Newspaper Page Text
Kn? 1 c jO I T
PUBLISHED BI A. J. WILLIAMSON’S SONS. VOLILL-NOrio.' Entered at the Post Office at New York, N. Y., as Second Class Matter. the nenv York dispatch, PUBLISHED AT NO. 11 FRANKFORT STREET. The NEW YORK DISPATCH is a journal of light, agree able and sparkling Literature and News. One page is de voted to Masonic Matters, and careful attention is given to Music and the Drama. The Dispatch is sold by all News Agents of the city and suburbs, at FIVE CENTS A COPY. TERMS FOR MAIL SUBSCRIBERS: SINGLE SUBSCRIPTIONS $2 50 a year TWO SUBSCRIBERS 400 “ FIVE SUBSCRIBERS 900 “ ALL MAIL SUBSCRIPTIONS MUST BE PAID IN AD VANCE. POSTAGE PAID EVERYWHERE BY THE DISPATCH OFFICE. Address NEW YORK DISPATCH, Post Office Box No. 1775- PLAYS ANFpUyERS. THE PEOPLE’S CAFE. Around tlio Square—The Three Statues— The Building of a Cafe-Tlie Morton House—From Wheeler to Ver na m—The History of a Land Mark-A Nerve Centre— A Pi’ocession of Notables, Etc. BY JOHN CARBOY. The fountains over there in Union Square are dry —as dry as the thirsty tramp who, as he shuffles past the great empty basin, sees in the withered Autumn-stricken plants around it the suggestion of his own gone-to-seed condition. Even the younger trees that line the broad paths have a weary worn-out look which the little puffs of wind and dashes of rain cannot change to one of brightness. The leaves and the grass are gray with the dust of the street, and there is nothing in them of the crisp and rustle which would be theirs were they where nature could get a fair shake at them. The more ancient of the trees stand with stif fened limbs and make no more show of vitality or feeling when the wind comes whistling to them, than if they were a lot of atoop-shouldered, leathery old maids, to whom kissing was a lost art and love's dalliance a billions colic. Approaching the Fourteenth street side of the Square, you are confronted—by the monumental effigy of Lafayette. Over there on the right is the statue of Lincoln, and on the extreme left—and left out of the park altogether, is the fat-backed, switched-tailed steed, upon whicn sits the image of General George Washington, without his little hatchet. And their fixed and stony features seem to have been worn by the weather into AN EXPRESSION OF DISGUST AND DROUGHT. There they are—these three images, each one gaz ing—staring, like the sphynx, rigidly, helplessly, in the direction they can never go; each facing the temples of refreshment and rest they can never en ter. Washington on his high horse, doing the pedestal act, and looking over the dusty trees at the yellow front of the much windowed Everett House; Lafay ette as the middle man, with a diagonal and change less glare, contemplating the crowds pouring into a dairy where the people are served with muffins and string beans} to the music of a string band, but where never a dairy maid nor a “ kicking cow” is seen; and Lincoln, with his dear, homely old face, gazing toward the Fourth avenue range of hotels, with an expression of “ malice toward none, charity and good will toward all.” Hotels, hotels everywhere, but not a drop to drink—for the statues. Not even a sprinkle for the withered plants around the great waterless fountain. Hotels—around the Square ? Why it is the square of hotels. Also of horse cars, theatres and beer shops. The square of broad pavements, and nar row passages. A plaza where everything is on the square except snap managers and the all night hackmen. Thera is another name for a portion of the south ern side of this Square—a name purely profession al, and rank with the flavor of the stage—“ Poverty Bay ’’—and sometimes known as “THE RIALTO.” John R. Rogers, one day after he had passed through it, ran the gauntlet of the wild and unter rified fakes who crowded the pavement and had left with them all his spare boodle in temporary loans, called it “Skin Block.” Away back in the years—as far as 1848—a couple of venturous and be it said, jolly good fellows, took it into their heads that there ought to be a hotel on the southeast corner of Broadway and Fourteenth street, something of an oasis hedged in with brick walls and wherein the weary traveler and the thirsty citizen could find rest, refreshment and—a bill. So these good fellows, Messrs. Wheeler and Peck ham, started here on this spot, “ The Union Place Hotel,” Business didn’t pan out encouragingly. The Profesh were then bivouacking away down town—“ The Shades,” in Thames street; Windust's, in Park Row; “The New England House,” up in the Bowery, and the “Gem,” next to Col. Mann’s old Broadway Theatre, until late in the fifties, were the resorts which claimed their patronage. Later on the actor folk made the St. Nicholas Hotel their conventical in which they awaited through the long Summer the coming of the Autumn, the manager, engagements and the beginning of another season’s work. The politicians then were down-towners—the rotunda of the solid old Astor House, The Carle ton, French s Hotel, Clinton Hall, Tammany Ho tel—where now The Sun and Amos Cummings “shine for all”—these were the retreats where Al dermen, Statesmen, wire-pullers, Whigs and Demo crats and politicians of every degree held forth and settled the affairs of the nation and city. There was no up-town for either the profesh nor the politish. So the “Union Place” in a year or two changed hands; Wheeler and Peckham gracefully and cheer fully gave place to Messrs. Jack and Flynn. Jack went out and Flynn came tumbling after and then came another change. SHERIDAN SHOOK BECAME THE LESSEE of the premises. Mr. Shook had no intention of becoming a landlord, for, at that time, he had taken a header and bobbed up serenely and successfully in the uneasy sea of politics. He got into the swim and has bravely and honestly held his own as a leader ever since. Mr. William Burrows, who was originally one of the proprietors of the Everett House, and the man of whom one ofjiis German operatic guests once said, “Heis a foot man. As long as he is Burrows I borrows. He lends me money and I pays him my board. Dot makes efery thing square,”—subleased the house from Mr. Shook in 1871, and changed the name of it to “ The Maison Doree.” With all his efforts, neither the new name nor the many improvements he introduced, brought profit to Kim, A two years’ trial was sufficient for Mr. Burrows. He sold his interest to Barnett, who sailed in only to sell out in a few months to poor Tom Ryan. To him this was his last venture, for, in 1880, he passed away, and his sons Thomas and Isaac attempted to continue the business. Not many months elapsed before they yielded to the inevitable, and then the hotel of many vicissitudes and landlords, changes and names, passed into the keeping of Mr. James M. Morton, who gave it his name—the name by which it is now known. He had but just begun to bring it into a showing of success when,in April,lßß3, he died, leaving behind him an honorable name, the record of an honest and industrious career, and the memory of a life brightened and beautified by the charities of a generous and unselfish nature* Before his death it had gradually become largely THE RESORT OF REPRESENTATIVE MEN of the theatrical, the musical and journalistic pro fessions, with no small contingent of the notable leaders in the world of politics. For the latter, Mr. Sheridan Shook, who made the hotel his head quarters, was the chief magnet of attraction, and to him they came as to the high priest of state for advice, conference and the plan of the passing po litical campaigns. With the death of Mr. Morton came another and the last change. The property, consisting of nearly an acre of ground, is a portion of the Courtlandt Palmer es tate. It was originally purchased by Courtlandt Palmer, forty-five years ago, for sixty thousand dol lars. Now, it realizes more than that sum annu ally, the Union Square Theatre being included, of which Mr. Shook holds control under his lease. Mr. Charles E. Vernatn, who was one of the “reg ular” guests of the hotel when Mr. Morton’s death occurred and who was his intimate friend, at the earnest request of Mrs. Morton took charge of the hotel, settled up the estate, put the business into proper condition for continuance, and later on, in July, 1884, bought the entire interest of Mrs. Mor ton in the house and became the sole proprietor. So much for the dry matter-of-fact and figures in the history of this house, around which cluster so many pleasant memories of the stage, the forum and the musical world. Mr. Vernam is a man who seems to be what the Concord Philosopher terms “a composite of nerve centres.” I have diagnosed him carefully, and I have come to the conclusion that he ‘ never sleeps, that he rarely eats, and that winds himself up every morning with a new idea and runs all day, with never a stop and never a hitch. Lone Fisherman Maffit insists that Vernam ought to have been a Lone Fisherman pantominist. Since he became the landlord of “The Morton House,” he has exhibited a fiery and irrepressible appetite for tearing something down and building up something else in its place, and if he continues feeding the craving of his artistic sense in the way of decorating and redecorating the cafe and hotel, which he has recreated at a cost of sixty thousand solid dollars, it will not surprise the city to find some fine morning that he has turned the hotel roof bodily over into Union Square, in order to give a couple hundred artists a chance to fresco and paint it alter the manner of the Capitolean dome. I have said this “composite ofjnerve centres” ilever sleeps. There is a gloomy suspicion extant that he rests himself and seeks recuperation in bed by having a couple of architects each side of it aiding him in the contrivance ®f MORE “IMPROVEMENTS.” His first great trouble was to get rid of a shirt store which possessed the corner of the hotel. To those who wait and worry nothing is denied. The storekeeper at last folded up his shirts and socks and fled silently away—Vernam had venied, vidied and vicied—Ceesar held his own. With the store out of the way—the tireless, sharp eyed man let loose his artistic ambition and an army of workmen charged upon the old familiar barroom, with its smoky walls and old-time narrow counter, and for a while the dust and noise the rip ping and tearing out of the old and the oarnage of creating the new cafe, frightened the colony of act ors, managers and fakes from the surrounding pave ments into the beer dives and saloons “around the corner ” and “ over the way.” The transformation was completed—and the re sult has made the Morton House cafe famous all over the country as the place where Literature and Science, Art and Politics can hobnob and elbow each other day and night; where they can elevate them selves with anything from the humble but filling cocktail to the high-toned fiz and the lordly cham pagne. And what a gathering it is there at times. Over in the easterly corner at his table you will see the familiar features of Sheridan Shook, as he sits there, listening, thinking, sometimes conversing and always enjoying life as he sees it through the rings of smoke which float up from the everpresent cigar. There—over at one of the little tables which line the wall—will come in and sit, the awfully wicked but nice ex-Senator Gibbs—who agrees with Neal Dow and believes that the regeneration of politics and the salvation of the country can only be accom plished by putting down all the wine in existence— and puts it down accordingly. Comes in with a sardonic smile upon his features but with the happiness of a newly-married man in the twinkle of his eye, Ed. Gilmore, Manager, Cynic and lucky man— and with him his official Alter Ego— Leigh Lynch, who is seriously contemplating the engagement of Sullivan to knock out the dead heads during the run of “ Theodora” down at the Niblonian Gardens. There—leaning fondly over the lunch counter and toying with a graham cracker, and with one eye never losing sight of the bar comforts, is a Herald space stuffer, awaiting the chance of wring ing AN INTERVIEW OUT OF SOME THEATRIC NO. TABLE. The chance comes—in the shape of the broad shouldered, bright-eyed John Cobb, Wilson Barrett’s manager, and with him is Copleston, erstwhile the musical critic of the World, and now of the theatre, theatric—gray of hair and mustache, ruddy of countenance, gray in attire— and—a§ young and lively as if he were a school boy playing hookey. Swinging hia cane, clad in black, with Romanesque features, and with the air and walk of a man who means business, but is not averse to personal com fort and the company of a friend—comes the stately Studley—while at another door there enters Abe Hummell—lawyer, without whom a first night at the theatre is like the play of “ Hamlet” without a Hamlet, There is that tall young man—in a dress suit, with his natty mustache, and hair always in trim, a smile on his face, and good nature and kindliness nestling in his blue eyes—the friend of everybody and especially of Vernam—he is Henry Bangs—and what he don’t know about politics, serving his friends and—well “ pony brandy—thanks—what'll you have”—isn't worth knowing. • Up stairs, in one of the parlors, there is some sort of a legislative “ Investigating Committee ” in ses sion. Presently down comes Amos Cummings, followed by two or three members, to report pro gress, and—they do it. Saunters in Dixey and Dittenhoeffer—a pair of Adonises; Ed. Aronson with a photograph of Violet Cameron in his pocket and a miniature diamond-studded lyre for a scarf pin. Dear old John Poole bustles in, as happy as a clam at high water ovtr the success of his new Eighth Street Theatre; and just as happy as he, but taller, larger, younger, with no more of elasticity in his step, hurries in John W. Keller, radiant in the pride he feels in the triumph of his first essay as a dramatist. “ Tangled Lives ” has nothing of tangle for him. , lhen comes in the burly, massive form of John L. Sullivan at the Broadway door, and behind, but not with him, is Jerome Eddy, looking for all the world like a modernized edition of Napoleon at St. Helena. Sitting in one of the cozy, newly placed dining boxes, and looking out through the parted curtains, as he waits for his luncheon, sits John Cockerell, who, as a man of the World, can sit down upon a dramatic critic, and perform an autopsy of the critic’s literary remains with a celerity as astonish ing to the victim as it is satisfactory to the public. By and by you will see as one of the familiar fig ures in this famous cafe the pale face, shaded by a soft felt hat, the lithe but slight physique, the mild Blue eyes and the general appearance of be fog that of a somewhat nervous but not at all un b»ppy Methodist minister—J. M. Hill, the manager, was yesterday in ’Frisco, to-day is here and to-morrow is heard of in New Orleans, the incarna tion of restless enterprise, of indomitable pluck and the discoverer of the latest addition to the list of tragic heroines of the stage—Margaret Mather. You will see him hurry in, speak, pause, nod, drop 'new YORK. SUNDAY'' SEPTEMBER 1886. at a table and, ordering his lunch or his late break fast, begin the inspection of a pile of letters he has spread out in front of him. At the far end of the cafe, strolling in from the Plaza is the Right Hon. Jake Hess-with a smile upon his face and a polish upon his boots. And passing him is—great Caasar, who is it ? Well that gentleman with the -sly wink is Joneshepaysthe freight. And here he is, too—the man who has made the National Theatre over there in the Bowery an “Institution”—notably, Michael Heumann, man agerand good fellow generally. He too has a “ cafe.” There at the table is dear old George Edgar, who is having a kindly argument with sharp-eyed gray haired Cazauran. Standing just beyond them is the veritable “ Jim” Collier, looking as youthful and firm on his pins as young Andy Dam. and handsome John B. Schoeffel, who are entering at one of the Broadway doors fol lowed by Charley Matthews, of the Grand Opera House, and Professor Cromwell with a handful of poems. And so day after day, night after night, into this magnificently appointed cafe come and go, sit and hold converse, talk law, argue politics, spin anec dotes and gather chestnuts, enjoy the solids and fluids of social refreshment—the hundreds of great ones of the metropolis and of the country. And moving here and there among them, drop ping a word of welcome to every one, always in motion, diving down into the kitchen or rushing up stairs, now in the office checking off bills, a mo ment later at the bar and then again an the move, Vernam, the creator of all this central scene of life and enjoyment, is ever present—the nerve centre of one of the most successful hotel enterprises in the country. Circumstantial Evidence Pointing to Him as an Assassin. The Suppossd Suicide of Mon sieur Bouchard. The Unsuspected Witness of a Great Crime. The Strange Adventures of a Youthful Outcast in Paris. When Paul Giraud awoke in a miserable lodging house in the Rue St. Antoine, on the morning of August 27, 1861, he realized the fact that fifteen sous was all the money he had in the world. After he had put on his shabby attire he went forth, as he had done many mornings before, to see whether late would put in his way some means of subsistence. Paul was in his twenty-second year. He had been brought up by an uncle who had given him a good education, in the expectation that he would become some day a scholar and occupy a distinguished place in literature or at the bar. But the business in which his uncle had invested all his money sud denly collapsed, and he was left penniless. The shock brought on an attack of paralysis, and in a few weeks he was no more. When his affairs were settled, Paul found him Self in possession oi five hundred francs with which to begin the world, and, nine months before this narrative begins, he made his way to Paris with the hope of finding some lit erary work by which he might make a living at the very least. But he found the market already over stocked, and with the exception of a few odd jobs at copying, he had been unable to procure employ ment. When he quitted the lodging-house on the morn ing in question, he knew not which way to turn. He had eaten nothing since the previous noon, and as soon as he had gone a short distance, he felt faint for want of food. Entering a cheap restaurant, he spent his fifteen sous on a frugal breakfast, and once more sought the streets. Whither he wan dered that day, and the efforts he made in various ways to find employment, he could never rightly recall. About nine o’clock at night, as nearly as he could judge, he found himself in the northern suburbs of Paris. He was weak and hungry, and staggered about like a man intoxicated. Where was he to spend the night? How to procure the next meal? He had thought his condition wretched before, but never had he been reduced so low as now. If he could only have met a young man of his own age, he would not have hesitated to ask him for help. If a door had stood open he would have entered and appealed to the inmates for shelter at least. But the streets seemed deserted and in the houses there was small signs of life. AN UNBIDDEN VISITOR. While he leaned against a lamppost, there was the sound of an approaching vehicle. It drew nearer and a carriage turned the corner and came toward him. It passed him and stopped at a house fifty yards away. He saw two persons alight and ascend the steps. He started toward them. Immediately opposite where the carriage stood was a door slight ly ajar. Hardly conscious of what he was doing, he went up the steps, pushed open the door and en tered. There was a faint light in a room to the left. He glanced in and saw a woman at a sideboard, helping herself to liquor. She looked like a nurse or a domestic. She put down a glass and was moving toward the door. He was panic stricken and fled up the stairs. It was a roomy dwelling. He stood at the head of the stairs and looking down saw the woman cross the hall into a room on the opposite side. At that moment, he heard a sound like the dull report of a pistol. At the same instant, a door creaked on its hinges. He stepped into a shade and, looking along the corridor toward the rear, saw a light shining through a doorway. Then a woman stepped into the corridor ajid Ustened. observed th at she wore a bonnet and a light wrap. Paul saw this figure only for an instant for a voice called in a subdued tone, “ Marie I” and the woman disappeared. But the door remained ajar, for the light still shone through it. Paul thought of flight. Hq giafiied 6v6r the bannisters. The woman whom he had seen at the sideboard was standing in the hall below, munching a biscuit. “After that,” he said to himself, “she will drink once more.” Then he looked along the corridor toward the front of the building. There were doors, but they were closed, and no way of escape offered. Finally he resolved to go to the rear of the house, though it took him past the door that was ajar, through which the light shone; for at that end of the corri dor he saw a window. He stepped lightly upon the carpet. The boards did not creak. He paused and listened. Then he wont forward once more, still with greater caution. When he reached the partly open door ho paused again and glanced in. His heart camo up into his throat and his hair seemed to rise. A SECRET WITNESS. On a bed lava dead form—an old man, with white hair and heavy white eyebrows, and under the eye brows large staring eyes fixed on the ceiling. The left hand clutched the bed-clothes. lu the right temple was a horrible wound, through which blood flowed. Blood was upon the pillow, and a streak of blood ran along the head of the bed. Paul’s eyes followed it, and then he saw a splash of blood and of something else—he divined not what—upon the wall. At the foot of the bed, holding a lamp, stood the woman in the bonnet and the light shawl—the same whom he had seen step into the corridor and listen. On the side of the bed, next to the door, with one hand resting upon the head of the bed, and with his eyes fixed upon the dead man’s face, stood a man—tall, commanding, with jet black hair and mustache and an aquiline nose, grasping in his right hand, which hung by his side, a pistol. When this man raised his eyes from the face of the corpse, he found the eyes of the woman fixed upon him. “Marie, a clear case of suicide,” he said. “Without doubt,” the woman replied. “ But we must make the thing complete,” the man said. Then he opened the right hand of the corpse and placed the pistol within it. Paul, horror-stricken and transfixed to the spot, didnothipg but stare at the scene before him. “ Let us be gone,” said the man. These words broke the spell, and Paul’s instinct of self-preservation propelled him with steps fleet and silent to the rear of the corridor. There was a stairway leading down, and he noiselessly descend ed. At the bottom he found an open door, and be yond it a garden. He looked around. All was still. “If lam caught,” he thought, “I shall be ac cused of murder and then—imprisonment and per haps the guillotine!” This thought gave new strength to him and he scaled a fence at one side and looked over. There was another garden beyond. He dropped into it and made for the opposite fence. Scaling that, he found beyond a street. The next moment he was hurrying away,as fast as possible, from the dreadful scene he had just witnessed. The night was very warm and every now and then big drops fell from the sky, while a sluggish glare of lightning cast a momentary yellow tinge over every object. “ The siorm is far away now,” Paul said to him self, • but it will be overhead in an hour or two, and I shall have it all to myself.” art |rtqjHihnt A PLACE OF REFUGE. Ho came to a stable and coach-house. The big gates were open and, as he looked in, he saw a groom wiping down a horse. He stood and watched him. “ When the horse is thoroughly dry and cooled off,” Paul said half aloud, “he will have a drink of water, then he will eat his supper and the groom will make up a bed for him for tbj night. After that the groom will go home and eat his supper and go to his bed, and he will know nothing of the storm until he reads of it in the newspaper, perhaps, next day.’,' The groom finished his work and led the horse to his stable. “If I could crawl in hare somewhere and lie down until daylight,” Paul thought. That was his chance while the groom was away with the horse, and Paul crept in, passed the place where the man had groomed the horse and went on into a shed. It was dark and he felt around. There was a wheelbarrow and two spades, and he thought of the dead man with the hole iu bis temple, and wondered when and where he would be buried and if any one would ever find out that he never died by his own hand. Paul sat down iu the wheelbar row and listened. By and by, he heard the big gates outside closed and then he knew that the groom had gone for the night. The shed was dark, although there was evidently a window high up at one end, for the glare of the lightning found its way through it now and again. Paul felt around for some place to lie down. Ah, here was a door. He found a latch, raised it, and the door opened. Beyond was a dwelling and a"bright light shone through two open windows upon some shrubs and flowers. Paul by this time was so weakened by fasting and so confused mentally that he found himself talking to himself like a child at play. “ A house I” he said; “yes, let us see what it metns.” He crossed the sward and saw wooden stops lead ing to a balcony on which the windows opened. As cending the steps, he saw a gentleman seated at a table smoking a cigar".>-?Ciose at hand were bottles and glasses and a mwer pitcher. A splendid mastiff was resting his Lead upon the gen tleman’s knee and he was caressing the noble ani mal with hie hand and feeding it with biscuit. “Even the horse and the dog have enough to eat and a place to sleep in,” Paul said to himself. “This man is kind to brutes; he will not suffer one of his own race to starve and perish in the storm.” A FRIEND IN NEED. The next instant Paul stood at the open window, gazing upon the occupant of the room. The dog sprang toward the young man with a dangerous growl. “Lio down !” cried his master; “lie down !” The dog retreated with hie eyes upon the intru der. The gentleman looked toward the window and saw the pale, haggard face, the imploring eye and the clasped hands of Paul Giraud. The gentleman started and arose, with a look of alarm on his countenance. Paul took a step over the low window sill and stood in the room. “Oh, monsieur,” he said, “I am an outcast and starving I” He reeled as he uttered the words and supported himself with his hands on the back of a chair. The next instant the gentleman was by his side, with his strong arms around him, and with deep pity on his face. “ Sit down, my friend,” he said; and he gently forced Paul into a seat, removing hie battered hat and wiping the cold dew from his brow and face with his handkerchief. “ Here,” said he, half filling a glass with wine and adding water to it; “ drink this, it will refresh you.” Paul drank every drop, his hand shaking as he raised the glass. The gentleman rang a bell and an attendant appeared, to whom a brief order was given. In a few minutes, Paul found himself seated before a delicious repast, of which he ate almost ravenously. When he had finished, he was a new man and, in reply to questions, narrated his brief but painful history, making no mention, how ever, of the tragic scene which he had witnessed a short time before. Then he was conducted to a bedroom, where-4*e found a bath prepared for him and night apparel lying on the bed. After a refreshing ablution, he lay down and slept a disturbed sleep until nine o’clock the next day. FRIEND INDEED,, . When he awoke, be found the gentleman sitting by the open window, reading a newspaper. Paul recalled at once the incidents of the evening before and, full of gratitude, sprang from the bed, eager to thank his generous benefactor. The gentleman arose. He was over six feet in height, capacious of chest and firm of limb, with a well formed head, a shaven face, ruddy, and wearing a kindly smile, and curly hair, brown, tinged with gray. As Paul stood in his night attire, there was a great contrast. Paul was not over five feet eight, slim, though well built, with a pale, almost olive complexion, black hair and a very slight mustache. Though his beard was not strong, yet his having gone unsbaved for some days added to the darkness of his skin. “ Ab, monsieur,’’ he exclaimed, “ how can I thank you for your kindness ?” “ My poor child,” said the gentleman, taking his hand, and pushing hia hair from his forehead; “i fear you have had but a poor night’s rest.” Paul assured him that he had slept well and felt much refreshed, and, in a boyish way—for he had a great deal of the boy about him, despite his age poured forth his gratitude. The gentleman bade him dress and come down to breakfast, adding that he had come to rouse him, but found him sleeping so well that he could not find it in his heart to dis turb him. After the gentleman had quitted the room, Paul discovered to his astonishment that all his clothes had been removed and a new outfit put in their stead. Everything was new and of the very best quality, and when Paul was arrayed he scarcely knew himself. When be went down to breakfast, he looked bright and happy, and again assured the gentleman of his gratitude for his kindness. After breakfast the gentleman said to Paul : “ My name is Henry Galange, and I am unmar ried and wealthy. You will stay here at your pleasure, until we see what we can do for you. You are as welcome as though you were my own son, and need feel under no obligation. Here are books with which you may amuse yourself. If you wish to go out you can do so. If there are any small things which you wish to purchase, here are a few francs. Nay, don’t hesitate. I have taken a liking to you, Paul, ana it is a pleasure to me to do all I can for you. I shall be away ou business until six in the evening, but I have given instructions that you are to be treated here the same as myself. Adieu, and I hope to pass a pleasant evening with you on my return.” A PAIR OF BOOTS. Monsieur Galande returned earlier than he ex pected. He was home by five o’clock in the even ing. and wore a very grave look. He went straight to his study and rang for his attendant. “ Francois,” he said, “ where are the boots the young gentleman wore last night ?” »• They are in my room monsieur,” was the an. swerT - •* “Bring them hither—be secret,” said his master, and the servant departed. Monsieur Galande opened an evening paper, spread it on his desk and read with grave attention. When Francois returned with the boots, he laid them on the floor by his master and quitted the room. Monsieur Galande took them up and ex amined them. They were muddy, as though they had borne their wearer through moist red clay. Monsieur Galande wrapped them up, put them in a valise and quitted the house. He called the first cab he met and got into it, giving the driver direc tions to take him to the Prefecture of Police. Once there, he easily gained admittance to the Chief of Police and disclosed his business. “I see, monsieur,” ho said, “ from the evening paper, that Monsieur Bouchard’s death by his own hand is announced; that his sister and her bus band on visiting him last evening found that he had shot himself in the head with a. pistol. I knew him well and during his last illness I frequently visited him; consequently I take some interest in the case. I learn from the newspaper, however, that there are strong suspicions that Monsieur Bouchard was murdered. A pistol with which the deed of blood bad been done, was found lying in the open palm of his right hand, but he had been paralyzed in that arm and unable to use it for five months, and could not therefore have used that hand to discharge the pistol, the ball from which penetrated the head at the right temple. The nurse, I see, deposes that the pistol at five o'clock, a few hours before the shooting, was in the drawer of a bureau four yards from Monsieur Bouchard’s bed, and it is stated that there is indisputable proof that he could not rise from bed or walk without assist ance for the last two months at least. “Furthermore, I learn that when his sister and her husband reached the house, they found Mon sieur Bouchard sleeping and retired to a front room to await his awaking; that while they were there they heard a dull sound to which they at tached no particular importance; that looking along the corridor they saw that monsieur’s bed room door was open, as the light was shining into the corridor, and that on going to the bedroom they found that he was dead, with a bullet through his brain, and the weapon, which they claim he had used to do the deed, clasped in his right hand. I learn that they gave an alarm and on a doctor’s arrival life was found to be extinct. I learn, fur thermore, that the ooachman who drove the sister of Monsieur Bouchard and her husband to the house, observed that the door after their entrance was left ajar and that, hearing a footstep, he looked around and SAW A YOUNG MAN ENTER THE HOUSE. I learn that no such visitor had any right there, and I learn also that, as the nurse was looking out at the rear window of the breakfast parlor, she saw a man—young and of cqmp&ratively small stature run across the garden and scale the fence, and that a few seconds later Monsieur Bouchard’s sister and her husband gave the alarm that Monsier Bouchard had committed suicide, as they supposed. How does my recital agree with the facts ?” “Excellently,” replied the chief, smiling; “have you any theory ?” “Now, I come to another matter,” said Monsieur Galande, very seriously, and he related to the chief the advent to his dwelling, about an hour after tbe death of Monsieur Bouchard, of Paul Giraud. Then he continued : “Footprints in the garden in the rear of the house show, according to the newspaper, that some one had escaped iu that direction, as the nursa said; and it is stated that this person, to reach the fence, crossed a bed of red clay in which some rare balsams had been planted. Is that so ?” •• You are correct as before,” was the answer. ” Now,” said Monsieur Galando, '• I observed last night that the boots of the young man who sought my hospitality so singularly, were stained with red clay, and when, this aiternoon, I read the facts con nected with the death of Monsieur Bouchard, it flashed across me that the young man whom I had sheltered was the criminal and that it was fortu nate I had escaped assassination.” IN HIS DREAMS. "I hardly see how such a thought could have arisen in your mind,” said the chief, •• for you de scribed him as a very ingenuous youth who took your fancy greatly, and was very exuberantly grate ful for your kindness.” “Well, monsieur,” was the reply, “I will admit there was something more. To tell you the truth, I was so greatly interested in the youth that, alter he had fallen asleep and just before I retired, I went to his room and stood over him. He was restless, and once started up and shouted, « Wipe off the blood I It is on the old man's face and the pil low and the wall I’ Then he fell back and sobbed in his half slumber. Now you will remember that, when the scene of the tragedy was visited by the authorities, there was blood on the dead man's face, on the pillow and on the wall.” The chief had assumed a more serious air and said in a low tone; “ What next ?” “These,” said his visitor, and, opening the va lise, Monsieur Galande produced Paul’s boots. ”Ab,” said the chief, ” this is proof Indeed. It is doubtless murder and robbery.” THE LETTER. When Monsieur Galande returned home, it was nearly midnight. Paul Giraud had been arrested by two officers, for the boots, which he admitted were his, fitted the footprints in Monsieur Bou chard’s garden precisely. Monsieur Galande had purposely remained away, so that he might avoid seeing the youth. On his table he found a note hastily written and signed by Paul. “My kind friend,” it ran, “ I am as innocent as the child un born. Do not desert me, Let me tell you all I know. Come to me and I will satisfy you of my in nocence and point out the guilty.” Monsieur Galande’s heart was touched. The boy might be innocent, and, if he was, what a wrong had been done him—so young, alone in the world, helpless. Monsieur Galande tried to smoke a cigar but it was no use. So he put on an overcoat and started out for the Prefecture. When he returned the next morning to his dwell ing, he was radiant. “ I don’t often make a mistake.” he said to him self; “ I thought the boy was of the right stuff and I am glad this thing has happened, for it will bind us together for life.” That day Paul, out of a hundred women of all kinds, pointed out Bouchard s sister, and. out of a crowd of two hundred men, selected her husband. “This is the woman,” said he, “that stepped into the passage and listened. This is the man who held the pistol, put it into the dead man’s hand, and said, * Marie, a clear case of suicide.' ” THE REAL CRIMINALS. In the meantime the chief had caused the secret arrest of Madame Blomet, the nurse, whom he sus pected of complicity in some form. She was one half drunk and the other half dazed with alarm. When she had grown sober, she admitted that when Monsieur Bouchard’s sister and her husband came that night, they sent her down stairs and told her to refresh herself with the wine and liquor ©n the sideboard until their return from above; and that, after the alarm of the alleged suicide, the sister gave her fifty francs and bade her consider herself permanently engaged to take charge of the dwell ing. As the clouds gathered around them the sister of Bouchard grew strong; her husband weakened. At last he confessed the crime, and declared he was in stigated to it by his wife, who wanted her brother's wealth. This is the story of the crime of the Rue Saussure, which filled all Paris with wonder at the time. Paul Giraud released, became the special care of a guardian who entertained an unbounded affection for him. He studied for the bar and achieved success. The sister of Monsieur Bouchard and her husband met the fate which they deserved, both being sentenced for life to penal servitude. The Rivals. THE BOOTBLACK'S “CHAIR PRI VATE PROPERTY. John A. Boschen, barkeeper of the “ Court Ex change,” facing the Court at Jefferson Market, was charged with assaulting Mr. John A. Baron. Mr. Baron said he came to the corner and drop ped into the bootblack chair to wait and keep an appointment. He might have squatted a minute or more in the bootblack’s chair, when out came Bos chen from the saloon and made him hop. The as sault was surprising; he had been a long-time pa tron of the Court Exchange. “ Hadn’t you been crowded out of the Court Ex change, and couldn’t get near enough to the bar to order a drink ?” asked counsel. “ No.” "The bootblack’s chair in front of the Exchange was investigated by counsel. “ You say this bootblack’s chair is a rendesvous for the vox populi to sit on ?” said counsel. “ Yes,” said witness, “ some mouthpieces sit there chewing straws, till they see a copper pass with a wench, then down they jump and go over to the prison to make a case.” “You say you were sitting when caned?” said counsel. “Yes, sir, with my head hung down.” “ And that in presence of the halls of justice?” said counsil. The witness said: “ Yes. The halls of sheol.” The defendant was called to the stand in his own behalf. “ What is your business ?” asked counsel. “ I am de head bar geepar at de Court Eggschange, Jefoorsoon Marka,” said the accused. “Mr. Le Baron was a customer in dis place. He vas von first-class run up on scores.” A gentleman came in the place and said the Baron had squatted in the boot-black’s ohair and all sheol couldn’t root him out. Ladies passing were insulted. I went out and bounced the Baron. Ten minutes after the Baron came back and took up his quarters for the night in the boot-black’s chair, and he gave him a touch of the rattan and he “absquatulated.” The Court acquitted accused. An impress’s Joke. KAISER WILHELM “SURPRISED. (From the Chicago Herald.) The Empress of Austria, in one of her freakish moods, conceived the idea of surprising the Ger man Emperor at Gastein, the other day, by visiting him immediately after his arrival there, without giving any notice of her coming. The idea had to be carried out amid a down-pour of hail and sleet, and it is probable the still beautiful empress re greted the prank, as she found the poor old fellow amusing himself in an old, faded suit of clothes, quite unfit to receive a lady in, and was afterward vexed that she exposed him to the humiliation of being caught without the trappings which help to conceal the wretched wreck which ninety years make of kings as other men. But the old Emperor got gayly over the surprise, chatted pleasantly for an hour and accompanied the Empress to the top of the staircase, where he gallantly kissed her hand several times and stood bowing while she descended. The following day, tricked out in his bast style, the Emperor attempted to catch the Empress equal ly unprepared to receive him: but her Majesty, woman-like, conjectured what would happen, and was ready to do the honors of receiving in irre proachable costume. The above unconventional interchange of compliments was followed in a couple of days by a grand dinner party given by the Emperor, who was in the highest spirits and played the gallant to the Empress and other notable ladies who were present, kissing their hands fre quently and with much fervor. The interchange of affection between the two Emperors was not so attractive a picture. Francis Joseph confined himself to kissing his brother monarch several times with great fervency, but the German Emperor added weeping to the osculatory exercise and leaked freely down the back seams of the Austrian Emperor s coat. Boycotted Dolls. A KITTEN TAKES THEIR PLACE. (From, the Boston Globe.) One of the most amusing scenes which has come under the observation of the writer in his peram bulations of the week was witnessed yesterday in Leominster. Little Edith Perry, a bright miss about eight years of age, has boycotted dolls as play things. Instead, she has trained a little kitten |not only to take the place of a doll but to act well the part of a precocious baby. Edith has a full set of swaddling clothes for that kitty, including a well fitting little bonnet. When dressed the youthful feline is placed on its back in a doll carriage and drawn around the town. The kitten seems to like it, too, and will for hours enjoy the fun without offering to get out. But that is not the funny feature of the kitten's training; it is its being brought up on a bottle. And to see it feeding from that nursing machine is get ting to be quite a public treat. The embryo cat holds the bottle in its forepaws and when it feels like indulging in a meal tips up the bottle, and the milk saturates a cloth which envelopes that bottle's neck, and then the kitten laps away at the moist ened upholstering with apparent relish and to the delight of its little mistress, as well as to the amuse ment of the spectators. The performance is in itself quite a circus. OFFICE, NO. 11 FRANKFORT ST. THE LADIES 9 CLUB. An Institution Which New York City Will Shortly See in Existence. SOCIABILITY FOR THE FAIR SEX. Bon Rons, Cigarettes, Cards and Billiards, font No Demoralizing Bar. A PARADISE WHERE MAN WILL BE TABOOED. Wliat Lire ClnTjinen Have to Say A-Tjoixt It- CLUBWOaMEN worth millions. The Ladies’ Club, if the accounts from the water ing places go for anything, is likely to be a fact in New York this Winter after all. Last Winter a de termined attempt was made in our aristocratic cir cles to graft this institution on metropolitan club dom. A number of very swell women came to gether in the house of one of them and ta’/ked it over. Then they met in the house of another and talked it over again. They kept it up until they had held thirteen preliminary meetings. After this fatal number they began to issue fancy stationery. They made up a list of eligibles among their ac quaintances and sent them aesthetic circulars on perfumed paper inviting them to co-operate. Fora month or two tbe Ladies’ Club was the talk of the drawing-rooms. The scheme was a very pretty one. They were to have a regular club-house, run by regular club laws, with all the paraphernalia of a regular man’s club, except the men and the bar-room. No men were to be admitted to the premises. Instead of a bar, lemonade, tea, coffee, bonbons and the like in nocuous refreshments were to be served from a buffet. Cards and billiards were to be permitted, and oven a ten-pin alley was hinted at by the bold est of the projectors. Everything looked rosy for the Ladies’ Club till it came to the election of the members. BLACKBALLS BY WHOLESALE. This ceremonial, by all accounts, must have been very quaint and humorous. The meeting was called at the residence of one of the projectors, the rest of the projectors being all present. They had brought a ballot box, with a supply of white and black balls, and having locked themselves in the parlor and been called to order, proceeded to business. A list of the candidates proposed for membership was ready, and the chairwoman of the meeting gave out the first name on it. The ballots rattled in the box, and then all the voters talked while they were being counted. Pres ently it was announced that the first candidate had been blackballed, and they all talked again. After a while they were called to order and the second name was given out. There was not as much talking as before, but it was blackballed all the same. Another, and another, followed, with tbe same result. Not a name on the list was passed. All the voters had a grudge against all of the candidates except those that she had herself proposed, and made the blackball tell of it for her. After the list had been exhausted the row began. Accusations of ill will were bandied about and bloodshed was with difficulty avoided. The meeting broke up in con fusion, and that was the last we heard of the Ladies Club. The experiment cost its projectors several hundred dollars, and gave society a royally good laugh. The idea of a club without members was too iunny for the wits to pass by, and the women got such a jeering that they gave the project up and bathed its grave with tears of regret and shame. WOMEN WHO MEAN BUSINESS. At the commencement of the Summer, however, when the ultra fashionables gathered at Mount Desert, the Ladies* Club was revived. This time it became an accomplished fact. A cottage was hired at Bar Harbor, and fashion’s petted votaries gathered to enjoy in it the freedom the male sex is supposed to find in its own social gatherings. Tea and toast were discussed along with the scandals of the hour, and the club was voted a great success. Its triumph inspired imitation, and another Ladies’ Club was created at Lenox. About the same programme was carried out, and then the fair club bites of Berkshire and Bar Harbor laid their heads together and resolved to continue their corporate triumph in New York. They set about tbe work of organization at once and have got it already well advanced. A considerable sum of money is pledged, and some put up, while a committee to select the club house and provide the necessary furnishings and supplies was elected. This committee is now busily at work. The purpose of the Ladies’ Club is to have a house on Fifth avenue, with plenty of windows from which to watch the men go by. If they cannot ob tain this domicile at once they will occupy tem porary quarters till it can be found. The furnishings will be specially made for them, and the attendants, who will consist exclusively of women, will wear a sort of uniform like that of the French nurses. Tbe club will be open from morn ing till midnight, and rooms will be provided in it for members who live out of town and desire a lodging. Spinster members may also reside at the club, just as bachelors do at the Union and the Manhattan. As will be perceived, the ladies mean business, and have a clear idea of what they want, CIGARETTES AND FANCY DRINKS. “ There is plenty of room in this city for a club for ladies,” said one of the projectors last week to the Dispatch representative. “ Women have now no resort whatever but their own houses or their friends. If they go shopping they must go home when they get through. If they go visiting they can only return home when the visit is over. Social events alone provide a medium of intercourse, and that is a very insufficient one, for you cannot be genial and confidential at the theatre or a ball or party. Such casual meetings are very unsatisfac tory and barren of personal interest.” “Then,” the writer remarked, “ the club is to be a regular daily gathering place.” “The club will be open daily to such members as choose to use it. It is not expected that all mem bers will visit it every day, but a number will drop in all day long to lunch, chat, read the maga zines and papers, an l exchange ideas.” “Is there any provision made for tobacco and fancy drinks ?” “Only temperenco drinks will be served, but there will be a smoking-room for devotees of the cigarette. That is essential. We did not at first contemplate it, but soon found that so many of our members liked a whiff now and then that we had to provide for it. Ido not mind a cigarette myself, though I can get along without it, but all our sis ters have not my self control.” CLUBWOMEN WITH MILLIONS. A prominent member of Sorosis, who is also affiliated with the new club, said to tbe writer. “ There is no doubt that the Ladies’ Club will be a great success. It will be nothing like Soroses, which is a monthly meeting of women of congenial natures, but will be a regular club, established on a club basis and governed by club rules. The more I think of it the more enthusiastic I become. It is another step and a long one, toward the emancipa tion of our sex.” “ It takes money to set up a club,” observed the Dispatch reporter. “We have it,” was the prompt reply. “ Five of our members alone are worth over a million dollars each in their own right. Some fifteen are,worth at least half a million, and quite as many more have incomes of from SIO,OOO to $20,000 a year. I my self am not quite a begger, and there are a number like me who are well-to-do, if not rich women.” “ But will you all be willing to spend your money for the common good ?” “ Those who are not ’’—came with flashing eyes —“ can resign, and will have to. This is a seri ous business with us, and we mean to carry it through.” WHAT THE CLUBMEN SAY. Among the clubmen of the ruder gender, the idea of the Ladies’ club is no longer soofted at. “The girls are in sober earnest now,” observed an old Union man, ‘ and if money and determina tion can make their club go it will be all right. The one trouble likely to occur will arise out of the mutual jealousies of the members. If they keep to themselves and keep men out of the club the victory will be half won. But the hardest task be fore them is to restrain themselves from carrying the rivalries of society into the privacy of the dub house. That Ido not believe they can do.” A Manhattan veteran remarked: “There will be some lively hair-pulling there before: the match is over. Women will be women, and while there are plenty of sensible ones on the club list, there are also a lot of featherheads who are constantly at daggers drawn in society, and who cannot help quarreling when they get together. I wish them the best of good luck—that is all I can do.” A third clubite gave it as bis opinion that the club could not continue its existence without a bar. | “Gur society women,” said he, “are fond of their wet, and they won’t be satisfied with baby drinks.” A fourth authority believed that the card-room would lead to trouble.” •• A woman can’t play cards without cheating,” he averred, “and, mark my words, there will be fur flying over their games.” It remains for the ladies to confuse all these croaking prophets by making their club a great go, and the Dispatch wishes them every good fortune to that end. PRICE FIVE CENTO SEA AND SKY. BY MARY J. MATTIS. Long ago, when the world was new, The sapphire sky and the ocean blue Wedded one Summer day; And the sky still bends as the years go by, And the ocean leaps to the bending sky. For constant lovers are they. But when a mist arises between The ocean, grown with jealousy green. His doubts to the listener tells. He storms and frets, he rages and roars, In furious wrath he beats his shores, While his turbulent bosom swells. The sky, though dark with a moment’s Will tenderly from its bight look down With a radiant smile divine. The green to blue with its magic skill ’Twill change, and the stormy ocean still, And the sun of love will shine. Pause thou, my heart! and the lesson read;J When the darkness falls and with jealous speed- The mists of doubt arise*— Fret not! ’twill pass, and thou wilt know That the sun still shines with a fervent glow In love’s unchanging skies. niciiißTiiinp, BY A FAVORITE AUTHOR. CHAPTER XXI. “I WAS ENTRAPPED.” I was too miserable to wait at Scarborough for Phil’s letter; I could not bear the loneliness' of the hotel. As I sat there my interviews Tritls- Mr. Darrell and Lord Roland were always UH my mind. I started for Farnmore, leaving Or—; ders that my letters should be forwarded t(T Farnmore post-office—l knew O’Callaghaa could get them for me. My money wag faatf diminishing; ao I merely reserved enough fol? my journey and sent all that remained to Phil, telling him that I was going home. I resolved to explain my sudden presence aft Farnmore by saying that I grew weary of being abroad and was anxious to see my father again. I made up my mind to make no effort at first to have an explanation with my father. I would drop into my place at home, be apparently amiable with Miss Sutherland and await Phil's letter. Afterward I would consult O’Callaghau and ultimately, with his help, have an interview with my father and as gently as possible tell him all the truth. I tried to explain to myself Mr. Darrell’s part in the concealment of my uncle’s existence, but I could find no motive for Mr. Barrell’s con duct; yet his presence at the Cedars was a con vincing proof that he was connected W4th ths whole intrigue. I was bent on unraveling the mystery and could never rest till it was done. I hated myself for loving Mr. Darrell and de termined to cure myself of this unworthy pas sion; but the remedy I had adopted was a one and my soul revolted against proving Douglas base that I love him less. So mucly thought and feeling had been crushed into thd pasffew months, so many events had occurred! and I had been so entirely thrown on my owift resources, and so forced to be self-reliant, tiatf! many years seemed to have been added nrW life - JO As I drove from Farnmore Station to thfl CaiJJ tie I felt no longer a young ginl looking forward to life’s pleasures. I|o trees had lost.” their leaves and the first cruel breath of Winter*; was passing over field and wood. It is' Un lucky to have a temperament sensitive alike to the cruelty of mankind and of nature. As I looked on the cold landscape, my home seemed to have no welcome for me and my heart sank low. There was the great entrance to Farnmora Castle now—the stone pillars surmounted w: tit our crest—a wolf’s head—and the heavy, wrought-iron gates, many centuries old. Tba lodge-keeper opened them and the carriage passed in. I thought he looked surprised and as if about to speak ; but I did not lower tba window and he drew back and closed the gate® behind me. The great bell cl nged wifi a ghostly Bound as the coachman rang it. I descended from the carriage and stood at the door. The ser vants seemed long in answering the bell. At last the hall door was flung open by Warring, ton, my father’s valet, and a footman I half never seen stood behind him. “ How is my father ?” was my first question. “His lordship is very well; he is away trenft home at present,” was Warrington’s reply. “ Away from home 1” I repeated. “ Your ladyship was not expected.” “ Yes, I know that,” I answered, suppressing any further exclamations. “ See tsCt my lug gage is brought in, please.” I entered the library. There was no fir® there. The whole house seemed chill and for saken. I stood a few minutes looking round the room. The arrangement of the furniture had been a. good deal changed and it did not bear its usual aspect. I rang for Warrington. “ Will you have a fire lighted here at once, please,” I asked—“ also in my bed-room anc| boudoir ? I will dine in my boudoir.” “ Yes, my lady,” Warrington answered, witlj his usual bow and obsequious expression, I hated. “ Stay I” I said, as he was leaving the roetnsj “ Where is O'Callaghan ?” “He went with Lord Farnmore.” “ When did they leave here ?” “ On Wednesday last by the 5:30 train.” “And Miss Sutherland,” I asked, "where ig she ?” Warrington smiled, and I thought his smil®, more hateful than ever. “ Your ladyship does not seem aware,” he re plied, with a delighted expression, as if com municating the most pleasing information, “that! on Wednesday morning Miss Sutherland be came the bride of his lordship and that th® same afternoon Lord and Lady Farnmora started on their wedding tour.” “Ahi” I could have screamed aloud, “ To® late, too late I” but I stifled the words. It was useless attempting to disguise fronj this.hateful Warrington the blow that this an nouncement was to me. I was aghast at tha news. So this was my home-coming ! To find my father married to the woman who had al lowed him tor years to suppose himself a mur derer, who had allowed my mother to die dis honored and unforgiven 1 I think I could hav® struck the woman dead at that moment if eha had stood before me. May Heaven forgive my wicked thoughts ! All this time Warrington stool watching me. no doubt gloating over my misery, though hi® attitude was that of a respectful servant await-i. ing orders. I was convinced that for years thia i man had been in Miss Sutherland’s confidence-'! O’Callaghan hated him as cordially as I did, looked up at Warrington angrily.