner of the Rue de la Oordamine, I
with his skull fractured. That it was the deed of
an assassin was evident, for he had been struck
from behind, and the hat he wore was smashed in
and the skull beaten into splinters. One determin
ed. deadly blow did the work.
Knowing nothing of the murder of the night be
fore, Monsieur Vaubanier arose early the next
morning and, as the sky was clear and the air brac
ing, determined to go home before his friend was
astir. On reaching his house on the Rue Truffaut,
ha was surprised to find Monsieur and Madame
Vaubanier in the parlor, with Madame Joque by
their side. They were even more surprised than he,
and Madame Joque shrieked while Madame Vau
banier, turning deadly pale, clung to the mantel
piece for support.
“ Why, what is the matter?” Monsieur Vauban
ier, the elder, asked. “ You all look as though you
had seen a ghost.”
“The truth is,” said the younger Vaubanier, “we
could not account for your absence and were wait
ing up.”
“Didn’t you receive my message?” Monsieur
Vaubanier asked.
All in a breath eagerly said they had not.
“ Well,” said the master of the house, “Monsieur
Mongre, a friend of mine, was to bring you a mes
sage that I should stay all night, and I lent him my
big cloak to protect him from the storm.”
Vaubanier. the younger, held on to the back of
his chair. The eyes of Madame Joque—hitherto
fastened on Monsieur Vaubanier, the elder—slowly
turned and fastened upon Vaubanier, the younger.
Madame Vaubanier raised her eyes from the ground
and sought the face of her husband. That face
was so white that no pallor on earth could produce
its counterpart.
“My God 1” exclaimed the elder Vaubanier, look
ing from one to the other, “ what is the matter ?
You look as though you expected a corpse !”
Then bgdurned away and went to his room, mus
ing, as heWent, on the strange conduct of the peo
ple whom he had just left. Scarcely had he closed
the door of his apartment behind him, when a ring
came to the door, and he went to the landing to as
certain who the early visitor was.
Madame Joque opened the door, and tho question
was asked:
“ Is Monsieur Vaubanier at home ?”
“ He is,” was Madame Joque’s reply.
“ Yes, I am here,” cried Monsieur Vaubanier
from the top of the stairs, and descending he con
fronted the inquirer.
“ I have private business with you, monsieur,”
he said
Monsieur Vaubanier invited him in and took him
to a small reception room, in the room used as a
breakfast parlor.
”1 am Lepeu, a detective,” said the visitor,
curtly. “ Last night, or rather early this morning,
a gentleman, identified within an hour as Monsieur
Mongre, of the rue Biot, was assassinated right here
on the corner of this street. He wore a large cloak
and on the inside of the collar is a slip of tape,
bearing your name and address. Can you ex
plain ?”
Monsieur Vaubanier was amazed and looked
steadily at the detective for half a minute.
” I know nothing of the assassination,” he said at
last. «
" I presume you do not, Monsieur,” was the re
ply; ” but we desire to know how he came in pos
session of your cloak.”
Then Monsieur Vaubanier told the detective how
Monsieur Mongre happened to wear his cloak, and a
number of questions which the officer asked, he
answered as best he could. Monsieur Mongre
quitted the bouse of his friend last night unac
companied, Monsieur Vaubanier stayed there all
night and had just returned. Monsieur Vaubanier
never wore the cloak except in very stormy weather
and had used it that night for the first time in a
year. The detective was grieved to the heart at
having to tear monsieur away from his family so
early, especially when he had just returned after a
night's absence, but it was necessary in the interest
of justice that monsieur should present himself
immediately at the prefecture of police.
“No objection in the world,” said Monsieur Vau
banier, and he at once quitted the house with the
Three hours later Monsieur Vaubanier returned.
As he mounted the steps and opened the door of his
residence, he was repeating to himself the last
words which the chief of police had said to him :
“It is very clear, monsieur, that the blow was in
tended for yoy ►”
When h 6 entered the house all was quiet—nobody
in the parlor, no sound of habitation anywhere. He
went to the rear of the house and listened. Here
was the pound of crockery in the kitchen, and he
called “Marie !”
Silence followed, and then a girl with a pale face
and turned-up sleeves showed herself.
“Where is Madame Joque!” asked Monsieur
“She bade me say when you returned,” was the
answer, “ that she and the lady and gentleman had
gone to spend the day with friends.”
Monsieur Vaubanier went up stairs. To the right
on reaching the lauding was Madame Joque’s
sleeping apartment, The door was open. Things
were in disorder, just as they would be if some one
were hurriedly packing up. On the bed lay a
morning newspaper. It contained this paragraph
prominent on the first page :
“Shortly before one o’clock this morning, the
dead body of a gentleman was found in the Rue
Truffau*. His skull was fractured and it was be
lieved that he was assassinated. The police, it is
said, have a clew to the perpetrators of the crime.”
Monsieur Vaubanier moved away. Adjoining was
the apartment of his newly found relatives. He
opened the door. The same disorder was observa
ble there as in Madame Joque’s apartment.
The blood rose to Monsieur Vaubanier’s face and
he stood for a moment in profound thought. With
out looking any where in particular, his eye rested
on something lying half under the bed. It was a
pocketbook. He lilted It and examined it. There
wore letters inside, and his eye saw that the writing
was Madame Joque’s. He opened one of the letters
and read it. This was what met his eye:
“The old man is fully persuaded that you are his
nearest relative, the copy I had made of the minia
ture having settled the business.”
This was enough. He stood like one turned into
stone. Then he turned around, called the servant
and said:
Let no one enter the house until I return.”
He quitted the place, took the first cab he oame
across and went to the prefecture of police, carry
ing the pocket-book with him.
When the chief of police and Monsieur Vaubanier
had read the letters contained in the pocket-book
all was clear. Madame Joque had conspired with
her nephew and his wife to palm them upon Mon
sieur Vaubanier as his relatives, so that they might
inherit his fortune, and, as he was likely to live
long, the three had concocted a plan to put him out
of the way. Now the strange sight he witnessed in
the parlor on his return, after the absence of a
night, was all explained.
Trusty offiers were immediately on the track of
the three fugitives, and before dusk they were cap
tured at the railway station at Evreux. The man
had upon him diamonds stolen from Monsieur Vau
banier, worth 25,000 francs,and 2,700 francs in notes,
also taken from Monsieur Vaubanier’s secretary.
The prisoners were taken to Paris, and in due
time indicted for murder. The man, whose real
name was Lescot, and who admitted having struck
the blow which killed Monsieur Mongre, whom he
took to be Monsieur Vaubanier, was sent to the
galleys for life, and the women for fifteen years
Madame Joque confessed that it was her scheme
to bring her nephew and his wife from Lyons and
locate them in Paris, so as to impose on Monsieur
Vaubanier, but she solemnly averred that the idea
of murder originated with her nephew. She ad
mitted, however, that she was cognizant of his de
A Portrait of Mazeppa.
The Hero of the Circus Was a Real Man
and He Sat for a Picture.
(From, the Philadelphia Times,)
A portrait of Mazeppa, painted from life, has been
discovered at Kief, in Southern Russia, and is beihg
engraved by the Russian academician, Demetry
Kowkosky. It will surprise nearly every one who
hears that Mazeppa was a real, living man, who
could sit for his portrait—he seems so like a purely
mythical being, like Bellerophon or like one of the
Amazons. He is associated in our minds altogether
with the very unreal world of the circus ring, with
bareback riders and trained horses. Indeed, he may
be said to resemble a centaur, for he and the fiery
steed can hardly be thought of apart. Yet he was a
real man, and cut quite a figure in his part of the
world two hundred years ago. This portrait prob
ably represents not a swaggering youth, with curly
locks and budding mustache, but a grizzled warrior
ift Russian uniform and decorated with military
Joan Stephanovich Mazeppa was a Cossack, who
made successful war against the savage Tartars
who desolated Southern Russia, driving them back
to the Caspian. This so recommended him to
Peter the Great, that he invited the Cossack to his
court and covered him with honors and gifts. But
when Peter sent him against the invading Swedes
under Charles XII., he betrayed the Russian and
went over with his followers to the enemy. Peter
defeated them both and drove them into Turkish
territory, where, fearing to fall into the hands of his
former relentless master, Mazeppa killed himself.
He had before this hidden all the treasures which
he amassed in his wars and through gifts from those
he had served, in caverns in the hills around Kief.
£he portrait now discovered was probably hidden
al this time.
The incident by which alone we know him actu
ally did occur. He was by birth a Cossack, but
when very young he was sent to serve as a page in
the court of the Polish King. There his beauty and
bravery won him great favor, especially with the
ladies. With one of them, the wife of a certain
noble, he was suspected of too great an Intimacy,
and the jealous husband in revenge ordered him to
be bound naked to the back of a wild horse that bad
never been ridden. The horse was a Tartar horse
from the steppes, and when loosed he rushed madly
back to his native country with the unwilling rider
bound to his back.
The Cossacks received the unhappy youth when
nearly from exhaustion, and he grew up
among them, remarkable for strength and bravery.
Byron got his story out of Voltaire's “Life of
Charles X 11.,” and worked it up into his dashing
and attractive poem.
A story so dramatic was at once seized upon for
adaptation to the stage, and it was presented here
as early as 1825 by an Englishman named Hunter.
He also was a very handsome man, and made a great
stir in the town. This was at the circus which is
now the Walnut Street Theatre. The picture of
Mazeppa bound to the horse’s back, which every
body knows so well, was painted by Horace Vernet,
one of the greatest of French artists. Vernet, of
course, got his inspiration from Byron, to whom we
all owe whatever knowledge we may have of the
brilliant Cossack rider and soldier.
Mazeppa’s real motives for betraying Peter are not
certainly known. The Poles, who look upon him as
a hero, always have maintained that he had in view
the welfare of the Polish nation, and they point to
the fact that he stipulated with the Swedish king
for the independence of Poland. If this be the
truth it gives a certain dignity to the act, but the
Russian story runs more in accord with what other
wise is known of him.
They say that he was led to go over to the enemy
by the blandishments of a certain Polish princess.
This would better correspond with the rest of his
adventurous career. Few men, however, who are
simply adventurers, get their actions recorded by a
historian like Voltaire and celebrated by a poet like
Byron and painted by a master like Vernet, and get
to be known by all school-boys who speak the En
glish language, and all this not from any act of do
ing, but one of suffering merely. A better man
might find it disagreeable to be personated before
the public by some of the persons who have repre
sented Mazeppa in this city in recent times.
Two letters written by Benedict Ar
nold, dated six months apart and proposing mar
riage to two different women, are said to be in ex
istence, and to be identical in terms. This is just
about what might be expected of a young man who,
wfitu be was ■> drug clerk in Norwich, Conn., used
to , rind up glass n> a mortar and sprinkle it in the
str. el where barelooted boys walked
The harvest fields no longer show
Their wealth of red brown sheaves;
The first faint golden Autumn glow
Is yellowing the leaves.
And thou and I stroll wandering.
Sweetheart, adown the lane;
Arid yet we long not for the Spring
To come with flow’rs again.
Autumn to us is fair and bright,
For now we know full well
How blest ’tis in the tender light
Of mutual love to dwell.
The Spring began the story sweet.
The Summer saw it grow;
The harvest time, as is but meet.
Bids us full measure know.
And now all earthly things above
Each other do we prize.
While gazing each fair day, dear love.
Into each other’s eyes.
The Autumn days be ever blest,
For sacred shall they be
To us, since they have brought
To thee, my love, and me.
grilling f
“ You look very puzzled, Mies JJob!nSOD,’ r
Phil said gently. “You have yet another Jstjeri
perhaps it will help you.” ■
“Itis only from Lord Roland,” I anSwSfed/ ■
In telling my story to Phil I had no t given jjjp*.
my name; to him I was simply Mies RobinSQC-*
I saw a pained and surprised look in his face
when I mentioned Lord Roland, and to thif?
look I replied at once.
“ I have not given you my real name, Phil/
hut I have not concealed it from any wish ta
deceive your mother or you. lam sure you
will understand that till things are cleared up
it is best that no one should know my name.”
“ Ah, but you are above us in rank,” he said,
flushing nervously—“ you are even farther re
moved from me than I thought 1”
“ What does it matter about my rank ?” I re
joined impatiently. “To you and your mother
I am ‘ Stella ’ as long as I live.”
He shook his head, and his face clouded.
“ And this Lord Roland ? You are going to
marry him ?”
“ I am engaged to him,” I said softly.
“ Which is the same thing; you could not bo
engaged to a man and break faith with him.”
“ When he knows all. he may not wish ta
marry me.”
“He could not be such a cur !” Then he
added, “ You would not regret your freedom ?”
“ I do not know.”
“ You must know. Y’ou love some one else 1”
I flushed over cheek and brow.
“ I don’t think so,” I murmured.
Phil looked at me steadily, looked for a long
time, and so varied was the expression of hia
face that I watched him with a rapt gaze, foe
a moment there was impatient anger in his
then grief—oh, such grief!—then a divine loolj’
of renunciation. I shall never forget that even
ing. It was quite five minutes before he spoke J;
“Stella dear,” he said at length—and bigf
voice had a tone which was inexpressibly beau<
tiful—“ lam twenty-three, though I look sucjl
a lad; and cripple though I am, I have a m&n’s
passionate heart. From the first moment I saw
you I loved you; you fulfilled all my dreams—
my dreams as an artist, my dreams as a man.
Somehow lately I let my mind dwell on my lovo
tor you till I forgot what I was. AU things
seemed possible to me. Well, we won’t talk of
it.” He waved his thin white hand as if dis
missing the subject. “ Oh, it pained me ts ■
know that you are so far away from us—
pained me to know that you are engaged to-
Lord Roland—but more than all it pained me
to know that you love I Forgive me,” ho
added; “ it is the man’s heart in me that beats
so strongly and makes me forget the pitiful
I knelt down beside his sofa and burst into a
passion of tears.
“ Phil dear,” I whispered through my sobs,
“ I have hurt you. What can Ido ? What an
I do?"
He was silent for a little while, passing his.
hand caressingly over my head.
“ Hush, Stella 1” he said at last. “ It’s all
right, dear; I forgot things for a little, but I re
member now. I have a secret too, which I will
tell you. I have seen a doctor, a clever man
whom I can depend on, and he has told me I
cannot live any time—a year at most. The dear
mother does not know. So you see the pleas
ure of loving you is much greater than ths
“ What can I do ?” I repeated.
“ Would you think me very selfish, I won lor,,
if I asked you something ?”
I looked up at him. His eyes had a yearning
“I will promise blindly, Phil,” I answered.
“ Will you,” he said, his voice lowered to n
whisper—“ will you promise not to marry anjl
one till I am gone ?”
“ I promise faithfully,” I answered, without tn
moment’s hesitation.
Then I rose from my knees, and, Bitting be
side Phil, talked about my plans for the future. ,
O’Callaghan seemed to attach much importanca j
to the address he had sent me. Mr. Darrell
had announced to his friends that he was going
abroad, yet he had been at Farnmore. He had.
probably directed this envelope at Farnmore,
had torn it up and thrown it aside; but how
could an envelope addressed by Mr. Darrell
give me a clue to Miss Sutherlands schemes ?
My impulse was to go at once to the address on
the envelope and to see doctor Driscoll. This
was my impulse; but I had not formed the least
idea of what such an expedition would lead to.
I talked over all this with Phil, and hie opinion
was the same as mine.
I suppose, if I had been older, I should never
have decided to go to Scarborough. I notico
that as we advance in years we require moro
definite reason to incite us to action. Young as
Phil and I were, we had to admit that it was a
very wild notion to rush off to some one I know
nothing about, to ask him I knew not what,
merely because an envelope had been found
with his name on it. Yet this was the course I
determined to take.
It was plain to me now that in some myste
rious way Douglas Darrell was connected with
Miss Sutherland and her friends, and that he
had some knowledge of my mother’s story. At
Ipast he knew that she had died at the Villa Ca
lani; and yet to me he had been absolutely si
lent on the subject. If Douglas Darrell was the
honorable, straightforward fellow that Lord Ro
land supposed him to be, why should he always;
seem so mysterious 1 KnowiDS that Miss Suthj

xml | txt